My cock aches. I clarify, "Clinically. Yes."
"All right." She adjusts in the chair, and the skirt shifts again. The slit opens farther this time, exposing the inner curve of her thigh.
She rubs her thumb over her thigh and says, "I've saved myself for him. He's the one. Some things you know in your heart to be real. And sometimes it takes others time to realize the truth. So I'll give Brax some grace. I know he'll make my first time so erotic, just like every time after. And I don't think I'm selfish for wanting a man to take care of me until I'm so wet it's runningdown my legs, am I?" She arches her eyebrows and pouts, displaying her dimple. Then she glances at my pants.
She's a virgin?
Fuck. Why did I go down this road?
My erection's harder than a rock. I blurt out, "You're a virgin, or is that a lie?"
"I've loved Brax since I was sixteen. Do you think I would have cheated on him?" she asks, eyes wide.
"You can't cheat on someone who isn't yours," I state.
She uncrosses her legs, widens them, and recrosses them. "I know he's been with other women, but I'll forgive him. And when I do, he'll realize all he's been missing out on."
She's delusional.
She's a virgin.
Fuck.
My mouth waters, and my eyes drop to her legs. A faint shadow lies higher, near where fabric nearly covers skin. My brain registers shape and color before my professional filter kicks back in.
Bruising.
Dried blood.
I drag my gaze back up.
She watches me with quiet triumph, though she pretends ignorance. "Don't you think a man wants a woman who's waited and hasn't been passed around?"
My chest rises and falls faster.
Focus, asshole!
She leans forward, drags her fingertips over her chest, and murmurs, "Wouldn't you want a woman who you can break in how you want?"
"You have a pattern. You're attempting to drag me into the same dynamic you created with Brax. That will not happen here," I warn, but it doesn't come out as strongly as I had hoped.
Her lips twitch. "You already participate. You saw the photo. You thought about how you compare to him. You thought about me, wishing I'd stalk you and take your picture."
The inch of accuracy of that last sentence irritates me more than her smug expression. I maintain eye contact. "Blue, I want to be very clear. You are projecting your fantasies onto me. You do not know what I think inside or outside of this office."
"Then tell me," she counters immediately. "Do you think about me?"
Silence wraps around us again. A car horn bleats faintly several stories below, the only sound cutting into the thick air between us.
I answer the way ethics demand. "I think about my patients between sessions when it serves their treatment. That includes you. It does not cross into territory that is inappropriate."
Her lips part as if the idea of me being inappropriate sets off an entirely different fantasy. "Do you talk about me to your shrink?"
I point to her bare skin. "What is going on with your thigh?"
She innocently glances down, then drags a finger over the cut, wincing slightly.
"Don't do that," I warn.
