Chapter 12 – Ethan
Twelve
Ethan
A manda enrages me thoroughly. I haven't had the space or time to jack off in days, and she has the audacity to look like a full course meal while lounging in bed, undoubtedly scheming my demise. Her therapist tricks won't work on me. I'll get everything I want without falling for her womanly manipulations. I'm sure of it.
"What do I get if I fix you?" she asks, looking up at me with those impossibly sexy dark brown eyes. I'm grateful she believed my stupid lie about my attraction to her, even if it's massively embarrassing to get a talk about alleged racism from your mother in your late thirties…
"Your freedom would lead to your immediate death, so don't bother asking."
"Even if I left Boston and moved to Chicago?"
Her attempt at negotiation reminds me not to underestimate her.
"If you can stop me from gambling for two weeks, I'll allow you to use the internet. Unlimited contact with whoever you want."
"Two weeks?"
"Yes," I respond.
My balls ache and I don't want to talk about my gambling problem. I just want to stop.
"Now give me the tactical information that you people hoard with your fancy degree."
"That's not how it works, Ethan."
The way she says my name sends arousal straight down to my cock. This isn't fair.
"Then how does it work?"
"You have to want it and more than that... you have to fight your urges."
"I'm fighting plenty of fucking urges," I say through gritted teeth with a tone that unfortunately betrays too much to the therapist holed up in my bed.
"Good," she says, clearly intrigued despite herself. Amanda moves to sit on the edge of the bed, bracing her weight with her hands as she gazes directly into my eyes.
I hate it. She makes me feel like a teenager with a crush and her penetrating eye contact makes it impossible to catch even a glimpse of her tits without her noticing. It's an impossible position.
"You know what it feels like to fight an urge, now you have to experience the full glory of winning that battle. And you just keep fighting, Ethan. Every day. For someone as stubborn as you are, that should be easy."
"Is that insult part of your therapy tactic?"
"It's not a tactic," she says, running her tongue over her lower lip, most likely to stop another insult from spilling out of that sexy ass mouth. "I don't consider this a professional environment."
"I don't care about fancy rules. I just need to quit."
"You never got around to telling me why."
My whole body goes rigid. Exposing this level of vulnerability to Amanda poses a risk. But I'm too tired to fight her and if I don't stop this conversation soon, I won't be able to hide my growing erection. Which hurts, I might add.
I gesture towards the door, childhood memories of me and mom flooding my consciousness.
"Her."
Amanda's body language changes. I feel strangely defensive, and I want her desperately to like my mother. I know she hates me, but mom is... perfect.
"She's really kind."
"Nothing like me," I respond. "And I've always been a fuck up. Even now..."
"You're stressed," Amanda says, her softness disappearing as the doctor version of her jumps out. "You're leaning on negative coping mechanisms. It makes sense to me."
"Nothing about my life makes sense," I grunt, frustrated at her confidence and calm as she picks through my psyche with God knows what thoughts in her head.
"Stay clean for two weeks," she says. "We can do that. But since you don't actually want me to have internet access... what would motivate you. For yourself."
My dick jumps against the crotch of my pants, begging for attention. I chuckle. "You don't want to know that."
"You need to choose something to motivate you," Amanda says, her impatience flaring slightly.
"Fine," I say, grinning now. "I want some pussy."
Her nostrils flare out angrily. She has a very cute nose shape. I like how wide her nose sits on her face because it rounds out her features and makes her look pretty as fuck while she's giving me her dirty looks.
"I said this wasn't a professional environment, I didn't say it was a brothel."
"I wasn't talking about random pussy."
She flinches when I say the word 'pussy' again.
"I gathered that," Amanda replies, her voice tightening with disapproval.
"So we have a deal? Two weeks no gambling. You get the internet and I get some pussy."
She scowls. "You aren't even attracted to me. Don't you think there's something more motivating?"
"I could get some in two weeks or get some tonight. It's up to you."
Really, it's up to my dick. But she'll feel a lot better if she stays in "control" here.
"Fine," she says, the word "fine" slicing through the air. "Two weeks without gambling and I'll lie there while you give me thirty seconds of... that."
