Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
Caleb
As luck would have it, I took over this office from a lawyer who started practicing law in the sixties. It doesn’t take me long to locate an old typewriter in the storage shed out back. While still outside, I blow the dust off the machine, entering the office through the rear door and setting the typewriter up in front of a window on the far side of the room, stacking a sheaf of paper alongside. Then I gesture for Ashley to sit in front of it.
“I hope you won’t mind if I get some work done while you write,” I say, raising an eyebrow, trying not to inhale too deeply of the orange grove scent she’s introduced into my office, like a ray of sunshine. I don’t have many tasks to complete. My clients are few and far between at this early stage in my practice and I blew through my to-do list over the last two sleepless nights. But I want her to relax, I want her to feel safe being alone with me, and that means time to adjust. To exist in the same space without any expectations or pressure. “I’ll just be at my desk.”
Her gaze is wary, but it strays to my mouth, cutting away quickly. “That’s fine.”
“Good.” I notice the slight flush on her neck and wish I had the freedom to suck that flavor into my mouth. “Would you like me to take your coat now?”
“No,” she says quickly.
I nod. “Very well.”
“Actually.” She swallows, fingering the buttons. “I’m a little hot. But…I didn’t plan to take it off for the session. I’m not dressed like I usually dress. Especially around…”
“Men?”
She exhales sharply. “Yes.”
When she doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate—or remove the coat—I search for a way to calm her obvious nerves. “Ashley, you could be wearing nothing under that coat and unless you ask for my hands on you, I’ll be keeping them to myself.”
An instant later, it becomes painfully obvious that I have placed a lot more confidence in my willpower than I should have. Because Ashley finishes unbuttoning the pea coat and shrugs off the wool outerwear to reveal a body that could launch World War III. She’s watching my reaction closely, holding her breath, so I try to remain stoic—and I’ve never faced such a challenge.
For one, she’s wearing these shorts made of sweatpants material and they’re rolled at the waist, leaving them damningly short. So tight against her pussy, it’s like they’ve been twisted in a fist. She’s nipped at the waist and flared at the hip. Lithe, luscious thighs. A white tank top does nothing to conceal the plump mounds of her tits. High, pouty things that have my cock vibrating like the sidewalk when a train passes beneath.
Perhaps, just for a moment, I understand Waylon a little better. A man could be driven insane by proximity to this woman. A man would be driven to fuck her by any means necessary. I’m hard in my briefs just imagining the incredible shape of her beneath me, my dick buried between her two sweet thighs, angled for optimal pleasure.
All of these inexcusable thoughts and observations pass in a matter of seconds, however, and I’m tamping down my instinct to have her, take her…and drawing out the chair, instead. Indicating with a dip of my chin that she should sit. My restraint is worthwhile when her shoulders relax and she exhales in relief, taking her spot in front of the typewriter.
With her seated, I go to my desk and sit, adjusting my erection out of view, though there is no comfort to be had for the next couple of hours. I go through patient files and make unnecessary notations while the pace of her typing picks up slightly. Every time she leans forward to read what she’s written, the gap between her shorts and tank top widens at the small of her back. That smooth expanse of skin thickens my pulse, the very beginning swell of her ass forcing me to reposition my stiff dick over and over, but nothing helps. There’s no antidote for this lust.
Or this fascination.
It grows by the minute.
What is she writing? What is she thinking?
Has anyone ever encouraged her to write? Is this her first chance?
What made her decide to bring Waylon to therapy? Was it desperation…or is it too much to hope that she felt the same electric connection flowing between us in the supermarket?
I hold back my questions for now, but my curiosity multiplies. No end in sight.
After a couple of hours, she drops her hands away from the typewriter.
“I…think I’m done. For now.”
Calmly, I set down my pen, despite the fact that her voice just constricted every muscle in my abdomen. “You sound disappointed.”
She flicks me a surprised look, as if she wasn’t expecting such an astute observation. “Well, I…”
Remaining quiet, I lean back in my chair.
“I guess I always thought…I just needed an opportunity. Like this. And the perfect masterpiece would come pouring out. But it’s not like that at all. I’m indecisive over every word and instead of focusing on the story, I’m regretting all the ways I didn’t make it better.”
“I don’t know a lot about writing, but I gather indecision is a side effect for anyone creating art from scratch.”
“It’s far from art,” she says with a light laugh, the sound making my feel out of breath. “I’m still eager to dive back in tomorrow, though.” She looks over at me, still somewhat guarded, but not as nervous as before. “Thank you. For finding the typewriter.”
“You’re welcome.”
She glances out the window, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “What now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what do we do now?”
Anything, angel. Name it. “Why don’t you sit on the couch and we’ll talk through what you want to do next?”
