Daniel Garrett: They Took Her From Me

Chapter 3: Daniel

It had been too f*****g long.

I shouldn’t still be seeing her face when I closed my eyes. I shouldn’t still be feeling her body pressed against mine like a phantom limb. I shouldn’t still hear the echoes of her moans, the breathless, desperate sounds she made as she unraveled on top of me.

But I did.

Everything about that night—about those thirty-five minutes—was still burned into my mind, playing on an endless loop, taunting me every time I tried to forget. It was as if she had cast some sort of spell on me, bound me to her with invisible chains. Some kind of dark magic that kept me tethered to the past, no matter how much I tried to fight it.

When I noticed her at the club—the club I hadn’t even wanted to go to—I knew I was f*****g doomed.

She looked illegal.

The kind of woman who could bring empires to their knees, who could make a man risk everything just for a taste. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, shimmering under the low lights. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, with challenge, as if daring the world to keep up with her. And then there was that dress.

That tiny f*****g scrap of fabric that clung to every curve of her body like it had been designed specifically to torture me.

I wasn’t supposed to be looking at her like that. Not with the obvious age gap between us. Not with the way my gut clenched the second my eyes landed on her. But f**k if I could look away.

And when she looked back at me—when her gaze met mine across the crowded room, locking onto me like a heat-seeking missile? I was finished.

Completely. Utterly. Done for.

It felt like ascension. Like I had walked through the gates of Nirvana, straight into something celestial and impossible. The sheer intensity in her stare—the way she watched me, unblinking, as if she already knew what would happen—made my blood turn molten in my veins.

I needed her.

I needed her in a way I couldn’t explain, in a way that made it difficult to breathe, difficult to think.

That’s why I approached her.

That’s why, when she so boldly told me she wanted me—when she practically ordered me to f**k her in my car—I didn’t hesitate. For a moment, I had thought I was dreaming. But not even my subconscious could have conjured up something that perfect.

Which was why, now, months later, I found myself in the same f*****g position I had been in ever since that night.

One hand braced against the shower wall, the other wrapped tightly around my c**k, the scalding water cascading down my back as I pumped myself to the memory of her.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I let the images take over, let myself drown in the memories that refused to fade.

I could still feel her—still feel how tight she had been around me, how impossibly warm and wet, gripping me like she never wanted to let go. I could still see her—see the way her perfect, perky t**s bounced as she rode me, see the way she threw her head back in pleasure, the way she moaned praises at me like a f*****g prayer.

I hadn’t forgotten a single goddamn detail.

Not the way her breath hitched when I stretched her. Not the way her fingers clawed at my chest when she got close. Not the way her body trembled when she came undone around me.

A shiver ran down my spine as my strokes became faster, my grip tightening.

Fuck me.

I needed her again. I needed to feel her body against mine, to hear her moan in my ear, to bury myself inside her and never leave. This wasn’t healthy. I knew that.

There was nothing remotely sane about this—about the way she had completely hijacked my thoughts, about the way I couldn’t find relief unless I was thinking about her.

And yet… I had kept my promise. I hadn’t gone past her apartment, hadn’t lingered outside just to catch a glimpse of her. I hadn’t checked her mailbox to learn her name, hadn’t done any of the things I desperately wanted to do.

But I had sent Mark. Just once or twice a week. Just enough to confirm that she was still there. That she was real. That she wasn’t some cruel hallucination my mind had fabricated to torture me. But that wasn’t enough anymore. Not even close.

My restraint was fraying.

Every logical part of me screamed to let her go, to walk away before I crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.

But I didn’t want to let her go. I wanted to claim her. I wanted to find her, take her, keep her. It didn’t matter if she fought me. It didn’t matter if she screamed. Because I would turn those screams into pleasure. I would make her happy. I knew I would.

The image in my mind shifted, morphing into something darker, something more primal.

She wasn’t riding me anymore. She wasn’t on top of me, lost in pleasure, her sounds breathless and desperate. No. She was mine. Bound to my bed, wrists tied to the headboard, spread wide for me like a feast laid out on a table. Her body was completely bare, her smooth skin flushed with anticipation, her n*****s hard and begging for my mouth. Her p***y, wet and swollen, glistening with need—for me. Only for me.

She would know she belonged to me.

I would climb on top of her, take my time, savor her. I would drag my tongue across every inch of her skin, mark her, brand her as mine. I would worship her like the queen she was, whisper her title against her heated flesh, feel the way her body responded to the sound of it.

And when she was trembling beneath me—when she was soaked and desperate, when her p***y clenched in anticipation—only then would I slide into her.

No barriers.

No space between us.

Just pure, raw, possession.

I groaned, my strokes growing erratic, my entire body tensing as I chased the high. I could hear her in my head—hear the way she gasped when I entered her, hear the way she moaned my name when I filled her completely. I would f**k her hard, rough, with all the pent-up frustration that had been eating me alive for days. I would bury myself so deep inside her that she felt me for days afterward, that she remembered she was mine with every step she took.

She would scream my name.

