I keep my eyes on the heavy traffic and break the silence. "This is a bad idea."
She smiles without looking at me. "Driving me home?"
"Everything that came before it. And anything that would come after I drop you off." I signal and veer right at the light. "I don't want to confuse you."
She groans. "I'm not confused."
"This crosses lines. Professional and ethical ones. The kind that end careers," I point out.
"So you've said," she softly states, then slides her hand on my inner thigh.
I keep my voice even, clinical, the way I've trained myself to sound when emotions threaten to bleed through. "Blue, if anyone reports this—hell, if anyone even suspects, I lose my license. I lose my practice. I lose everything I've built."
She tilts her head. "There are ways around every problem. But we're not a problem, Red."
"Society would say otherwise. And taking advantage of a patient is wrong," I declare, hating the words coming out of my mouth and referring to what I've done.
She laughs. "You can't take advantage of someone who wants you. And you didn't lose control last night. You stayed within the boundary, not even coming close to what I told you I gave you permission to do."
Her bare, curvy ass cheeks flares in my mind. The memory hits fast and unwelcome, mixing with how her breath caught and her moans ricocheted around the room.
I tighten my jaw and force my attention back to the road, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "That's exactly the problem."
She shifts closer, just enough that her presence presses into my awareness. "You're acting like this is something that happened to you."
I glance at her despite myself.
Her lips curve. "You chose me, Dr. Mercer. And I chose you."
The light turns red. I step on the brake, my pulse beating hard against my ribs, an insistent reminder that my body has opinions my mind doesn't want to acknowledge.
I mutter, "You can't talk to me like this. Not now. Not in this context."
She doesn't back down. "Why not?"
"Because it reinforces a dynamic that shouldn't exist." I turn to face her fully. "Because transference doesn't mean what you think it means. Because desire doesn't equal consent when there's an imbalance of power."
Her gaze softens, not in retreat but in focus. "I consented. I gave you all the power. I still do."
My cock twitches, and I groan, dragging a hand over my face. "That's not how this works."
She counters, "That's exactly how it works. You're just used to being the one who defines the rules."
The light changes to green. I press the accelerator and let silence stretch until it becomes unbearable for her.
She blurts out, "I love you."
The words land heavy, uninvited, detonating something deep in my chest. I laugh sharp and humorless. "You don't."
Her voice doesn't waver. "I do. And I know what that means to you."
"You're confusing intensity with attachment," I say, defaulting to language that has always given me distance, then adding, "It happens, but it's not real."
She leans back, studying me like she's the one assessing my mental state. Then she scoffs, "Do you actually believe the bullshit coming out of your mouth?"
I don't answer.
She continues, softer but no less certain. "You touched me like you wanted me. You looked at me like you weren't thinking about consequences. And when you marked me, you didn't stop yourself. You love that you own me. You're the man I'm allowing to burn my life down as long as you keep touching me while it happens, and you love every second of it, every ounce of power and control you have over me."
