I shouldn’t care if she asks him out.
Charlotte dating Ryan shouldn’t matter. It’s not like I can date him. Damn it, why does the idea of him dating anyone else make me feel like my heart is ripping apart? I’ve never felt so drawn to someone as I did to him. I’ve never wanted someone like I want him.
“But—”
“Don’t you have work to do? I need to prepare for my next patient.” I’m being a raging bitch right now, but I can’t help myself. Charlotte nods and leaves my office, and my shoulders slump. She didn’t deserve that. But I need to get back in control, and the idea of Charlotte and Ryan is not helping with the swirling storm of emotions I’m currently experiencing.
I cannot afford to let my emotions get the better of me.
Glancing at the clock, I still have forty-five minutes before my next patient is due to arrive, and I’m going to need every minute of it. Pulling out some cleaning supplies, I set to work getting rid of the scent of that man.
That delicious, completely forbidden man.
Even though it feels like I’m hurting myself by doing so, I spray surface cleanser onto the leather couch and wipe it with a cloth, ensuring I remove every trace of Ryan Rivera. Next, I open the window and spray an air freshener. The artificial scent upsets my sensitive nose, but it’s better than smelling a man I shouldn’t even be thinking about anymore.
I’ve never had such a strong reaction to a patient before. Sure, I’ve felt countertransference, usually a maternal one. It’s happened where a patient has transferred their maternal feelings to me, and I’ve felt the same feelings for them. Seeing them as a mother would, I’ve often had hopes and dreams for them, sometimes ones that don’t align with the patient’s own feelings and desires. Supervision has helped me to keep it in check.
This is completely different, though. I’m not having positive thoughts about my patient’s future; I’m imagining Ryan on his knees for me. I’m imagining myself on my knees for him. I’m imagining tasting him. My pussy clenches, but my gut swirls with guilt.
He’s my patient.
Despite Ryan’s assurances that his feelings were real, he doesn’t understand what’s happening. He doesn’t understand the inherent power imbalance. He doesn’t even know me. Not really. I’m not only the serene therapist who listens and doesn’t look for a reciprocally beneficial relationship.
The reality of who I am is so much more complicated than what I show to people.
The thoughts of telling my supervisor that I’m experiencing erotic countertransference fills me with dread. My hands are clammy, and a nervous tremor runs through them. I want to disappear, to shrink and become invisible, swallowed by the floor. I’m mortified at the thoughts of him judging me for these feelings and making me spell out exactly what I’m thinking.
The idea of telling Steven I want my patient to tear my clothes off, dominate me, and fulfill every depraved sexual fantasy I’ve ever had is unbearable. I need to talk to him. I can’t just go on hoping that Ryan doesn’t make another appointment while simultaneously hoping that he does.
I continue cleaning my office, taking solace in putting order back into my space and stripping it of the intoxicating reminders of the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. Damn it, why did he have to smellsogood?
When I finally feel like I can breathe without getting more aroused, I remove my panties—because they are uncomfortably wet—and stuff them in a drawer, cringing at the fact I will be going commando for the rest of the day. Then I focus back on my pens, making sure they are perfectly straight, and check the other items on my desk, taking solace in putting things in order until I feel like I’m a little less likely to lose my mind.
That voice in my head urging me to run after him—to hunt him down—softens to a dull thud in my mind, and I ready myself for my next patient.
I can do this. I am a strong woman. I do not let my urges control me.
Except these urges are pressing in stronger and have left me feeling completely out of control. Shit. I am absolutely screwed.
Chapter Eight
Ryan
Sitting in my car outside her house, my mind is still reeling from meeting my mate hours ago. The more I think about her, I’m at least eighty percent sure Maya is a shifter. She didn’t smell like a wolf, but the longer I was with her, the less she smelled human. A shifter should have prioritized a mate bond over a career, though. If she were a shifter who felt the pull of a fated mate bond, she should have been naked and under me within ten minutes of us meeting each other.
But her eyes didn’t lie.
They flashed yellow when she was pissed-slash-aroused at me.
I need to learn more about her. She continued working for the rest of the day after my appointment. Leaving at 5 p.m., she drove straight to her home in the suburbs. The eager howls of several dogs erupted as soon as she approached the door of her two-story Craftsman style house. Another note for the ‘not a shifter’ column, because I’ve never met a shifter who keeps pets before.
She opens the door a fraction to slide her lithe figure inside, and then I watch her silhouette through the windows as she moves around her home. The evenings are already getting darker, but the lights in the house allow me to see Maya moving around clearly,making dinner, cleaning, feeding her four—no, five—large dogs, changing into leisure wear, going for a run with them. My cock is hard as steel as I watch her doing yoga in her living room after she returns.
Fates, she is beautiful. Not to mention limber, her movements fluid and graceful. Her home is well maintained, somehow both cozy and meticulously ordered, with everything having its place. I offer a silent prayer of thanks to the Moon Goddess when I realize there’s no sign of anyone else living here. No boyfriend I have to murder.
She lets the dogs into the backyard one last time before heading upstairs. I quietly undress in my car and shift into the hulking form of my brown wolf.
He sniffs around and mortifies me when he cocks a leg and takes a piss at every corner of the property to mark his territory. Then he curls up by the back door, content in the knowledge that our mate is safe. It doesn’t take long before I’m drifting into a peaceful sleep for the first time in what must be years.
