18. Willow
18
WILLOW
I stare into my coffee, watching the steam rise in delicate swirls. My mind keeps replaying fragments of that session, making my hands tighten around the warm mug. The quiet Sunday morning feels surreal like I’m living in someone else’s life.
“You’re losing it,” I mutter, running my fingers through my tangled hair. The kitchen clock ticks away, marking another sleepless night.
My phone buzzes with a text from Eleanor about tomorrow’s staff meeting. I can barely focus on the words. How am I supposed to face my colleagues? Face him again?
The coffee grows cold as I sit there, lost in my thoughts. Everything I worked for, my career, my reputation—is now balanced on a knife’s edge. And the worst part? A small part of me doesn’t care.
My mother’s wind chimes tinkle outside. The sound is usually so soothing, but it just sets my nerves on edge today. I should call Dr. Pierce, confess everything, and ask to be reassigned. That would be the right thing to do.
My skin feels too tight like I’m a stranger in my body.
I dump the cold coffee in the sink and grip the counter until my knuckles turn white. “Get it together,” I tell my reflection in the window. But the woman staring back at me looks different somehow—wilder and changed.
My body aches with the memory of his touch, phantom sensations that linger like bruises beneath my skin. I close my eyes and still feel his breath against my neck, his hands claiming me. He made me surrender completely, unraveling parts of myself I never knew existed. It’s been a weekend, and already my body craves him like a drug—the high of his control, the exquisite relief of giving myself over to his darkness. Professional ethics seem pale and meaningless compared to the colors he’s painted across my senses.
The Sunday paper sits untouched on my kitchen table, its normalcy almost offensive. How can the world keep turning when everything in my life has shifted so dramatically?
My phone buzzes again, and this time, it’s not Eleanor. An unknown number flashes on the screen, and my heart leaps into my throat. I already know who it is before I open the message.
Miss me, little pixie?
My mouth goes instantly dry. This is different—dangerous in a new way. Our encounters in my office existed in a separate reality, a controlled environment where I could pretend it was all part of some twisted therapeutic experiment. But this... this breaches the walls between that world and my real life. He’s reaching into my personal space now, the boundaries completely dissolved.
Another buzz.
I can still taste you.
“Fuck.” I press my thighs together. Memories from our session flash through my mind—his hands, his mouth, the way he made me come undone. My rational part recognizes this escalation for what it is—Axel claiming territory beyond our sessions, making this connection real and inescapable. No more professional pretense to hide behind.
Yet even as alarm bells ring in my head, my fingers hover over the screen, already composing a reply. My coffee mug clatters in the sink as I stumble back against the counter. This is insane. He’s my patient. A convicted killer. Everything about this is wrong on so many levels.
Another message appears.
Did you think about me last night?
I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. Because yes, I did think about him. I thought about how his hands felt on my skin, how he knew exactly what I needed before I did. How he pushed me past every boundary I’d ever set for myself and showed me pleasure beyond anything I knew existed.
My phone buzzes again:
Answer me.
I can practically hear his voice saying those words in such a commanding tone. I shouldn’t crave the way he dominates me; I shouldn’t get wet just from reading his texts.
But god help me, I do.
Yes.
I type back before I can stop myself and hit send. My stomach immediately dips when I realize what I’ve just admitted.
His response is immediate.
Good girl.
Those two words send electricity straight through me. I slide down to sit on my kitchen floor, phone clutched to my chest, caught between shame and desperate need.
My cheeks flush, and I bite my lip, knowing I’ve crossed another line. But it’s like something has snapped inside me, and I can’t stop responding. Can’t stop digging myself deeper into this mess I’ve created.
Did you think of me?
My heart is in my throat as I wait for his reply, and my pulse is racing. I feel exposed yet strangely powerful all at once.
His next message takes my breath away.
Never felt a pussy as tight as yours, doc. Couldn’t stop fucking thinking of it.
Reading his words, I’m right back in that room with him. My body remembers the way he felt inside me, that low voice purring filthy things in my ear. I squeeze my thighs together, already aching for him.
God, what am I doing?
But I can’t stop. I exhale sharply as I type my response.
Wish I could feel you again.
I know I’m playing with fire, but at this moment, I just don’t care.
His reply comes quickly, as if he’s been waiting for me to crack.
You will. Soon.
I’ll make you come so hard, you won’t be able to walk straight for days.
A wave of heat crashes through me. I find myself smiling like a psycho, staring at my phone. I feel alive in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Tell me what you want to do to me.
