I agree, "Sure. Whatever makes you comfortable."
She grabs my hand, leads me to the couch, and points to the middle cushion, ordering, "Please sit, Dr. Mercer."
Nerves erupt in my belly. I take a seat and wait for her to sit next to me.
She steps between my legs and holds the hem of her sweater. "Are you sure you need to see this? It's an ugly part of me right now."
My pulse thuds between my ears. A sharp awareness tightens low in my abdomen, and an unwelcome heat coils through me. My fingers flex on my thighs, as my instinct collides with the restraint that doesn't seem to be strong enough.
Every nerve feels tuned in to her. The whisper of fabric in her hands, the faint tremor in her stance, the way her eyes carry so much emotion I haven't seen before, all pull me into a trance. I tell myself to stay still and professional, even as my body strains forward with a protective urgency that feels dangerously close to want. A low rumble hits my chest when I speak. "You could never be ugly, Bluebird. Now show me."
Her eyes widen.
Fuck. Why did I say that out loud?
Tense silence erupts between us.
I reach for her hand, begging, "Please."
She releases an emotion-filled breath and nods, slowly lifting the hem of her sweater. She stops right below her ribs, showcasing a pair of baby-girl-pink lace panties, bare legs pale against the couch cushion, and the soft curve of her stomach marked with scattered pinprick blooms. Tiny red dots stand out starkly against her smooth skin, both delicate and unsettling all at once. Some are darker, some fresher, and they make a constellation of red that tightens my chest in a way I don't have language for. It's not gore or chaos. It's control and intent.
The sight hits me harder than I expect. I lean forward before I realize I'm moving, and slide my hands over her hips, brushing my thumbs over a few marks.
She inhales sharply, her stomach shaking.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to touch?—"
She puts her hands on mine and forces them back onto her skin. "Yes, you did. And it's okay. Don't pull away from me, Red. Not now. I don't need your distance. I need you here. Touching me...just like this."
Warmth radiates up into my hand, with too much awareness rushing from her stomach and palms. I fight my demons, anchored to her, unable to pull away.
She closes the remaining space so her belly is an inch from my face. A sweet scent, unmistakably her perfume but mixed with what has to be her pussy, intoxicates me like Satan himself. I mutter, "Jesus Christ, Blue." I slowly look up.
Her breath hitches sharply before she forces it back down. Her eyes flutter closed for half a second, then open again, wide and glossy, fixed on me.
I should pull away, but I can't. I'm locked into her spell, too aware she's half naked and so damn beautiful even when she's suffering. To deflect, I ask, "Still cold?" even though she's radiating heat into me.
She shakes her head. "No."
I force myself to look at her wounds, inquiring, "Does your stomach hurt?"
Another shake. "No. Not anymore."
My jaw tightens. I try to move my hands and get a few inches before she repins them to her body, repositioning part of my hand over the barely-there lace panties.
I swallow hard. My eyes drift between her thighs, and I inhale deeper to take in her scent.
The air between us crackles, charged in a way that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with restraint I can't seem to locate.
"Are you proud of me for not using the knife?" she asks.
I slide my hands down her outer thighs and create space between us, sitting as far back as I can and releasing her, then snap back into therapist mode. "Yes. But I don't want you harming yourself with pins either."
"It's not permanent," she argues, and runs her fingertips near her belly button.
A low throb grows more forceful in my balls. I state, "That doesn't mean it's okay. And this tells me you're overwhelmed. That's on me. I didn't realize we went too deep today."
She tilts her head and furrows her forehead. "This isn't on you. I did this. You just did your job."
