Chapter Six #3
I’d been briefed about my client before this meeting, warned that he wasn’t the type to open up. He doesn’t speak to anyone unless absolutely necessary, not the guards, not the staff, not even the other psychologists they’ve thrown at him this week.
Two psychologists in a row, both rejected.
Rumor has it he even made one of them cry before they resigned entirely. Great confidence boost.
And now, out of nowhere, he wants to speak to me. In private.
After calling me a prostitute, no less.
Interesting.
I glance at him, my professional mask firmly in place, but my thoughts run wild.
What the hell does he want? To threaten me? Intimidate me?
Or worse…
Oh Gosh, what if he’s about to ask for a blowjob? Probably I would give it to him. What the hell? Shoo, inappropriate thoughts! Shoo!
I push the thought away, keeping my expression neutral. Whatever this is, I’ll deal with it.
He’s just staring at me.
Not in a casual way, either, his gaze is sharp, piercing, as if he’s sizing me up. It’s unsettling, like he’s deciding whether he wants to eat me alive or just kill me outright.
Maybe that’s why he wants to speak in private, so he can quickly murder me and get it over with.
I don’t like how he’s analyzing me. His eyes seem to strip away every layer of confidence I’m trying so hard to maintain. Under his gaze, I feel small, insecure, and far from the poised professional I’m supposed to be.
How am I going to survive ten minutes alone with him?
The thought makes my stomach twist. He’s mad attractive, and it’s distracting. Very distracting. I can barely keep my eyes off him, which is definitely not the professional approach.
Great start, Serena.
I can practically hear my mother’s voice in my head, horrified at the thought of her daughter imagining herself bent over the table, being taken from behind by Lorenzo freaking Moretti.
“Are you okay with that, Serena?” Ian’s voice pulls me back to reality, his tone soft as his hand gently touches my shoulder.
The moment feels too intimate, and I notice the way Lorenzo’s eyes flick between us, observing.
My brain refuses to work. This must be how all people feel when they haven’t had sex in three years, paralyzed by every inappropriate thought they can’t push away.
I catch myself staring at Lorenzo again. He looks even better in person than he does in the pictures I’ve seen on TV, sharper, more defined, more... everything.
“Serena?” Ian’s voice has a slight edge now, pulling me out of my trance.
“Yes,” I finally say, my voice soft and unsure. “I’m sorry.”
Lorenzo’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile.
What the hell is he smiling about? He can’t read my mind, at least, I hope he can’t.
“Clear the room,” Ian says firmly, breaking the tension. He glances at the guards. “We’ll give them ten minutes, as he asked.”
The room begins to empty, leaving me alone with Lorenzo’s piercing blue gaze and the electric hum of anticipation in the air.
Ian hands me a bracelet, his expression serious. “Push this button if you need help. If he tries to do anything, we’ll be right behind the door. You can yell if something happens.”
Lorenzo’s low chuckle fills the room. “Calm down, Romeo,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement. “I won’t do anything bad to her. At least... not tonight.”
I ignore his comment, pretending it doesn’t rattle me.
“Thank you, Ian. I’ll be fine,” I say, keeping my tone even, detached. “I’ll let you know when we’re done.”
Ian hesitates for a moment, his eyes lingering on Lorenzo like he’s calculating every possible risk.
“Okay, lovebirds,” Lorenzo interjects, his voice suddenly shifting to a superior tone. He leans back in his chair, smirking. “If you’re done with your boring conversation, I’d like to speak to Serena in private now.”
The way he says it, like he’s the one in control, makes my blood simmer. Who the hell does this guy think he is?
Ian gives me a nod before reluctantly stepping out with the others, leaving me alone with Lorenzo.
The room suddenly feels smaller, the silence between us heavy and electric.
I clear my throat, determined to maintain my composure. “So, you wanted to speak to me in private. I have to admit, I’m as surprised as my colleagues, given your... history with the other psychologists.”
He doesn’t respond, just stares, his eyes fixed on me like he’s sizing me up.
“I hope we’ll get along well,” I continue, forcing some enthusiasm into my voice. “I’ll do my best to help you.”
It feels good to finally be working, even if I wasn’t expecting this. I thought my first client would be an old, lecherous senator, not this gorgeous, overwhelming man who’s throwing off every professional boundary I’m trying to set.
But he still doesn’t say anything.
His silence isn’t neutral, it’s heavy, charged.
I can feel his gaze tracing every inch of me, lingering on my lips, my neck, my chest, like he’s undressing me with his eyes.
I force myself to hold his stare, refusing to let him intimidate me, even though my heart is pounding.
“So, if you have any questions, I would gladly resp—”
“Are you wearing any underwear?”
