My valentine siren 2, p.1
My Valentine: Siren #2, p.1Jaimie Roberts
Copyright © 2018 Jaimie Roberts
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This book is a work of fiction, all names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
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Notes & Acknowledgements
Books by Jaimie Roberts
In between my legs is a buxom brunette—one who looks like her. I always choose women who look like her. She’s making all the right noises. Her soft moans vibrate against my soft cock as her hair cascades over her bare shoulders, tickling my legs. She caresses my balls with her small hand while she moves her tongue up and down my shaft like it’s a fucking lollipop. She soon pops it into her mouth, and, in an effort to focus on what she’s doing, I close my eyes and concentrate. I attempt to hone in on how these things are making me feel—and on the sensations alone. But then, flashes of her enter my head yet again. Flashes of what I did and how she died. I squeeze my eyes shut even more tightly, and in one last, focused effort to force her from my mind, I try to push this woman’s head down onto my dick. I figure if I can’t get hard on my own, then perhaps I can get her to help make me hard.
I don’t know her name, and I don’t care to know it. All I care about is getting off, which is something I haven’t been able to do since—
“Ah, fuck! Be gentle!” I complain, virtually pulling the hair out of her scalp in a burst of anger and sheer frustration.
“Sorry,” she whispers in a near whimper, and I know that her submissive voice should be doing the trick and getting me hard, but, for some unknown reason, it just isn’t.
Nothing gets me fucking hard anymore!
She starts licking her soft tongue against my shaft, moaning sweet sounds against it. I know I should feel something, but absolutely nothing comes—not even a flicker.
“Stop!” I shout, finally pulling her off my dick.
“How long has this been … troubling you?”
I glance up from my hands to look at my therapist. Her question snaps me out of last night’s memory, returning me to the present. Ever since the first day I saw her, I’ve been having wet dreams about her. In fact, the only reason why I’m here right now is because she reminds me of her. My therapist, Dr Mercy, has short blonde hair, whereas she had long, deep chestnut—almost crimson—hair. Dr Mercy has dull brown eyes and wears glasses, whereas she had the most intense green eyes I had ever seen. One look and anyone would have been transfixed. I often called her my siren because I knew one call from her would make me come running. Like my late, fucked up father, I was obsessed with her. Dr Mercy may be her opposite in every way, but for some reason, she still reminds me of her. I think it’s in the way she conducts herself. It’s only slight things. Like the way she pushes her hair away from her face or crosses one leg over the other when she talks. Yes, those are the things that remind me of her, and that’s the same reason I have been coming here for sessions ever since I bumped into Dr Mercy four weeks ago. That and the cute Glaswegian accent of hers.
“Excuse me?” I ask, feigning ignorance. I just want to hear her say it out loud.
Today, she’s wearing another one of her long, boring skirts, but my breath hitches nonetheless when she crosses one leg over the other.
“Your inability to get an erection. How long has it been going on?”
Pulling my hand up to my eyes, I inspect my nails. I really must cut them soon. “Ah, you know,” I say, trying to make light of it. Ever since … her.”
“Scarlet?” She says her name as though it is insignificant. As if she’s ordering something boring from a restaurant—like bread.
I moved from England to Spain eventually as was originally planned, but not to where I had intended to go. Knowing I had committed and could very well end up wanted for murder, I scrapped going to Ibiza and opted for Marbella instead; somewhere new was just the safer option. I took all the money and fled. I haven’t looked back since. That was almost a year ago now.
“Yes. Ever since her.” I don’t look up.
Dr Mercy inhales a deep breath before I notice out of the corner of my eye that she’s shifting in her seat. I look up and see her pushing her glasses up before poising her pen. “We haven’t touched much on Scarlet, so I feel I need to push you more in that direction.”
“Why?” I ask, snapping more than I should have.
My raised voice doesn’t seem to faze her, though. “Because she is obviously the root of your … inability to perform, shall we say? Who is she?”
“Was!” I snap again.
Dr Mercy thins her lips as though she wants to abolish me. Why on earth does that make my dick stiff?
“Was?” she finally asks on a long, drawn out breath.
I make a move to look at my nails again. Bad habit, I know, but great deflection. “She was someone I used to know. Someone I was with for a while. No biggy.”
