Work had been difficult today, it seemed as though everything that could go wrong went wrong, and Luke felt like he was on the very edge. Angrily, he kicked the door shut and pulled at his tie, tossing it on the kitchen table before opening the refrigerator to pull a soda out.
Scowling, he glared at the contents of his refrigerator, noting the week-old spaghetti that hadn't tasted right the first time around. Cursing, he tossed the bowl and its contents into the trash and slammed the door shut, feeling his anger mount. Man, he needed the feel of pussy, he thought, reaching down to rub his swollen cock through his pants. Smiling wryly, he picked up his cell phone to call Annabelle.
Fifteen rings later, Luke was even more furious. The bitch wasn't home. Picking up his keys, Luke left his apartment and headed over to see her.
The compact house sat on the end of a quiet street, surrounded by a colorful flower garden and neatly trimmed grass. Everything about Annabelle's house was like her—warm, inviting, and pretty. Luke smirked to himself as he pulled into the driveway next to her sedan and unfolded his long legs. Glancing in the mirror, he admired his profile and the icy blue of his eyes. Annabelle would do anything for him, he knew. It was nice to be adored.
The solid oak door seemed to mock him, and briefly Luke hesitated, his finger poised over the doorbell. Usually Annabelle was already at the door when she heard his car. Luke frowned, his quick anger beginning to mix with an unfamiliar dawning panic that made him even angrier. Feeling weak, instead he struck the door with his fist three times, the sharp rap startling his own ears.
The silence seemed to echo even louder than his knocking. Luke was about to leave when slowly the door began to open. Luke's eyes narrowed and he felt mystified as he took in Annabelle's pale face. Her silence lingered, and irritated, Luke responded in the only way he knew. "What the hell is going on?" He growled, pushing his way past her.
He heard the door close behind him and her footsteps following him down the hall. Her silence seemed as abrasive as her voice had seemed two weeks ago when he had last spoken to her. She was punishing him, he realized, infuriated. She was angry that he had not called, but what had she expected, pressuring him like that?
"Annabelle, knock it off. I hate when you get so fucking moody." Luke snapped, glaring at her. He raked his fingers through his dark hair and began to unbutton his shirt. "I feel like shit today. I need you," He continued, walking over to her couch and sprawling back on it. He reached down to lower his zipper and then reached out his hands to her. "Come here." He said.
Again, silence. Luke hesitated and then looked at her. She had not moved, her face, so delicate in the soft light, was pale but filled with resolve, and her gentle green eyes seemed vacant to him. She stood silently, her arms crossed protectively over her small but perfectly formed breasts.
"Annabelle." Luke repeated.
Those eyes rose to meet his, and Luke inhaled sharply, feeling as though she had slapped him. Gone was the look of longing, the soft admiration, the slow and loving smile. Annabelle looked back at him with eyes that told the impossible—she had let go of her passion, her desire.
"Why are you here?" She asked, her voice lower than he remembered. Her tiny hand reached up to cover her eyes and he saw her brace herself and then lift her shoulders back. A small smile came to his lips as she drew herself up to her full—if diminutive 5'1. "I told you I don't want you here anymore." She whispered.
