"Ms. Ivanov?—"
"Call me Blue. I don't like being called Ms. Ivanov," she declares.
"Why?"
"My name is Blue. If you want to be called Dr. Mercer, I'll call you that instead of Red. But you'll call me Blue."
I stare at her for a moment. "Very well. Now answer my question."
She nibbles on her lip, then she swallows hard. She twirls more of her locks around a finger, then tugs until there's no more tension, stating, "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
She collects her thoughts, then claims, "You don't know what it's like."
I stay silent.
She reveals, "Something happens to a woman when she finds the one. And there's nothing that can stop it."
"You mean your obsession?"
She shakes her head. "No. I mean the reality that she would let her man burn her life down as long as he keeps touching her while it happens."
Heat coils in the center of my chest. I keep my voice steady. "Is that what you want from Brax? For him to burn your life down?"
Her lashes sweep low, then lift slowly. Her gaze meets mine. "I want to be touched until I burn, Dr. Mercer. Do you know how to do that?"
My pulse crashes between my ears. "But Brax hasn't touched you."
"Not sexually. But we've touched before," she claims.
"It's not the same. You're assuming he can do things to you that he probably can't. You're giving him way too much power," I tell her.
She scoffs. "You saw his photo."
A thin, heated strand winds through my gut before I can shut it down. It's jealousy slipping under my ribs with the precision of a blade. It settles in the hollow beneath my sternum, intrusive and unwelcome, proof she's breached territory I never meant to give her.
She drags her hand over her knee and brushes her inner thigh. In a lower voice, she adds, "You shouldn't worry. You're a different kind of sexy."
My heart races faster.
Jesus Christ.
"That's not appropriate," I scold her again.
Her mouth curves again, not quite a smile. "I thought you wanted my truth?"
The word lands between us like a match. Silence stretches. My pulse hits my ears harder.
This is where training matters. Every supervisor's warning about erotic transference and countertransference screams at me. But it isn't louder than the instinct humming through my nerves.
I stay frozen, except to demand, "I want to know why you assume a man who's never shown interest in you is the one for you."
She twirls more hair and opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
"Answer me," I say.
She shrugs, slow and languid. "You want me to unpack the fantasy."