“Well, she obviously was a biggy to you if you can’t perform sexually as a result of—”
“Hey, I can fucking perform! It’s only been since her that I haven’t been able to for some reason.”
She smirks. She has the gall to fucking smirk!
“I never said you couldn’t perform under normal circumstances. I’m just trying to understand what it is that’s making you unable to perform now.”
I look her up and down as I feel my dick straining against my trousers. Under normal circumstances, this lady would be in big fucking trouble. “Believe me when I say I could perform right now this minute if I wanted to.”
“How is that?” she asks. Typical therapist. Always asking questions.
I look down at her shapely legs before meeting her eyes. “Let’s just say that right now, this minute, I’m in the mood.”
She smiles like she’s heard this a thousand times before. Maybe she has, and for some reason, that bothers me. Nothing’s bothered me since her.
“Was she s
“She was forbidden fruit.” Knowing what’s coming next, I smirk.
“In what way was she forbidden?”
Uncrossing the leg which is leaning on my knee, I lean forward and whisper, “She was my sister.”
I notice the slight widening of her eyes before she blinks a little. “So, you wanted to have sex with your sister?” She jots something down, but when I don’t answer straight away, she looks up.
I lean back on a sigh and very casually say, “I did have sex with my sister. Once. And do you know what? I’d fuck her brains out again if she were here right now. She was the best sex I ever had. So worth the agonising fucking wait.”
She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. I can tell she wasn’t expecting that. I want to laugh, but manage to keep it under wraps.
Eventually, she pulls herself together. “Did you and Scarlet share the same mother and father?”
I really want to keep the pretence up that what Scarlet and I had was forbidden as hell. I think, in some ways, it was. “We share the same father, but not by blood.”
“So, you’re step brother and sister then.” She writes this down, looking more pleased. I bet she’d have a field day if I revealed I was fucking my actual sister.
“We were step brother and sister.”
She poises her pen again. “You’re mentioning Scarlet in past tense. I’m assuming that means she’s dead?”
She exhales, and I can tell what she’s thinking. I must frustrate her to no end, making her job more complicated than it already is. I think at a hundred euro a session, I can afford to be … challenging.
“You mourn her loss.”
I think about what she says. I don’t know whether it was a question or a statement, but I think it’s a bit of both. Do I mourn her? Fuck, yes. If I could go back and do things differently, would I? Hell, fucking yes. I just felt so betrayed, so fucking angry at the thought that she had fallen in love with someone other than me. She was mine. She had always been mine.
“You look angry.”
I lean forward again, my breath hitching as I do. “Have you ever had a client fuck you over that desk?” I point with my eyes to the direction of the desk behind her. It’s a very nice desk, too. I bet I could give her a damn good fucking on it. With nothing but the Mediterranean coastline to look out on from her windows, it would almost be like fucking her on the sea.
She writes something down before looking up. “I think this is a classic case of displacement. With me, you feel relaxed. I’m something you know you can’t touch—just like your stepsister—and yet you yearn to go there.”
I smirk, knowing she’s avoiding my question. My, my, Dr Mercy is a little vixen. “And can I?”
She smirks again. “You and I both know the answer to that.” She leans forward, showing me an ever so tiny glimpse of those tanned bulging tits of hers. “Mr Valentine, I understand that this client-patient relationship we have can play with one’s mind. You can easily conjure all sorts of fantasies in your head. I admit, I’ve had a few about some doctors myself. We’re all human after all. But, there is a huge difference between fantasy and reality, and this is why you’re here with me. You need to know which is which. What is deemed acceptable and what is completely unacceptable.”
I wave my hand in front of her. “Yes, I know, I know,” I say under an exasperated breath. “But, sometimes, realities are born from fantasies … wouldn’t you agree?”
“In some aspects between consenting adults in safe areas, yes.”
“Like my bar.” I smile.
She simply nods. “Yes. Like your bar.”
“Do you ever have sexual fantasies about being tied up? Whipped or caned? Have you ever been with more than one person? Do you get off at the thought of one man fucking you from behind while the other sticks his cock into your mouth?”
I can see the beating of her heart through her shirt. I know I’m turning her on, and by fuck does it make me want to pounce.
I smirk. “Touché, Dr Mercy.”
“Now, your sister, Scarlet. Other than sexual, what kind of relationship did you have with her?”
