no control

• three •

elijah

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

I blinked and forced my eyes to focus on the screen.

Numbers. Dollar signs. More numbers. They were just nonsensical, disorganized digits.

I breathed out again, this time making a loud rasp.

"Fuck," I snarled, jumping to my feet.

The office chair flew backward and slammed into the wall. I tugged my hands roughly through my hair. The dark strands were already very tousled and messy from my frantic strokes.

All I could do today was curse at my desktop and imagine her angelic face and all the expressions I wanted to paint on it.

Her lips were so delicate and colored the cutest shade of pink. I wondered if she normally wore that lipstick and what it tasted like on my tongue.

My pants strained around my hardened dick. I audibly groaned. This was fucking misery.

Clenching my jaw, I strolled over to the window and leaned my shoulder against its cool surface. The view of the mountains did little to calm me, and that only aggravated me more.

I rarely got angry. Little things beyond my control never bothered me. I had too much within my responsibility to obsess over what wasn't. I didn't deviate or compromise objectives for anyone or anything.

If something beyond my control impacted me, I dealt with it and moved on. That was simply life. There was no point getting frustrated.

This girl found a way under my skin, though. I couldn't focus for shit. My thoughts were constantly returning to her—her appearance, her voice, the way her mouth moved when she swallowed and how transparently she displayed her emotions.

I knew I was attracted to her on a basic, primal level—who wouldn't be with an ass like that? But this went deeper than my typical surface-level lust.

Finding someone to fuck had never been an issue for me. I'd just never found anyone interesting enough for me to spend more than a few hours, sometimes even just minutes, with.

People in general annoyed the fuck out of me and women attracted to me were often worse. They all wanted something from me and typically had little to offer in return.

Maybe I should just kill her, I mused.

That was how I often dealt with distractions. At least then I wouldn't be pacing my office like a wild animal, salivating like over the brief memory of her. I would know she was six feet in the ground or miles downriver somewhere.

The thought of her body all discolored and bloated with death deeply unsettled me, though.

I'd never felt so adverse to death. Not even the death of my own parents triggered such a strong emotion—and I was the one who stole their final breaths.

This girl had some kind of hold over me. I didn't understand or comprehend the gravity of it, but I could resist the darkness in me that craved her sweet innocence.