Preston steps out of the room, and I stand. Damn it. I should have something prepared for this moment. A confident greeting. A casual one-liner. Something cool, effortless.
Instead, I’m vibrating with caffeine, wearing ass-floss panties, and ten seconds away from crying. Great.
He shakes hands with the doctor, and I hear them discussing the next session. Amazing, he’s starting treatment. “Get in touch with my assistant, she’ll find you something,” she sayswith a grin.
“Oh,I’mhis assistant. I’ll get that done, thank you,” I blurt from where I’m standing. Close enough to hear them. Not nearly far enough to justify that volume. Nerves and caffeine have officially staged a coup against my common sense.
Get a grip, Mia.
Grace? Poise? Never heard of either.
“Thanks again, Dr. Beck. See you next week.”
She nods and calls her next patient in.
Preston strides toward me and wraps one hand around the nape of my neck, the other slipping to the small of my back as he pulls me in.
I tense. PDA. Out in the wild. I’m not sure how to feel about it, because we’re supposed to be a secret, and this feels quite the opposite.
I just introduced myself as his assistant, and now he’s hugging me in a very…unassistant-like manner.
We need to discuss the rules I’ve written, the ‘define boundaries of professional behavior’ list. It’s right there between ‘shag boss’ and ‘don’t catch feelings’.
But when he kisses my forehead and says, “Thank you,” the nerves and rules vanish into thin air. “Therapy really helps me see things more clearly.” Pres kisses my cheek now and keeps talking, which is lucky, because the rules didn’t disappear at all—they’ve just migrated to my throat and are currently choking me out. “It’s a gift you have, you know that? Knowing what people need.”
“I… I…”
He steps back just a bit, barely enough to let air pass between us—but it’s a canyon. My body aches for him toclose it. All the awful things tormenting my mind vanish when he holds me that close.
“But now it’s time I take care of your needs, Miss Thorne.”
Ahh… What?
A second ago, I was blushing so hard you’d think he’d licked my neck—no, my crack—in front of my granny. Then he thanked me in a way that turned me into a puddle of feelings. And now? Now he’s whispering filth in my ear, and I’m trying not to moan in the waiting room or fall over from emotional whiplash.
“My… needs?” Of course I know what he means. My brain just hasn’t caught up yet.
“I know you never fail when you’re given a task,” he says, gaze burning. “Our room’s ready, right?”
It is. And so am I. But all I manage is a nod and a useless gulp to clear the desert my throat has become.
He extends a hand, palm open. “And the list I asked you to print?”
“I got it,” I whisper, as if anyone heard me, they’d know just how filthy it is.
He lowers his mouth to my ear, and his voice wraps me. Calm where it shouldn’t be, rough enough to ruin me. “Give me the list. Then go to the restroom and take off your panties.”
I hand the paper straight from my oversized purse to him. He folds it twice, neat and precise, and slips it into the front pocket of his button-down shirt.
“Now go to the bathroom and bring me your panties back,” he says, brushing his lips against the shell of my ear.
My chin drops, but no words come out. My instinct is to argue, but deep down, I want to do it.
I want to please him. Then be rewarded by him.
And the thrill, the risk of getting caught, it amps up everything.
I don’t move. Not out of defiance; I’m just… soaking it all in.