His words hit me like a freight train, and for a moment, I freeze, my brain struggling to process what I just heard.
Stay calm. Stay professional.
“Excuse me?” I manage to say, but the warmth creeping up my cheeks betrays me.
He doesn’t flinch. His gaze intensifies, those piercing blue eyes scanning me slowly, deliberately, as though he’s peeling away every layer of my composure.
“Are you wearing any underwear, darling?”
He repeats the question without a hint of hesitation, his tone smooth, almost casual, but laced with audacity.
Darling. Are you wearing underwear, darling?
Oh Gosh, please let the floor open up and swallow me whole.
The blush burns hotter now, and my mind screams at me to hold it together, but all my rehearsed professionalism feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.
I hate him.
I hate the way he looks at me, the way his words strip away my resolve, making me feel small, unprepared, and far too young for this.
I promised myself I wouldn’t let him get under my skin. But here I am, blushing like a fool under the scrutiny of a narcissistic asshole who clearly enjoys watching me squirm.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to back down.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, unfiltered and raw, as my pride and annoyance override my better judgment.
I hate him, I think again, more forcefully this time.
"Underwear? No. But even if I did, you’d never get to see it, because handcuffed and caged isn’t my type.
" The lie tastes bitter. He is every forbidden thing I crave, and I didn’t even know I had a type, until he showed me exactly what mine is.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, but I don’t regret it. Not one bit.
His eyes lock onto mine, and there it is, that mocking little smirk curling the corner of his lips.
Perfect teeth. Sinful mouth.
Damn him.
Damn his face. Damn his freaking presence.
Before I can move, he closes the distance between us. Inches now. Barely air between our lips. His breath is hot against my skin, and I hate the way my stomach tightens. My pulse is a wild animal inside my chest, but I keep my face straight, pretending he’s not getting to me.
“Not your type, huh?”
His voice is smooth, deep, velvet laced with poison. The kind of tone that slides under your skin and stays there.
His thumb lifts, slow, deliberate. He brushes it against my lower lip, massaging it softly, like he's trying to memorize its shape. Like he owns it already.
And just like that, I’m frozen.
My body betrays me before my mind can catch up. Goosebumps trail down my arms, heat building low in my belly, and my thighs clench together instinctively. I hate this. I hate him. But my lips part under his thumb without thinking.
His gaze is on my mouth now. His eyes are sharp, cold, but there’s a hunger there too. A hunger I shouldn’t crave.
“I’ll have you begging in no time, princess,” he whispers, his breath brushing against my lips, his thumb still playing with me like he’s testing how far he can push.
His eyes flick up to mine, dark and certain.
“I’ll starve you and give you nothing.”
I snap out of it, barely. My brain fires up just in time to shove his hand away from my mouth, my palm landing against his jaw, not soft, but not a slap either. A warning. Maybe.
I straighten my posture, try to shake him off, but my skin still burns where he touched me. My lips are tingling. My body is betraying me so freaking bad right now.
“Yeah. Not my type,” I lie, forcing the words out with a dry throat.
His smirk widens. He knows I’m full of shit. We both do.
“Is there anything you need to say?” I manage to sound like I still have control, even if my heart is pounding in my chest like it’s about to explode. “You have ten minutes.”
His eyes stay locked on mine, but they dip, just for a second, dragging over my body like he’s already undressing me in his mind. His gaze pauses on my breasts, though they’re fully covered, and his tongue brushes over his bottom lip like he’s savoring a taste he hasn’t even had yet.
“Ten minutes won’t be enough,” he murmurs, his voice dark and soft and dangerous.
His eyes meet mine again, hungry. Amused. Like he already knows how this story will end.
Like he’s already won.
And it makes me hate him even more.
Almost as much as I want him.
Of course, he’s entertained by the fact that I just told him he’s not my type. Who the hell does this man think he is?
I silently pray no one overheard our conversation. If my parents found out, they’d lose their minds. My first day at work is already shaping up to be a disaster.
“The conversation is over,” Lorenzo suddenly shouts, his voice cutting through the room. He straightens in his seat, his gaze locked onto mine. “Can I leave now? I’ve got better things to do.”
I blink, stunned.
What the hell just happened?
Did he really call everyone out of the room and demand privacy with me just to ask if I was wearing underwear?
Before I can fully process, the door opens, and Ian walks in, his expression hard.
“What did you talk about?” Ian asks, his tone sharp as his eyes flick between Lorenzo and me.
“What?” I reply, still disoriented.
“What did you two talk about?” Ian asks again, this time more pointed.
“Confidential,” Lorenzo says smoothly, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself.
The smug look on his face is infuriating, but I hold my tongue, swallowing the million things I want to say.