He nods. Patient. Cruel.
“Can I text you? Like a tele-med?” I offer, trying to sound clinical. “TheraSext. HIPAA-compliant but emotionally slutty.”
“That’s what our time is for,” he says it all like he’s got a license to fix me. But what I really need is for him to use that voice in my ear while ruining my posture for life.
“Our time is sixty minutes. That’s not enough for all my plot developments. This week alone I’ve been slut-shamed, egged on by a security guard who helped me face a fear, which is your job really. I committed both vandalism and a deeply meaningful emotional breakthrough. And I almost ran over a goose model. That’s symbolic. You should interpret that.”
He finally blinks. “Did you say you ran over someone?”
“No. I said almost. It’s called impulse control. Growth. You should be proud of me.” I look at him and drop my voice to a sultry purr. “But if you’d picked up the phone... maybe I wouldn’t have needed to express myself in glitter and minor property damage.”
Rhys sighs. The sound of a man professionally resisting the urge to rail me against his bookcase.
One more pout and he’ll be clinically compromised.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rhys
She’s angled herself just so on the couch, legs crossed high, skirt caught in the act of slipping. And when she shifts, it’s not subtle. Not even close.
I don’t comment. I don’t look. But I see.
The silk of her stockings flashes with every twitch of her ankle. My throat’s dry. My dick’s a traitor, thick and unforgiving in my slacks. My jaw’s tight. My pulse is a quiet, aching threat.
And my mind is already halfway through a fantasy I can’t afford to finish. My tie looped around her throat like a leash, her lipstick smeared across her cheek, hands braced on my desk as I bend her over and fuck every boundary I’m supposed to protect. She moans like absolution while I ruin my license to practice and her ability to walk.
And she’d thank me for it.
But I sit. Measured. Professional. A man pretending he’s not inches from madness.
One couch cushion away. Too close.
I speak like I’m not imagining what she tastes like or how long I can hold my breath. “Why don’t we start with Thursday and move forward?”
She hums. A sound not meant for polite company. Her head tilts, eyes still closed, and I hate how much it looks like she’s waiting for a kiss.
“I see you’ve joined anger management. That wasn’t court-mandated. What prompted that?” I ask.
The smile she gives me is slow. A cat pretending to be reformed while licking blood off its paws.
“Jett,” she says, voice all sugar and smoke. “I guess you know him? Does therapy here too? Anyways.”
My stomach knots.
“You know him personally?” I ask, even though I already know.
She opens one eye, lashes heavy with implication. “That depends. Not really. But you left me high and dry, Rhys, and he strolled into the lobby with thighs. Thighs. So, I followed him to group therapy. Then to work. Signed up for his class. Stole his hat. Then he fingered me in the parking lot.”
She pauses.
I say nothing.
Because what the fuck is there to say?
She continues like she didn’t just set a bomb under the room and pull the pin with her teeth. “Here’s where it gets complicated.”
She reaches into her bag like this is a picnic and not a professional session. Unwraps a candy, holds it up between two fingers like a communion offering.
