He towers over me, body rigid, jaw locked hard enough to crack enamel. He shifts half a step to the side, as if casually adjusting position, but the move does absolutely nothing to hide the thick ridge straining against his zipper.
My pulse stutters.
"It is completely unacceptable for you to talk to me like that," he scolds, his voice rougher than before, less controlled, with his vowels dragging through gravel.
The reprimand should land like a splash of cold water. Instead, something inside my chest sharpens and lights up. I remind him quietly, "You asked."
"You're projecting your fantasy about Brax on me," he accuses again.
"You're the one in front of me, not him," I argue.
His nostrils flare. "We are not doing this."
I smirk, "That phrase is becoming very repetitive, Doctor. You keep announcing what we're not doing while your body sends a different memo." I glance at the thick wood in his pants.
Color rises along his throat. It's a slow, gorgeous flush that climbs toward his jaw. For a second, I think he might order me to leave or call security to have me physically removed.
Instead, he drags in another breath, steadies his shoulders, and wraps new walls around himself. His spine straightens. His expression cools. When he looks at me again, the look has shifted from man to clinician, from cornered to remote. He says, "Enough. We're going to redirect."
"You can redirect your thoughts all you want. Mine are quite comfortable where they are." I drag my eyes back to his cock.
Jesus, it's big.
His voice turns more measured. "Tell me what happens after you leave here. When you go home and the intensity drops."
"It doesn't drop. I'm always ready and willing," I answer, beaming up at him.
"I can't help you if you're going to be like this. I guess our session is over," he states and turns toward the door. He opens it.
"Wait!"
He arches his eyebrows.
Not ready to leave, I cave, "Shut the door. I'll answer your questions."
He obeys, sits across from me, and lets the silence stretch for a beat. A tiny flicker near his left eye appears. His fingers flex awkwardly before he jams them into his pockets. Every micro-reaction is a data point, and I'm done pretending I don't know how far under his skin I've crawled.
I could keep baiting him with my body. That part is easy. All I have to do is flash more thigh and spread them wide open again. I could pout and arch and let my imagination pour through my mouth until his control fractures.
It is almost too easy. And Ivanovs need challenges. So I switch tactics. I inhale slowly, letting my shoulders soften, and my gaze slide away from his crotch toward the window.
"Tell me what it's like when the intensity drops," he repeats.
I reorder the weapons in my arsenal, sliding seduction behind honesty. I admit, "When I go home, it gets worse."
He gently pushes, "How does it get worse, Blue?"
I sigh, confessing, "When I leave, it is just me. And the empty messages and photos."
"Empty messages from Brax?"
I nod, and a new sting hits me.
"And by photos, you mean of him?"
"Him. Her. Both of them. The one I have of him and me together from a Christmas party years ago," I state.
Red peers closer. "When you cut your arm last week, was it the first time?"
