My breath catches, and I collapse against him. I hate him for it. I want him for it. And I don't know how to hold both at the same time.
My sob breaks against his throat, raw and ugly, and he doesn't flinch. Instead, he strokes slow arcs under my eyes, wiping tears. His mouth brushes my temple, and his thumb drops, gliding over the pulse beating in my neck.
I gasp, shaking harder.
"Bluebird," he says, voice so low it vibrates through my sternum. "Look at me."
I don't want to. Looking means seeing the guilt still carved into the corners of his eyes. But I lift my head anyway because when Red asksin that demanding tone, my body answers before my brain gets a vote.
He pins his therapist eyes layered over lover eyes on me, and the combination makes my thighs clench. He murmurs, "You feel everything so hard. Anger. Fear. Love. It's all crashing together right now, isn't it?"
I nod, my throat too tight for words.
He leans in until our foreheads touch. "Let me hold it with you. Just for tonight. Let me take some of the weight."
My wet, bitter laugh escapes. "You already took too much when you made decisions for me."
"No." His fingers slide into my hair, cradling my skull. "I took the consequences, not the choice. The choice was always yours." His lips graze mine, barely a kiss, more of a promise than contact. He adds, "Still is."
Heat flares low in my belly, sudden and vicious. I fist his shirt tighter, egging on, "Then prove it."
His exhale is shaky. "Blue?—"
My voice cracks on the last word. "Prove you didn't take it and that it's still my choice to want you this badly."
His restraint fractures behind his eyes, his professional stature giving way to raw need. His lips press against mine, deep and claiming, his tongue stroking mine like he's mapping every place I've been hurting.
I whimper into his mouth, and he answers with a low growl that vibrates straight to my clit, leaning me backward until my ass hits the edge of the kitchen island. Without breaking the kiss, he lifts me onto the granite, cold stone biting through my jeans.
I gasp, and he swallows it, hands already shoving under my sweater, palms scorching over my ribs.
He asks a clinical question against my lips, wrapped in a filthy rasp. "Still okay?"
I yank at his belt, urging, "Not yet. Make me okay."
He catches my wrists, moves them behind me, and pins them on the counter along with his assessing stare. "You sure that's what you want?"
I nod. "Mm-hmm." I slide my tongue back into his mouth, swiping around his fast.
His mouth curves against mine. He breaks our kiss, keeping his lips an inch from mine. "Then we're going to do this slow enough that you feel every second of it. No rushing through the feelings. You feel them with me."
"Red—"
"Shh." He kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the frantic pulse under my ear. "Breathe with me, Bluebird. In…out…" His lips tease my chin.
I try. I fail. My chest heaves, nipples so tight they ache against the lace of my bra right as he drags his thumbs over them through the fabric. He makes slow, deliberate circles until I'm arching, chasing the pressure.
He studies me, murmuring, "That's good. Feel it. Let it build."
The praise hits like a slap and a caress at once. Sensations zing under his fingers. I rock my hips toward him.
"Tell me what you want," he orders.
"Please—just...just touch me, Dr. Mercer," I beg, with adrenaline growing fast in my veins.
Velvet slides over steel as he taunts, "Where, baby? Use your words. Tell your doctor exactly where you hurt."
Flames lick my skin. I barely get out, "Between my legs. I'm so wet it hurts. I can feel it soaking through my panties."
