Me: Did you block me?
Red: No. I can't come over. That's not appropriate. If you're unsafe, you need to call the crisis line on the back of my business card or go to the ER.
Me: I don't want a hotline or a stranger. I want you. You're the only one who understands what happens to me. You're the only one I trust.
He doesn't respond right away.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let him sit in the tension he created when he pinned me between his arm and the wall.
Let him drown in the memory of my breath on his jaw.
I slide my hand near the heat between my thighs.
Red: This is the boundary you cannot cross. I am not your emergency contact. You're attaching meaning to things that aren't appropriate.
I bite my bottom lip, heat curling low and deep.
Appropriate.
His final shield and favorite lie.
Me: I can't stop pressing the bruise I made for you. The ache...oh God, Dr. Mercer. The ache is pulsing up my thigh. I...I know...I need...
The quiet stretches so long I swear I can hear his heartbeat through the phone.
Red: Stop. You're manipulating the situation. What happened tonight was unacceptable, and it cannot happen again. I shouldn't have let you pull me into that moment.
I smile. He's lying, and he knows it. He loved it as much as I did. He wanted to be alone with me in that dark corner.
Me: I didn't pull you. You pulled me. You always do.
His reply arrives like a strike.
Red: Enough. Our dynamic is therapeutic. It stays therapeutic. I won't participate in this seductive storyline you're creating. It isn't real, and it isn't healthy. It stops now.
Seductive storyline. More glee hits me. He just exposed himself, admitted, without meaning to, that he feels it between us, too.
Most men would shut down. A traditional therapist would cut contact. But Red isn't most men.
He's mine.
I'm not just another patient.
Time to switch gears.
Me: I'm between my sheets right now, naked except for my panties. They match your shirt. I swear they're identical in color. The lace is wet, Dr. Mercer. Drenched in all the minutes that have passed since I saw you come into the restaurant. And don't tell me that's a coincidence that it's the same color as your shirt. I'm pressing my bruise I made for you with one hand and sliding my fingers through my juices, and it's all your fault.
My pulse beats hard between my ears. Heat incinerates my core as I stare at the phone.
Answer, Red.
My phone rings. My breath catches, and I stare at the screen.
Dr. Red Mercer flashes next to the photo I downloaded from his LinkedIn profile.