She would beg me to let her come.

And I would give her exactly what she needed.

I let out a strangled groan as my c**k throbbed in my hand, pulse after pulse of hot release spilling onto the cool, tiled wall of my shower. My grip remained firm, milking every last drop of pleasure from my body, wringing out every ounce of tension that had been coiled tight inside me since the last time I thought about her.

A violent shiver raked through my spine as I threw my head back, eyes squeezing shut, my jaw clenched against the overwhelming sensations crashing over me. The water streamed down my shoulders, washing away the evidence of my release, but it couldn’t cleanse the ache she had left behind.

That familiar feeling crept in like clockwork.

The mix of satisfaction, of physical release, tangled up with something darker—shame, humiliation, frustration. Like I had lost some silent war within myself. Like I had allowed her ghost to win again.

With a tired exhale, I reached for the showerhead, rinsing down the wall before scrubbing myself clean. The heat of the water did little to soothe the tension lingering in my muscles, and by the time I stepped out, wrapping a thick towel around my waist, my head was already a storm of unwanted thoughts.

I moved toward the mirror, the light above the sink shining down on me as I braced my hands against the edge of the counter, staring at my own reflection.

Every day was pulling me closer and closer to looking like an older man.

It wasn’t something I liked to dwell on, but as I passed my forty-first birthday, it was getting harder to ignore.

Would she still want me if she saw me now? Would her fingers still trace my body with that same hunger? Would her blue eyes still darken with desire when they landed on me?

Or would she see a man past his prime? A man time had started to wear down?

I rolled my shoulders, feeling the dull ache of overworked muscles. I shouldn’t be pushing myself this hard. I shouldn’t be so obsessed with maintaining something that would inevitably fade.

But the thought of her—the mere possibility of seeing her again—kept me moving, kept me driven.

I dragged the towel over my body, drying off as I watched the contrast of my sun-kissed skin against the black ink of my tattoos. The defined lines of my past still etched into my flesh, unchanged, unyielding.

I had gained muscle since she last saw me, thickened in ways that made my suits fit differently. But I had gained something else too. A layer of weight my body no longer burned off as quickly as it used to.

My hand drifted over my stomach, where the edges of a once razor-sharp six-pack had softened. The muscle was still there—I could feel the definition—but it wasn’t as proud as it had once been.

But my shoulders were broader. My arms stronger. My legs heavier with power. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe she would still see me, still want me. Not like that boy, that kid—Joshua.

I scoffed under my breath, shaking my head as I tossed the towel into the laundry basket.

I still couldn’t fathom what Lydia saw in him. That weak excuse for a man had done nothing but treat her like an afterthought, as if she were some burden he had to bear instead of the treasure she was. Any man on this earth would be lucky to have her attention. Because when Lydia loved—when she truly loved—she did it fully, completely, without hesitation.

I knew what that love felt like because I had been the recipient of it before. I remembered a dinner at Brian Conner’s house where Lydia kept looking at me, and whenever I looked back at her, she would quickly glance away, blushing. I understood what that look had meant—I wasn’t stupid. But she was only seventeen, and she shouldn’t have been looking at a grown man like that. I knew it was nothing more than a crush—a fleeting infatuation from a teenager who didn’t fully understand what she wanted. She had simply seen me—someone who cared, someone who listened, someone who was there for her—and, of course, she had developed those feelings.

And now, she was getting married... to him.

A sharp exhale left my lungs as I forced myself to move, to focus, to push those thoughts aside.

God, I hated him.

Every fiber of my being screamed at me to do something, to stop this before it was too late. I had thought she would never forgive him. When she found out about the clause in his contract with Wilkins Co., I had been sure—absolutely f*****g sure—that it was over. That he had f****d up so badly there would be no coming back from it.

But I had been wrong.

Not only had she forgiven him, but she had fallen even deeper for him. And I had to sit there and watch. Watch the way they looked at each other. Watch the way he smiled at her like he had won the f*****g lottery—which he had—and watch her look right back at him, mirroring that same love, that same devotion.

It made my stomach turn.

And yet, despite every instinct in my body telling me to stay the f**k away, there I was. Dressing for her wedding. Sliding on the crisp white button-down, making sure it was smooth, unwrinkled. Polishing my shoes. Knotting my tie with steady hands—one I had deliberately chosen in the shade of her eyes.

I had even bought a gift. Something from their registry. Though, the more I thought about it, the more I doubted Lydia had been the one to make that list. Monogrammed towels? Silver serving bowls? New cutlery? No. That was Julie Conner’s influence, no doubt.

I had steeled myself for the evening ahead. Prepared myself for the mind-numbing conversations, for the forced smiles, for the obligatory congratulations. Prepared myself for Mr. Henderson to try and convince me—yet again—to work for him at half my usual rate. Prepared myself for the tedious dinner, for keeping my composure, for leaving early without truly engaging.

But what I hadn’t prepared for…

Was her. My queen. Walking down the aisle. Not toward me. But beside Benjamin f*****g Kempball.