5. Willow
5
WILLOW
T he drive home is a blur. My hands grip the steering wheel as I replay every moment of my first session with Axel: the way his eyes followed my every movement, how his voice dropped to that low, gravelly tone when he described what he wanted to do to me, and the predatory grace in his posture despite the restraints.
I barely register the familiar streets passing by, my mind still trapped in that office with him.
When I finally pull into my driveway, the sky has darkened to twilight. I sit in my car for several minutes, composing myself before going inside. My reflection in the rearview mirror shows flushed cheeks and dilated pupils—evidence of how affected I am by a psychopath that no amount of professional distance could hide.
I stumble through my front door, dropping my keys twice before locking it behind me. The house is quiet—Mom’s working late at the law firm tonight.
Thank God. I need space to process... whatever that was.
My skin burns where Axel’s gaze lingered during our session. Those green eyes see right through me.
“Fuck.” I flee to my room and press my forehead against the cool wall, trying to ground myself. I can only think about how his voice dropped when he described his hunger for me. Raw power radiated from his muscled frame, even in prison scrubs.
I should call Eleanor and report that I’m compromised because the session went too far. But the thought of admitting how he affected me...
My thighs press together as I remember his knowing smirk when I crossed and uncrossed my legs. How he leaned forward, making me catch the scent of his skin?—
“Stop it.” I push away from the wall and pace my bedroom. This is wrong. He’s my patient. A diagnosed psychopath. A murderer.
God help me. I’ve never felt so alive as in that room with him. Every nerve ending sang with awareness, my body humming with a dangerous attraction I can’t control.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over Eleanor’s number. After a moment, I throw it onto my bed and head for a cold shower. I need to wash away these thoughts.
But I know, even as I strip off my clothes, that water won’t be enough to douse the fire Axel Morrison ignited inside me.
I step into the shower, turning the temperature as cold as possible. The icy spray hits my heated skin but does nothing to calm the throb between my legs.
“Get it together,” I mutter, scrubbing my skin raw. But each brush of the loofah sends sparks of electricity through my nerve endings.
Ten minutes later, I’m dried and dressed in my silk pajama set, but I might as well be naked for all the good the fabric does to soothe my sensitized skin. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I should eat something. The thought of food turns my stomach. That’s not the kind of hunger gnawing at me.
I fall back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. Axel’s voice echoes in my head.
Right now, the only violence in my head involves throwing you against that wall and fucking you until you scream my name, begging for more.
My hand slides down my stomach of its own accord. I should stop; I should call my psychologist friend Sarah and confess these inappropriate thoughts about a patient.
Instead, I slip my fingers under the waistband of my pajama bottoms. Just this once, I’ll give in—to release this tension so I can think clearly again.
My eyes flicker shut and I allow myself to recall the intensity in his gaze, the way his muscles flexed under his prison uniform when he leaned forward...
My fingers circle slowly as his earlier words replay. The way he described fucking me, one hand wrapped in my hair. The fantasy shifts as I imagine how I’d want him to take me on his prison bunk, my wrists bound with his sheets and him hovering over me, that dangerous smile promising delicious torment.
“Such a good girl,” his voice whispers in my mind. “Let go for me.”
My back arches as I imagine his teeth grazing my neck. Those strong hands that have done such violent things now touching me with reverence. In my fantasy, he takes his time, drawing out my pleasure until I’m begging.
“Please,” I whimper, lost in the illusion of him above me. He’d make me look into those piercing green eyes as he claimed me. He would growl possessive words against my skin.
My movements grow desperate as I picture him holding me down, his muscled body caging mine. The strength in his arms as he lifts my hips and positions me how he wants me. The way he takes control is intoxicating.
A tingling sensation spreads through my core as I imagine him speaking filthy He’d tell me how he’d corrupt me, ruin me for anyone else, and make me his willing accomplice in depravity.
Axel’s hands would be rough and demanding. There’d be nothing gentle about how he’d possess me, and God help me, that’s exactly what I want—to be overwhelmed by his darkness, consumed by it.
“Axel,” I gasp, teetering on the edge. In my mind, he’s grinning that wicked grin, watching me fall apart beneath him. Taking satisfaction in reducing his proper little doctor to this quivering mess.