Every word spits out of her mouth with disgust, but I can barely contain my giddiness.
"Good," I respond. "We have a deal. Now get your ass to the bathroom for a preview."
"Preview of what?" Amanda responds, every word coming out seething.
"The big dick you're going to take in two weeks. What else?"
"I'd rather watch the sunset."
"It's dark out."
Amanda rolls her eyes.
"I could always drag you into the shower and make you wash it."
"I'll come," she says. "But don't expect me to act all impressed over some pink penis."
Amanda follows me into the bathroom. It's a squeeze to get us both in there, which she points out. I don't care. She rolls her eyes.
"I don't need to watch you shower. I need to take my own shower."
"You could always join me."
"No thanks."
"You won't help me practice impulse control?"
"You can hire another therapist for that."
I take her hand, forcing Amanda to cast her wicked glare upon me directly. But she doesn't yank it away or force me to let go.
"I don't want to hurt you. I'm not like that guy earlier."
She shivers.
"You didn't have to do that," she says. But she doesn't acknowledge the other part of my statement.
"I saw his hand on your ass. He was twice your size. If anything like that ever happens to you again... I'll kill the guy."
"And go to jail?"
"I'm not in prison yet," I respond, dropping her hand and stripping my shirt off. I'm serious about this shower and even more serious about watching Amanda's response.
If I can't place any more bets or watch pig races or any of that shit, I need entertainment. She looks my chest up and down, but doesn't visibly react.
"I work out a lot."
"I can tell." She doesn't seem impressed.
"What? You like fat guys?"
Amanda rolls her eyes. "I like guys I have a connection with."
"You had a connection with me on the Mass Turnpike."
"You were trying to kill me with that death trap. I clung to you for dear life."
My body ached as she clung to me with those vicious badger claws, but the pain felt strangely good. She can pretend that my abs don't affect her, but she won't be able to hide her reaction to my dick. Every woman has reacted the same way.
With one hand, I undo my belt buckle and have to work to slide my pants and underwear over my thick, muscular legs. I had the most impressive football career of all my brothers and while I might be a little old to withstand a tackle... I'm in even better shape now than I was back then, my muscles defined with maturity and more purposeful shaping.
My dick hangs about halfway down my femur, semi-hard. Amanda looks at it. And looks at it. But she says nothing. No reaction. Even if I just showed her a twelve-inch dick in the flesh.
"You need water to shower," she says sassily and then spreads her hand out in front of her like she's conducting a thorough examination of her fingernails.
Heat courses through me.
"You don't smell so good yourself," I growl at her. "Maybe you should shower before bed."
"You first," she responds dismissively, picking at the nail bed of her middle finger.
She's ignoring me. Which takes effort. Which must mean she's concealing her true feelings. I make my dick jerk a little to get her attention, but she just picks at that nail bed, refusing to give me a second look until I turn the shower on.
When I step inside, I catch her in my peripheral vision and smirk.
Did she really think I would miss that blatant double take? I knew there would be parts of me she couldn’t resist. Especially that part. Amanda might be a fancy doctor, but she’s also a human woman with the same vulnerabilities as any normal, red-blooded woman.
I turn the water on, running it lukewarm. I imagine Amanda gazing at my ass as I turn to face the water. Get a good look, sweetheart. She clears her throat, trying to urge me to walk under the water, but I pretend to test the temperature a little longer.
When I get her nice and comfortable looking at my butt, I step beneath the water and face the nozzle, letting it drip down my body, soak my hair and my beard, get my skin all tingly and clean. From the first rinse, I smell the road on my body. Asphalt and gasoline. The scent forces a cigarette craving. And a poker craving. I crave just about anything I can get addicted to. It’s in my nature. Been that way since I was a kid.
Every real gambler remembers his first big win and the incredible rush that is still better than any sex I’ve had so far. I’m willing to bet Amanda’s thick ass could change that situation, but like I said, I’m willing to bet on just about anything. My first win was pot bellied pig racing, believe it or not. I bet on the runt because he was named Bart Simpson after my favorite television menace. He won by a lot because the bigger boars, distracted by pheromones or something, quit racing and fought each other instead. Bart was the only one who launched his ass out of the pig pile.