I lean back, bored. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Oh, but I think the very fact that you aren’t talking about her is what’s making you unable to perform. Some relationships are extremely powerful, but ones between siblings are even more so. I believe you and Scarlet developed a bond so powerful that—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about her!” I snap, cutting her off completely. Every word that comes out of her mouth about Scarlet is like having a knife driven into my heart—more deeply each time.
She visibly sighs. “Okay, but one day we will have to, Reece. You were obviously very close, and now you’ve lost her. Don’t you think that this is the reason why—”
“I know the reason why I can’t get it up. I’m not a fucking idiot. I’m just not ready to talk about her.” Without looking at the shrink, I slink down in my seat. My chest hurts. Every time I think about her, my chest hurts.
She looks at the time before glancing back to me. “Time is up for today, but I think next time we need to think about discussing the issue that’s causing you this heartache.”
I start to laugh. “Lady, I just need to get it up. Can’t you give me a tablet and send me on my way?”
She gives me a reprimanding look. “You know it doesn’t work like that, Reece. We need to get to the root of the problem first.” She starts placing her notepad and pen down by the table next to her. That’s obviously my cue to leave. Once I start getting up to go, she halts me by asking me a question. “This bar of yours… What is it called again?”
I grip my fists tightly before answering. “Scarlet’s.” Yes, I know. I am a glutton for punishment. I guess having her name over my bar makes it somehow feel like I am offering an apology for what I did to her. It’s also a punishment because there is now a constant reminder of her wherever I go. After all, that bar is where I live as well as where I work.
“Quite,” she simply answers. I can tell by the look on her face that she deliberately set that up. She knew the name of my bar when I first met her, so all she’s doing is fucking with me, trying to make a point. I’m about to answer what a fucking revelation she has made out of that when she surprises me. “I may have to come by for a drink one day soon.” She finally looks up to me. “Just out of curiosity, of course.”
I feel it again. My dick is stiffening at the thought of what I could do to her under my domain. The things I know could make that preppy-looking, stuck up girl scream like a wild animal.
“If you are interested, then ladies’ nights are on Thursdays. You get half price on drinks between seven and ten.” I think she’s going to say that’ll be too late for Miss Prissy, but she surprises me by smiling instead.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
Erection levels have reached new heights. Will she actually come to my bar? The thought makes my head spin with ideas. Very, very wicked ideas.
“Well, if you don’t come tonight, there’s always next Thursday.” I’m hoping that giving her the idea that she could come later tonight will help swing her decision in that direction. I highly doubt she’ll come so soon. In fact, I highly doubt she’ll come at all.
She remains seated, but uncrosses her legs and very seductively takes her glasses down. When she looks up at me, my heart stops.
She looks so much like her. Her hair and eyes aren’t the same, but that body. The shape of that body and the way she conducts herself. It’s Scarlet all over. For a moment, I’m so convinced it’s her that I very nearly call out her name.
But then, I remember. She’s dead. I killed her. It can’t be her. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me … again.
When my brain kicks in gear, it reminds me to breathe. Where am I? What’s happened to me?
With as much breath as I can muster, I inhale, choking on the burn in my throat. Tightly, I push my hands down, gripping the surface of whatever I’m resting on as hard as possible. I notice what feels like soft, mushy mud seeping through my fingers. It’s cold and raining. A crack of thunder sounds above my head, but at first, I can’t move.
Where am I?
I try opening my eyes, but it’s like my lids have a hundred ton weights attached to them. But I need to move. I need to remember why I’m here.
On a groan, I move my head and push up with as much strength as I can muster. As I manage to pull myself into more of a seated position, a strangled cough leaves my lips, and as soon as it does, I regret it. It hurts like a motherfucker!
I’m so weak.
Why do I feel so fucking weak? I’m never weak. Weakness is a trait that my father instilled in me when I was little. As I grew up, I vowed never to feel that weakness again.
Weakness is for losers.
Finally, I open my eyes, taking in the darkness.
Nothing but blackness surrounds me. The rain hits heavy in some places and not in others. Wanting to know why, I manage to lift my head up to the heavens, noticing nothing but swaying branches on barren trees and the blackness beyond them. As the wind blows, it sways one of the branches away, revealing a hint of stars in the night sky. Confusion fills me.
My Valentine: Siren #2 by Jaimie Roberts / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes