Chapter Four
Rowan
I step out of my bedroom after finishing in the bathroom and quickly changing. It’s Saturday, so there’s no urgent work meeting first thing, but I know David will assume my “early appointment” is business-related.
Just in case anyone snaps a photo or I run into someone who matters, I dress the part: black casual slacks that sit perfectly on my hips, a crisp black button-down with the sleeves rolled once, and my watch catching the morning light on my wrist. My curls are softly gelled into place, or as close as they ever get.
That one stubborn lock still refuses to behave, falling over my brow no matter how much extra product I work into it.
I look like something out of a goddamn boy band.
I walk into the open living space and freeze mid-step. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
I’d completely forgotten Cade was here. My gaze darts back toward my bedroom door as a slow, mortifying warmth crawls up my neck. If Cade heard me earlier… if he’d been awake at all while I was jerking off… shit.
Twenty minutes of chasing an edge that kept slipping away.
I hadn’t even been properly awake when I started.
Half-asleep, hand already moving on autopilot, I didn’t stop to remember that my stepbrother was sleeping just down the hall on my couch.
I swallow hard and frown, trying to push the embarrassment down.
My eyes land on Cade again. The blanket has slipped off him sometime in the night, leaving him curled up in nothing but boxers.
The morning light traces every line of muscle across his back, the sharp cut of his hips, the dark trail of hair.
Even asleep he looks like he’s showing off.
Uncomfortable heat prickles under my skin.
I walk over quickly and tug the blanket back up over him, not because I’m being nice, but because seeing him like that feels… wrong.
I step up into the kitchen area and pour myself a glass of cold water, drinking it slowly while trying to settle my nerves.
My appointment with the therapist is in half an hour.
I’ve only been to a few sessions so far.
He’s not your average talk-it-out therapist. My doctor recommended him specifically, someone who specialises in helping people reconnect with their own bodies.
After running every test imaginable, the doctor assured me there were no circulatory problems, no neurological issues, nothing physically wrong. Which somehow makes it worse.
I can’t have sex without it lasting an embarrassingly long time.
When I do manage to finish with someone, the women usually assume I’m some generous lover who wants to draw it out for them; they never complain.
But it exhausts me. Even when I’m alone, jerking off, the edge constantly slips away no matter how hard I chase it.
It’s frustrating… depressing, if I’m honest.
How the hell am I supposed to have any kind of relationship if I can’t even perform like a normal person? It feels ridiculous to be this hung up on it, but the weight of it sits heavy in my chest anyway, something no one knows about.
I grab my keys from the bowl by the door, shrug on a lightweight jacket, and flick one last glance toward the couch. Cade’s breathing is still slow and steady, chest rising and falling under the blanket I pulled over him.
I slip out the door as quietly as I can, locking it behind me. Time to see what the therapist has to say today.
…
The therapist’s office is on the tenth floor of a quiet downtown building, neutral tones, soft lighting, comfortable leather armchairs, and a large window that looks out over the park rather than the busy streets. No couches, no weird art, just calm.
Dr. Hart greets me at the door with a firm handshake and a small, reassuring smile. “Rowan, good to see you again. Come on in. How have you been since last time?”
I settle into the armchair, crossing one leg over the other. “Mentally? Fine, actually. Work’s steady. Family’s… family.” I pause, then add with a dry edge, “Aside from the usual.”
Dr. Hart nods, leaning back slightly in his chair, notepad resting on his knee but rarely used. He’s in his mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, calm eyes that never make you feel like you’re being dissected. “And the sexual side of things? Any shifts this week?”
I rub my thumb along the edge of my watch, staring at the floor for a second before meeting his gaze. “Not really. Still the same issue. It’s… exhausting more than anything.”
He doesn’t push or look pitying. Just listens, then asks gently, “Can you tell me a bit more about how this week felt? Any moments where you noticed the pattern… either alone or in your thoughts?”
I hesitate, heat creeping up the back of my neck. I don’t mention jerking off this morning. I definitely don’t mention that Cade was twenty feet away on my couch. But the memory of how long it took sits there anyway.
“In the last session we mentioned trying a new approach,” he continues, tone even and encouraging.
“Focusing less on chasing the finish and more on the sensations themselves… slowing the pace, switching hands or grip, paying attention to different areas instead of the usual routine. Did you get a chance to experiment with any of that?”
I lean my head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment. My fingers tighten slightly on the armrest. Talking about the specifics always feels awkward, like I’m exposing something raw and ridiculous at the same time.
“Yeah… I tried it,” I say quietly. “I wasn’t even fully awake when I started, so I didn’t overthink it at first.” I swallow. “It still took about twenty minutes. Maybe a little more. The edge kept slipping away no matter what I did.”
Dr. Hart nods slowly, no surprise or judgment in his expression, just thoughtful consideration. “Twenty minutes. That’s useful information. Did anything feel different this time, even slightly? Any point where the sensation felt stronger or closer before it pulled back again?”
I shake my head slowly, fingers still gripping the armrest. “Nothing feels different. No matter what I try… changing grip, slowing down, focusing on other spots… the edge just… slips away again. It’s the same every time.”
Dr. Hart studies me for a moment, then sets his notepad down on the desk with a quiet click. He leans forward slightly, clasping his hands together in a gesture that feels both serious and kind. The warm afternoon light from the window softens the lines of his face.
“Rowan, I think it’s time we have a more direct conversation about this,” he says, his voice steady and thoughtful.
“You’ve been struggling for a while now, and the physical side alone hasn’t given us the breakthrough we need.
For someone with your pattern… where climax feels almost unreachable no matter how long or how hard you work for it…
meaningful emotional connection can be a powerful form of stimulation in itself.
Meaningless sex, or even casual encounters, often makes the struggle worse because there’s no deeper bond to lean into.
When there’s real attachment, trust, and intimacy with another person, it can shift the entire experience.
That other person can dedicate themselves to you…
learning what your body responds to, offering new sensations, exploring different rhythms and touches that you can’t create on your own.
It stops feeling like a chore you have to endure and becomes something you can actually enjoy. ”
I nod along as he speaks, trying to absorb the words, but my mind is already racing ahead.
Dating? Building a real bond from scratch at thirty-five?
I don’t have the time or the patience for that.
The whole process… the small talk, the dates, the slow unfolding of trust…
only for it to potentially fall apart if the chemistry isn’t there, it’s exhausting just thinking about it.
And even if I did find someone, there’s no guarantee it would fix anything.
The idea of putting myself through all that vulnerability for a maybe, feels pointless.
And there’s no one in my life right now that I have that kind of bond with.
No one close enough, who could possibly help.
Dr. Hart must sense my internal resistance because he pauses, his expression turning cautious. “What I’m about to say next… I want you to hear it without getting defensive or offended. This is just an observation, okay? Nothing more.”
I frown, my stomach tightening. “What is it?”
He chooses his words carefully. “I know you’ve only ever had sex with women, and from what you’ve described, you’ve never truly been pleasured in a way that felt satisfying or easy.
Have you ever considered… that the issue might not be technique or endurance at all…
but the gender of your partner? That perhaps you would respond more naturally, more pleasurably, to someone of the same sex? ”
My eyes widen. I stare at him, completely frozen. The thought has literally never crossed my mind, not once.
Dr. Hart continues gently, his tone warm and non-judgmental.
“It’s actually very common. A lot of men, and women, don’t realize they might be gay or bisexual until a situation like this forces them to look closer.
I’ve worked with many clients who came in with similar struggles, tried this suggestion, and came back months later looking lighter and happier, telling me they finally had a good sexual experience for the first time. They felt… relieved.”
I’m still frozen in the chair, heart pounding in my ears. The room feels suddenly smaller.