"Dr. Mercer," I breathlessly answer.
"Blue?" His voice is low, strained, and already walking the edge of something dangerous.
I swallow. "Yeah."
"You can't do this. You can't send messages like that. You can't toy with our boundaries and expect me to?—"
"To what?" My voice slips soft, coaxing. "To care? To worry? To want to make sure I'm okay?"
Silence.
Then a slow inhale, sharp around the edges. He quietly admits, "Of course I want to make sure you're okay."
"Why are you fighting so hard?" I ask.
Another short breath hits my ear.
I slide my finger around my clit and close my eyes, breathing hotter.
His raw voice cracks. "You're emotional right now. You're confused after what happened at the restaurant. You're?—"
"Thinking about your hands on me and touching myself." The words spill out velvet-soft, wicked.
His breath stutters.
I close my eyes, sinking deeper into my mattress. "Are you telling me you haven't been thinking about it, too?"
My name leaves him rough, almost pained. "Blue, you're crossing into dangerous territory."
I argue, "We crossed into it the moment you pinned your gaze on me across the room. It exploded when I walked up to your table. You didn't stop me, you steered me into a dark corner and pinned me against it, grazing your hard cock into my belly."
He exhales quietly and long, as if fighting with himself. Then he firmly says, "You need to listen to me. This is not a relationship. We're not dating or flirting. We have a therapeutic dynamic, and you're twisting it into something it can't be."
I circle my finger around my opening, whispering, "Can't be? Or shouldn't be?"
He goes still.
I put the phone on speaker and ask, "Why don't you ask me what you want to really know?"
"What's that?"
I take my fingers, move the damp material aside, and V my pussy. I snap a photo and study it. Then I smile, approving of the way it glistens, how my clit's swollen, and send it to him. "Take a look and ask me."
Silence fills the line.
My pulse skyrockets, and endorphins crash into my cells. I goad, "I told you I'm a virgin, so let's have a phone session since it's linked to my cutting episodes. Ask me what you want to know, Dr. Mercer."
Heated tension explodes.
"Ask me, and we'll never talk about this again. But if you don't ask me, I won't be able to help myself from cutting my clit," I lie.
He gasps, then rasps, "Don't you dare."
"Ask me what you want to know," I order, then offer a desperate, "Please, Dr. Mercer. I need to come or cut. It's your decision."
"Jesus Christ, Blue," he mutters.
"Look at my photo and ask me," I demand.