She only displays the barest indecision, before pushing back the chair and crossing to the modern leather sofa, sitting in the same spot as before.
I resume my position across from her in my wingback, clipboard resting on my knee.
“It’s getting close to dinner time. Would you like me to bring you home for the night and we can resume our session tomorrow? Or would you like to have dinner with me?”
A delicious flush darkens her cheeks.
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“What is it, Ashley?” Did she notice her thighs flexed when I said her name? “As I mentioned earlier, nothing you say to me will leave my confidence. Nothing you say will be considered shameful or wrong. Not even your darkest confessions.”
“I don’t know if I have any dark confessions, it’s just…it’s so strange to be given…options. What I would like to do. Where I want to have dinner. I went from living with my set-in-their-ways parents to Waylon. That kind of thing is usually up to someone else.”
“Now it’s up to you.”
Her chest rises and shudders down. “That’s how it should be.”
I want to hold her. “Yes, that’s how it should be, angel.”
That endearment slides right out without any forethought and it’s too late to take it back. Can’t play it off, either, because the way I said it matches how I feel when I look at her. Tender, protective. Hungry.
“I’m sorry,” I say, at a loss. “I hope that didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
She hasn’t blinked since I said it. “I’m not an angel.”
“What’s your definition of an angel?”
A beat passes. “An infallible being. With wings.”
“Maybe for me, an angel is someone faced with a lot of difficulty but manages to hold on to their sense of self. And their dreams.”
Silence passes slowly.
“I don’t think I should have dinner with you,” she whispers.
There’s a hard lurch in my chest. “All right. Because I’ve upset you?”
A small hesitation. “No.”
I wait, holding my breath.
She smooths her palm along the cushion of the couch and I can almost hear my words repeating in her head. Nothing you say to me will leave my confidence. “I guess I don’t really understand my…how I feel when I’m around you.”
It costs me a giant effort to remain seated.
I can normally predict what my clients are going to say. None of my preconceived notions apply to Ashley, do they? Professionally or personally. She’s one of a kind.
“Would you like to explain what you mean?”
“You confuse me.”
“How?”
“You give me freedom. But for some reason…” She wets her lips. “I don’t want to take freedom…from you. I finally have the chance to run free and taste some independence and yet, I want to stay around you. My body—”
Oh Jesus.
“What about your body?” I rasp.
“I’m not used to feeling anything but tension around men.”
“But around me you feel…”
She crosses her thighs in response, swallowing, pupils dilated.
“Are you aroused, Ashley?” I ask, on the verge of coming in my pants.
“I don’t think I know w-what it feels like to be aroused.”
My God, I’m burning alive.
If her honesty wasn’t undoing me, the telling side-to-side shift of her hips would. “I can ask you a series of questions to determine if you’re aroused. Or I can join you on the couch and make a determination. Physically.” My pulse is skittering, voice unnaturally thick. “But the latter would require me to touch you. Is that what you want?”
She thinks about it. “Maybe…not yet.”
Sexual frustration strangles me with its bare hands, but I don’t allow myself to show it. “Very well. I’ll make my determination from here.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
Thank God for my clipboard, because it’s hiding the rigid column of my cock. The wet spot I’m sure is spreading at the top of my zipper. “Does your skin feel sensitive, Ashley?”
“Yes.”
I make a note. “Are your breasts heavy?”
She sucks in a breath and nods.
“What about your little nipples?” My voice is a bare scrape of sound. “Are they hard and puckered?”
“Yes,” she complains, nearly killing me by rubbing the heel of her hand against the stiff peaks, gasping at the friction. “They hurt.”
A bead of sweat rolls down my spine. “Last question.” I dig the tip of my pen into my thigh to the point of pain. “Are you wet between your legs?”
She closes her eyes, a blush painting her cheeks. “For hours.”
It’s everything I can do not to drop the clipboard and unzip my pants. Beat myself blind and come on the carpet at her feet. “It is my professional opinion that you’re aroused, Ashley,” I manage, winded.
Her lips form a moist oval, fingers clawing the edge of the leather couch cushion. “What should I do about it? Is there a way to make the ache go away?”
“Yes,” I grit out. I’ve never been so keyed up in my life. Desperate for her and her alone. But I won’t violate her wishes. Or her will. I’m going to be the one man who doesn’t do that to her, even if it kills me—and it very well might. “You’ve never had an orgasm?”
“N-no?”
Jesus. It’s no wonder she’s so horny. Twenty years old and never had relief. She’s been stifling her natural impulses. Or they’ve been stifling themselves, because she’s never felt safe enough to explore them. Never seen her sexuality as anything but a negative. An obstacle. Now that she’s been given some space to think and feel, her libido is probably busting out of its cage.
“Take off your panties, angel. I’ll guide you through it.”