Bound by Desire

Phoebe’s Darkest Secret

REID'S POV

Phoebe , Phoebe , Phoebe . Her name is very adorable. I could tell it fit her better than Amby as soon as she opened the door. She's a bit of a disaster—and a nerd at that. She has a s****l intensity that defies the message her look conveys, and it's hurting me to realize that it's only hidden beneath the glasses, untidy hair, and faded college hoodie. And I pushed for the dance for precisely that reason. She's expressing through her mouth—or rather, her brain—that she doesn't want me and doesn't want to investigate the chemistry between us. However, her large brown eyes are saying the exact opposite. They were almost black and glassy, and I knew that she would be wet and ready to go if I ran my hand down the front of her yoga pants. I now feel compelled to remove that barrier of inhibition and discover what she is capable of when nothing is preventing her. Dancing for her is my best chance of accomplishing that. I'm going to take advantage of the fact that stripping is a form of seduction, and I'm darn excellent at it. I navigate the loo with ease and observe the surroundings. Given that the washbasin is half full of murky water, it is clear that she has attempted to fix it herself without success. Both of the vanity's cabinet doors are open, a brand-new, gleaming pipe wrench is on the counter, and a plastic pail is set below the P-trap. I would wager that she has a "fixing clogged sinks" page opened up on a how-to website, and her laptop is either off or in sleep mode on the lid of the closed toilet. I grin. I like her independence, yet the concept makes me frown. For what reason should I give a damn whether she is a spoilt princess or independent? I shouldn't. I don't. How she will feel clutching my d**k while I f**k us both into oblivion is all that interests me about her. She is just like any other lady I have s*x with. I kneel in front of the vanity, feeling reassured by that small comfort. The fact that she had failed is hardly surprising. The building is really old, and it appears that the landlord has not made any investments to update the plumbing. Phoebe 's washbasin still has the old steel pipes in place of the much simpler PVC. It will require a tremendous amount of torque to get the slip nuts moving because they are probably corroded to the point of nice-f*****g-try. No matter how hard she tried, a little thing like Phoebe wouldn't have it, but perhaps I wouldn't experience the same issue. I pick up the wrench, drop to the ground, and position myself so that I can throw my weight behind it. I begin pushing after clamping it onto the pipe. It is pretty good on there, s**t. The slight movement of the wrench is not due to the nut loosening. The tool is peeling the outside of the nut, losing traction, and turning on the nut itself. I let go of the pipe and gave the left side a go. To avoid stripping the nut, I strive to maintain a balance between torque and elegance as I pull it towards me. It gives way very slowly, releasing a hair more every few seconds. The nut finally breaks free, and it feels like the other team in a tug-of-war counted to three before letting go all at once. I nearly fall flat on my back, but I'm able to catch myself just in time. Her laptop must have whirred to life when I bumped into it since a moment later the screen appeared with the title "Lose the Loser and Fix Your Washbasin: a How-To Guide for the Independent Woman."Perfect. I shake my head and laugh. It's a fun pat on the back to have it confirmed that I was spot on. I've learned how to read women as a result of my work as a stripper. If I were in a room with two dozen women, I could identify details about each of them—their personalities, their likes and dislikes, and occasionally even their habits—just by observing them for five minutes. Usually, only their friends and acquaintances would be aware of these details. It's a skill that has been useful more times than I can remember. I reach for the laptop's top to turn it off, but instead of a useful tutorial, the screen freezes a picture of a nude man gagging a woman with his c**k while fisting her hair. What? The f**k. How on earth was that possible? I initially thought I could have clicked on an advertisement that led to the well-known website Porn Hub, but all I did was touch the top of the page with my thumb—Oh, no way. I prod the center of the laptop, confirming my suspicion that it had a touchscreen, and the video appears, fortunately with the sound turned down. Goddamn, I was correct. This indicates that I had unintentionally opened one of Phoebe 's browser tabs. One crucial conclusion may be drawn from this: Phoebe watches porn. As I look over her surfing history, I see that it's not just ordinary porn. She watches rough-as-f**k, call-me-your-slut, and choke-me-with-your-c**k porn. Let someone tell the press that Hell is officially open. since I believe I'm in love.