"Hi."
Shit.Her voice sounds tired and short. Full-bodied with stress.
My brows rise, and I frown as she begins to make her way to me. "May I take your bag?"
Sarah shakes her head. "No, thank you. I got it."
Nodding, I hold my arm out to usher her to my office, noticing her slight limp. She's incredibly stiff as well, her hips not having the same gentle sway they did last week. I tilt my head down curiously as she passes by me and can’t help but to take a deep inhale.
She might be moving oddly, but she smells delicious.
“Please, have a seat,” I offer once we're in my office, but Sarah's already two steps ahead of me, slowly lowering into a chair opposite mine like she’s scared to move too much.
Picking up on this action, I keep my gait controlled and my eyes sharp on her as I round my desk. I also note her eerie silence as she begins to take items out of her bag one by one, staying quiet when she unceremoniously moves the wooden plaque that boasts my name over to hang out behind my monitor.
Noticing she really doesn’t seem to care for or be overly impressed by titles or formalities of status, I try not to let that bother me and instead get comfortable in my office chair. I place an ankle across my knee and rotate my chair slightly side to side, amused when she slaps a folder down that's tied-up with twine, along with another folder, and wouldn’t you know it: the DSM-V.
The bible of the mental health field.
I chuckle because she's averyserious little thing, and that in itself is a turn on.
Sarah throws me a rather filthy look, and I arch a haughty eyebrow at her in response, silently challenging her to say something. To be the first one to break the tension between us.
Not able to help it, my cock jerks in my pants at her expression, biting back a groan as she stiffly holds out a lithe arm and presents me with the most beautiful set of chocolate-tipped, almond fingernails.
“JustSarah, by the way,” she snaps, obviously irritated at me staring.
My eyes keep hers as I reach forward and take her hand, not too firmly but not too soft either. I don’t really do anything but press my hand into hers, until I notice a small cut on the side of her right hand and frown.
What on Earth…
“Are you aware you’re hurt?” I ask, attempting to throw her off, not elaborating on the cut.
Don't get me wrong; it's not that sheneedsthrowing off. I don’t know her and can tell something's blatantly wrong. I’ve been a psychiatrist too long to not know when something is off. And something is off with Sarah.Majorly.
“Of course I am, Mr. Richardson,” she replies in a subdued tone.
I tilt my head, wetting my lips as my gaze drops to her mouth. Looks like we're going to be here for a bit.“DoctorRichardson, please,” I respond, trying to get her riled up so she can say more than two words to me.
My mind races as I work hard to figure her out. I anxiously flick my eyes across her form with a pleased look at the sight of her heavy breasts straining against the fabric of her tank top under her cardigan.
Why is she moving like that? I wonder to myself, rotating my body a little more to the left and tilting my neck a little to try to see through her near sheer camisole at her delicate shoulder blade that's momentarily turned towards me. There's a shadow there.
A tattoo maybe?
Nah, she doesn't seem the type to get a tattoo. Though you'd never know. She turns back, facing me, to make room to open the folders, bringing my attention back to her mouth and seeing she’d been talking the whole time.Fuck.
My eyes rise back to hers, and I work like hell to get a grip over myself. They narrow slightly as I stare with a carefully placed, impassive look on my face born from two decades of professionalism, forcing myself to listen. Though it's the last thing I want to do, to be honest. She's explaining why she feelsour client's diagnosis needs another review, but I hear it as if she's talking to me through a tunnel.
My gaze lowers back down as she rather harshly slaps a paper on the desk between us, clearly aggravated.
“This week’s log, showing my email to you saying what symptoms were present that indicated bipolar disorder.” She slaps yet another paper on top of that one, amusing me as her dark nails click slightly as they tap it.“And here's this week’slog showinganotheremail to you saying what symptoms were present for a personality disorder.”
Seeing I don't need to respond yet, I stay quiet, just observing. Impressed that, though I can tell something is wrong outside of our professional bounds, and she's clearly upset at how I'd been handling things with this client so far, she keeps her speech professional.
Sarah slaps four more papers in front of me, one by one.
I know she deserves my undivided attention, but my sense of propriety and my usual iron-tight grip on my self-control has diminished considerably. I can’t stop staring at her lips, the shape of her winged eyebrows, the little gold nose ring in her left nostril, how long and shiny her hair is; I tilt my head, wondering if it's naturally straight.
