She shrugs. "Sometimes." Her knee bounces uncontrollably, subtle but constant. Her fingers twitch in her lap, darting to her purse, back to her thigh, then to the arm of the chair, unable to land.
I proceed with caution. "Blue, I'm concerned you're experiencing a manic episode."
She stiffens, eyes narrowing, and scoffs, "Manic? No, Dr. Mercer, I'm not crazy. I'm inspired. Productive. Clear."
I prepare myself for an uphill battle, sitting straighter. "I didn't say you were crazy. When did you eat last?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Try to remember and tell me what you last ate."
She thinks for a minute, then shakes her head. "I can't remember. Food isn't important. I've been working."
I stare at her, my pulse thudding between my ears. Skylar called earlier, telling me she was worried about her daughter. She told me she was obsessively trying to finish a project that had nothing to do with her work duties, and hadn't been eating or sleeping.
Blue rolls her eyes, and a teasing expression appears on her face and in her voice. "I made a dress and lingerie. I'm creative. Artists get obsessed. That's not mania."
My chest tightens. "Do you know what a manic episode is, Blue?"
Anger flares on her so quickly, a chill runs down my spine. She seethes, "I'm not crazy, Dr. Mercer."
"I don't use the word crazy," I remind her.
She huffs, "Whatever. Crazy. Manic. It's the same thing, you're just not saying crazy so you don't hurt my feelings." She rises, reaches across my desk, and flips the hourglass. She murmurs, "I love how graceful the sand falls."
My pulse ticks higher. I watch her, a beautiful mess of chaos, and she finally spins.
She leans against the desk, putting her hands on it to steady herself. Her eyes turn to sadness. "I'm sorry I broke your great-grandfather's piece."
"How did you know it was his?" I ask.
A smile plays on her lips. She flirts, "I have my secrets, Dr. Mercer."
Heat pools low in my stomach, spreading in a slow, traitorous wave that coils into something I pretend is anger rather than attraction. It winds tight and hot, forcing me to breathe evenly or risk giving away the truth she's too perceptive not to catch. In a firm voice, I demand, "I'm going to need you to be honest with me, or I won't be able to be your therapist."
Her face falls. In a hurt voice, she offers, "Sorry."
I take a deep breath. "Please sit back down."
She slinks over to the chair, then carefully crosses her legs. She leans back, announcing, "I asked Shirley where you got it so I could replace it. She told me it was your great-grandfather's."
I make a mental note to talk to Shirley about not giving out my personal details, even if she thinks it's nothing big.
Blue's eyes light up, but vulnerability shakes with her words. "So you liked the lingerie I made for you?"
My stomach flips, not with revulsion but with the sickening thrill of wanting something I have absolutely no right to want. The sensation hits low and fast, tightening enough that I straighten in my seat, spine locked, praying she didn't notice the flicker of weakness that just tore through my body. I open my mouth, then shut it.
The need for approval is so intense in her expression, I tell myself I don't want her to crack. So I carefully craft, "You're very talented. It's impressive."
She beams. "It's perfect to lose my virginity in, isn't it?"
Adrenaline spikes through my body, settling in my balls.
She adds, in a hushed tone, "Well, at least the final part of my virginity."
Sweat pops out on the back of my neck. My cock turns into a traitor, coming to life. Somehow, I keep my voice steady. "Final part?"
Her lips twitch. She coos, "You know, Dr. Mercer. Kissing. Touching. Oral." A flush crawls up her cheeks, and her irises flash with anticipation. She inhales deeply, then releases it even more slowly through her mouth.
