Stripped | h.s

Prologue.

So I've had this laying around for a while and being a complete tease I just thought to leave it here. Why not?

Like don't be mean about me posting this already, seriously. I will update this all in good time.

This is a little taste of what is to come.

I will start writing Stripped when 'Now' is done. Feel free to wait or not.

// Kahlan x

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MAIN TRACK: Bad Moon Rising - Morning Ritual, Peter Dreimanis.

- Harry Styles.

The room is square, bright and the grey couches each side a glass coffee table in the middle of the room. The box of napkins ready on the glass surface showing off the slender and naked legs of Dr. Bates. She has fucking amazing legs.

All is as is always is, but of course it is; silly little me. The world doesn't just change. Unless it's mine and I want it to.

So many people would break their neck to have me smile at them or put a nine millimeter through their bloody brains for my cock. They'd lick my boots if I asked them and they'd clean my wounds with their greedy tongues just to taste me. If I asked them.

Yet the people closest to me put me here; in a square room with the boring ass psychotherapist Dr. Bates with her slim waist and firm buttocks pressing inside that tight pen skirt. Oh she's so fuckable and I've seen those thighs rub together when I smirk her way.

She's professional however, keeping it there; I give her that. And besides; why shag her when I could just go outside these doors to the outside London with arms open and I could use the mountain of men and women by my feet as a fucking throne.

"Harry, are you even listening?" Her voice is obnoxious however and my tired eyes move from her knees tightly pressed together to her brown eyes looking straight at me. I smirk, the tip of my tongue running along the crack still healing on my lip.

"No, love. I wasn't listening. Sorry." I huff and shift in the couch all mine; the glass table the only protection she has. My curling smile having her jaws move. She's still not used to me, the little bird too fragile and delicate to in all honesty be in the room alone with me.

I pick with the crusts of my busted knuckles, the pain spreading under my skin like delicious venom. Her eyes are trained on me but she moves uncomfortably when knowing how I let the crusts fall and a ruby droplet of my blood press through the again opened wound.

"This has been going on for a month now and this is the second time this week you are here." She straightens up, the pen in her hand clicking to her notebook and the sound has me roll my head. Can she just fucking stop it? It's like a woodpecker eating on that brain inside my skull I know make her knickers wet. Bet she gets off to the deranged mental state people like me find ourselves in.

"I never wanted to come here." I retort, clearing my throat. I'm not sure whether I'm hung-over or still knackered yet the sound of her pen to her notebook have me snarl and like that she stops; obeying the feral sound pressing through my throat.

"I know and it's a great step for you being here although that is how you feel." She tries a smile making me sick. So fake, so plastic soo.. I can imagine how she would sound of I tried gluing her lips together.

I'm not here because I want to. I've been in this situation since a child and yet no one has managed to control what is inside. Yet I don't want to control it, why would I? The way I act, the way I live has brought me this far.