My body tenses, pleasure spiraling higher as I picture him marking every inch of my skin. Claiming me inside and out until no part of me isn’t his.
I shatter, waves of pleasure crashing through me as I cry out his name. My body spasms, my mind lost in the fantasy of Axel above me, his green eyes drinking in my surrender.
Reality crashes back as the aftershocks fade. My hand is sticky, my chest heaving, and shame floods through me.
What the hell am I doing?
I bolt upright, disgust replacing the lingering pleasure. I just got myself off thinking about a man who tortured and killed multiple people. A man who delights in their pain and is locked up because he’s too dangerous to exist in society.
“Oh God.” I rush to the bathroom, scrubbing my hands raw under scalding water. I can’t wash away the sick knowledge that I wanted him, no matter how hard I try. I still want him.
My reflection in the mirror looks wild. My cheeks are flushed, and my pupils are dilated. I barely recognize myself.
Is this who I am? Someone who gets turned on by a murderer?
All my years of training, of studying criminal psychology, flash through my mind. I know exactly what Axel is—a manipulator, a predator. He saw my weakness in that session and went straight for it, playing me like a fiddle.
And I let him play me. Worse—I took that manipulation home with me, let it poison my thoughts until I...
Bile rises in my throat. I grip the sink, trying to steady myself. I’m supposed to be helping rehabilitate him, not fantasizing about him fucking me.
What kind of psychologist am I?
I should be dialing Eleanor’s number right now to ask to be taken off his case. The idea makes my jaw clench at the mere thought of explaining why. A treacherous part of me rebels at never seeing him again.
“You’re better than this,” I tell my reflection. But the woman staring back at me looks unconvinced, her lips still swollen from biting them during self-induced pleasure.
I sink to the bathroom floor, hugging my knees to my chest. How am I supposed to face him tomorrow, knowing what I just did? Knowing that I’m as twisted as he is under my professional exterior?
The morning comes too quickly. I stand before the prison entrance, my hand unsteady as I present my ID badge. I’ve rehearsed what I’ll say and how I’ll act—professional, detached, and clinical. I’ve built walls around last night’s shameful indulgence, compartmentalizing it away from today’s session.
“Good morning, Dr. Matthews.” Officer Thompson nods as he buzzes me through.
I manage a tight smile, wondering if my guilt is visible. The corridor to my office stretches endlessly, each step bringing me closer to the inevitable confrontation—not just with Axel but with my own darkening desires.
When Martinez brings him in, I keep my eyes fixed on my notepad, avoiding that piercing green gaze for as long as possible. The chains clink as Axel settles into the chair across from me.
“Dr. Matthews.” His voice slides over my name like a caress. “You look... different today.”
I finally look up, my professional mask firmly in place. “Let’s focus on your progress, Mr. Morrison.”
A knowing smile plays on his lips. “Progress? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
My cheeks burn, but I force myself to maintain eye contact. “We discussed your childhood trauma in our last session. I’d like to continue exploring that avenue.”
“Would you?” He leans forward, chains rattling. “Or would you rather explore what you did last night? After our session?”
My pen freezes mid-note. How could he possibly know? It’s impossible. He’s guessing, fishing for a reaction.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
His smile widens. “Your pulse just jumped. Right here.” He gestures to his own throat. “And you’re gripping that pen like it might save you from drowning.”
I deliberately loosen my fingers, placing the pen down with exaggerated care. “Mr. Morrison, these attempts to derail our sessions with inappropriate comments aren’t productive.”
“Aren’t they?” He settles back, studying me with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. “I think they’re very productive. They’re showing us both what you really want.”
“What I want is irrelevant,” I counter, desperate to regain control of the session. “We’re here to address your psychological needs.”
“My needs?” He laughs, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “Oh, little doctor, I think our needs might be more aligned than you’re willing to admit.”
The session continues like this—me attempting to maintain professional distance, him systematically dismantling my defenses with knowing looks. By the time Martinez returns to collect him, I’m exhausted from the effort of resistance.
“Same time tomorrow?” Axel asks as they lead him away, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my skin flush.
I nod stiffly, unable to trust my voice.
The pattern repeats in the sessions that follow. Each time, I arrive determined to maintain boundaries. Each time, he chips away at my resolve with frightening precision. And each night, I relive his words, expressions, and thinly veiled promises of what could happen if I just... let go.