“So you do enjoy chess,” he comments, eyeing the marble chessboard on a side table.
“It’s the truth. Have you considered utilizing contraceptives, like a condom, to inspire intimacy?”
A subtle lift touches his lips, his expression amused. “It’s not just about physical touch. Sex is a distraction.” To emphasize his point, his gaze descends to the slit along my thigh once more.
“On average, how often do sexually intrusive thoughts occur during the day?”
“Thirty-seven.”
I measure my breathing. “You’ve counted.”
“I count everything.” He rests his hands on his thighs. His fingers tap in time to my firing pulse. “But that was before you. Now, it’s between sixty and sixty-seven. On average.”
My heartbeat hammers in my neck. His tapping speeds. “Why do you think that is?”
“I spend less time in my observatory,” he says, honest. “When I’m there, very little disrupts my focus.”
I nod meaningfully. “We need to explore the nature of your?—”
“You’re going to ask what kind of forbidden thoughts I have,” he interrupts, halts tapping. “Whether they’re taboo, like incest or bestiality.”
I clear my hair from my forehead. “Memorizing a medical journal doesn’t mean you understand what to do with that information.”
“Agreed.” He adjusts his position. “But I think we can cut through the bullshit and get right to where you explain how driving me crazy will help.”
I keep my tone neutral. “You avoided my question.”
His nostrils flare. “Deviant sexual nature,” he says candidly. “My intrusive thoughts are of a sexually violent nature in particular.”
I swallow, and I feel his observant gaze trail the curve of my throat with the action. His left hand clenches into a fist, triggering a visceral response within me.
“It’s a unique cluster of symptoms,” I say, blocking my thoughts from the dirt trying to creep between the cracks. “Touch aversion in combination with fear of contamination and germs?—”
“Mysophobia—”
“And sexual obsessions.” I pull in a breath. My vision flickers. “We have a lot of ground to explore before we develop any therapeutic approach.”
I stand and stride toward my desk, needing a moment to gather myself.
“Hmm,” Orion hums, far too amused. “I thought exposure therapy was the therapeutic approach. How did you put it? To touch…intimately?”
A chord of fear thrums my heart. I saw it in his eyes when he noticed the bruises, the way the marks aroused that buried deviant within him. A tactic meant to stir his hunger—not send him over the edge. Nothing in his previous evaluations, nor the crime scenes, even hinted at sexual sadism disorder.
Rousing his monster means picking at the scabs of my trauma.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
One. Two. Three.
Get a fucking grip.
I release a slow breath. “Given the mind’s unparalleled ability to protect its host, touch aversion may be an unconscious way of preventing harm. We first need to understand?—”
“I don’t follow.”
I shuffle a stack of manila folders, giving myself an extra few seconds before I pull his file. “Often, those who experience sexual obsessions are so fearful of acting on their intrusive thoughts, they create even more obsessions as a distraction. It’s textbook harm OCD. If you’re fearful of causing harm, it’s completely rational to develop an aversion to touch.” I clutch the folder to my chest and turn toward him. “If you can’t touch a person, then logically, you can’t hurt them.”
His smile is so cutting, it could wound. “That’s a lot of psychobabble to say you think I’m dangerous.”
