“He got slapped,” I say, mouth twitching. I can’t help it. My dick twitches too. That little hellspawn of a woman walked straight up to Mr. Protein Powder and slapped the smug off his face. All nails and fury. She had to rise up on her damn toes to reach him, too. It was poetic.
“He was assaulted?” he asks, and I don’t like how his voice goes extra neutral.
“Yeah. But here’s where it gets sticky, doc. I don’t know if I should even be telling you about this. Patient confidentiality and all that.”
“Whatever you say in this room stays in this room,” he says smoothly. “Unless you’re planning to harm someone.”
That’s not a no.
I lean back and rub my jaw. “There’s this woman.” I hesitate. “Calling her a woman feels inaccurate. She’s more like a walking felony in heels. A menace.”
His mouth twitches. That almost-smile again. “At your gym?”
“And a few other places,” I say, vaguely. Like, say, on my motorcycle. With my fingers in her. And her mouth on me. Andmy common sense buried in the dirt somewhere behind the back alley where it happened.
I’m not giving him her name. I don’t want her catching heat for what happened with Chad. Not from the law. Not from Hartwell. Not even from herself. That’s mine to hold. Even if she wrecks me for it.
“She defended herself. Chad got nasty. She handled it.”
“You look proud,” he says, and I catch the edge in his tone. He knows I liked it.
Does she talk to him the way she talks to me? All sugar-laced filth and starry-eyed lunacy. Or does she save that particular brand of crazy for me?
“You ever hit a man?” I ask him.
“This is your therapy, Jett.”
That’s a fucking yes. “Is that why you don’t run anger management yourself? Leave it to the twitchy guy with the vape addiction?”
He lets out a low laugh. “Did you try the conflict mediation like we discussed?”
“No.” I scratch my jaw. “Didn’t speak to me.”
“Journal?”
“Sort of.” I shrug. I made notes. Mostly about thigh-highs and tonight it’ll be about the way she tasted and the feral fucking look she gave me before mounting my damn bike. “Someone stole my hat and touched my bike, and I still didn’t kill them. That count?”
“That’s wonderful. Not the theft. That you restrained yourself. How’d it feel?” he asks.
“Orgasmic.” I say, watching him just to see what cracks.
He tilts his head, mild amusement in his eyes. “That’s not the usual reaction.”
“She’s not a usual woman,” I say, and fuck me, that might be the truest thing I’ve ever said in here. And I fucking hate that I keep trying to pretend I don’t want more.
Hartwell nods, flipping a page. “We’ve discussed branching out from the gym. Hobbies. Other outlets for expression.”
“I’m not artsy.” My lip curls. “The wine-and-paint shit might be bearable if they served whiskey.”
“They have live figure drawing at the community center. Fridays and Wednesdays. I go sometimes. Charcoal, mostly.”
“You sketch naked people,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “That your thing?”
He smiles. “It’s not about sex. It’s about stillness. Discipline. Presence.”
“Right.” I cross my arms. “You’re saying it’s not kinky because it’s charcoal and not cum.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “I’m saying you might find it therapeutic.”