Never lost my taste for gambling on state fair pig races. Worst thing I’ve ever done was drive all the way from Kentucky to Florida aided by some of Ruger’s speed to bet on multiple races in the same weekend.
“Showering usually involves soap,” Amanda says critically. My mind did wander off there thinking about old Bart Simpson. What a pig.
“You can come show me how any time, Dr. Yancey.”
“Don’t do that.Don’t remind me that I’m a doctor who will never practice again if I even get to have a life of my own after you’re done with me.”
“It’s a problem to look after your safety now?”
“It’s been a problem,” she says. “I have never told you I’m okay with this.”
Fair point. I’m nice and wet, and in the mood to distract her from being miserable about a situation that she can’t change. I won’t let her out of my sight and risk losing her. I’ve lost enough people and… she has no one else looking after her. That hasn’t escaped me. I grab a bar of soap, lather up and start washing my dick.
“Really?” She mutters, looking at her hands.
“I’m getting clean.”
“Good for you, Ethan.”
My dick jumps when she says my name. She has such a hot voice and it’s also hot how hard she makes me work for her attention.
“I like when you say my name.”
Distractedly, I keep stroking my cock. Amanda sighs.
“You would finish a lot faster if you stopped touching yourself.”
“Finish what?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter Ethan.”
“Or what?”
“I’ll make you talk about your childhood trauma,” she says threateningly. “Psychoanalyze you. Force you to feel human emotions.”
I laugh, because none of those weapons scare me. I faced my worst fear the day I found out about dad. The day I put my father in the ground. He taught me everything I know about being a man and we were best friends. Even closer than me and mom, although we were still pretty close. The eldest child has a special relationship with their parents.
I saw them through the worst times and the best times in their relationship. Wyatt’s birth. Then Owen.
“I’m not afraid of feelings.”
“Then why aren’t you married?”
“Who says I’m not married?”
“If you were, I think your wife would be the one watching you wash your dick,” she says. “If you have all that time to gamble, I doubt you have time to cheat.”
“You’re the therapist. Whatever you say.”
I clean the rest of my body in silence. She stopped protesting and casting her gaze away from my naked body. I let her watch as I get clean. Amanda’s gaze snaps away when I turn the water off. She resumes her impatient, frustrated posture with me.
“Towel.”
I gesture behind her towards fluffy white towels. She tosses one at me with hateful force. Ηer angry throw doesn’t bug me. I catch it and grin.
“I played football in high school and a little in college,” I tell her.
“Great,” she says, grumpy, or at least even more tense now that I’m done with my shower.
“Come on, doc. Your turn.”
“Okay,” she says, getting up with a little smirk on her face. “But you haven’t fooled me for a second. You just artfully dodged talking about your feelings. They do make you uncomfortable, which means as long as you keep playing this little game with me, they’re going to influence you in ways that you don’t even realize.”
“Is that so?”
“Don’t underestimate me, Ethan. That’s all.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, doc. Now strip.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t need an audience.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positively.”
“We disagree then. Because I’m certain that what you need above anything is to have a man watch you strip naked in front of him and appreciate how fucking sexy your body looks.”
Amanda’s eyes flicker with rage. Who underestimates who, now?
“I’m not a toy you can play with, Ethan. I’ll help you with the gambling situation, I’ll accept your help, but I’m not going to be your racial experiment.”
It’s hard to contain my laughter, except she looks so damn serious that I have no choice but to flatten the curve of my lips. She can’t help herself but look at me, which I understand. Unlike most bikers, I don’t overeat or over drink. Saves me more money for gambling. When I’m out in the country, I keep my body nice and muscular the way it’s meant to be by splitting logs or going for long, steep hikes up various hills and mountains.
Any form of physical activity that keeps me away from people works for me. Amanda probably only meets men who think taking a credit card out of their wallet counts as a good work out. I bet she has her own ideas for what to do with my body. And all women like a man with well-placed tattoos.
I might be a little too hairy for her tastes but… I’ve never had any complaints. The older women get, the more they like a rugged, hairy man to give them a full beastly experience in the bedroom.
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