That’s what I send back, my heart pounding. I’m inviting a prisoner, a dangerous criminal, into my fantasies. I’m violating every oath I’ve ever taken, not to mention tossing common sense to the wind.
But I’ve tapped into some hidden side of myself that needs to be set free.
His response makes my eyes widen.
Gonna fuck that pretty mouth first. Choke you on my cock while I pull your hair.
Then, I’ll bend you over and take what’s mine. Gonna fuck you so good, you’ll be screaming my name.
I keep reading, longing coiling in my belly. No one has ever talked to me like this, and I didn’t know how much I needed it until now.
Part of my brain is screaming at me to stop, delete these messages, and end this before it goes too far. But I find myself doing the exact opposite.
I want that. I want all of that.
There. It’s out. I’ve confessed my most taboo fantasy to a man who could be my downfall. And somehow, in this crazy, twisted moment, I feel liberated.
You’ll have to earn it. Be a good girl, and maybe I’ll give it to you.
The power dynamic of our text conversation excites me. Even though he’s the inmate, I’m the one who feels captive to his demands.
I’ll be good. So good for you.
His next message makes me gasp aloud.
How about that sweet ass, doc? Ever let a guy take you there?
My cheeks flame as I read his words again. No one has ever asked for that. I’ve always kept that desire locked away, even from myself.
My fingers hover over the screen, hesitating. “Don’t do it,” a voice in my head warns. But it’s too late. The taboo has already been spoken aloud, and I can’t pretend I didn’t feel a spark deep within me at the thought.
I haven’t done it before, but I want to with you.
There. I said it. Admitting that I want Axel Morrison, a convicted criminal, to take me in the most intimate and forbidden way possible.
Fuck. The thought of stretching that tight little ass around my cock is making me hard as fuck right now.
He sends a photo, and I’m shocked at the boldness of his action but also, embarrassingly, thrilled. The sight of his veiny, thick cock makes my pussy throb. It’s huge and already dripping with precum, making my mouth water. The orange prison pants add to the illicit nature of the image, making my stomach flip with an electrifying mixture of desire and guilt.
I stare at the photo, my pulse throbbing between my legs. My eyes follow the length of him, my mouth imagining what it would be like to take him deep. I crave something untried and wicked, wanting to explore every inch of him.
You want this, don’t you, doc?
I bite my lip, phone clutched tightly in my hand. My thumb hovers over the screen. I’m terrified, but deep within me, I’ve never been more turned on. It’s a powerful desire that scares me, yet I can’t extinguish it. It’s as if my need for Axel has become an uncontrollable force of nature.
Yes. I want this. I want you, Axel.
Sending that message feels like diving off a cliff into unknown waters. I’m letting go of every inhibition and embracing my deepest, most scandalous desires.
My heart is pounding so loud I can barely think. What am I doing? But my body is already moving, my breath coming in short gasps as I let myself be carried away by the rising tide of lust.
I shut myself in my room, locking the door. My throat tightens as I undress, peeling off my pajama bottoms and panties together. My skin feels electric, each nerve ending alive and sensitive. I lie on my bed, legs spread, that forbidden image already burned into my memory.
The phone buzzes with a message.
Show me how much.
I bite my lip, poised to protest, but I can’t deny him—or myself. My better judgment is drowned out by a chorus of want.
My thighs part wider, and I feel a rush of wetness between them as I lift the phone, my knees bent. I frame the shot, the camera catching my most private places, and my belly flutters in anticipation of his reaction.
As I snap the photo, I pause, considering the ramifications of my action. This is crossing another line, a new depth of scandal to traverse. I can never take this moment back, but the inferno rages for more fuel.
I just captured a photo of my soaking wet pussy.
I simply stare at the image briefly, struggling to recognize myself. This woman baring herself so wantonly, so brazenly to a clinically diagnosed and violent psychopath, is not the Willow I know. Yet there’s something so liberating in this newfound persona, a secret seductress hidden inside the shell of my professionalism.
With a trembling finger, I press send, releasing my wicked confession into the digital ether.
My body is flushed, and my breath comes in rapid gasps as if I’ve just run a marathon.
The phone chimes, and I jump, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
Fucking hell. You’re so wet for me.
His words spark a fierce desire within.
Wish I could push your thighs apart and bury my face in your sweet pussy right now.
I close my eyes, picturing it, feeling the scandalous pleasure of it, even as my rational mind screams in protest. I type another message.
This is crazy. We can’t keep doing this.
But I don’t want to stop. My fingers are already sneaking between my legs, my toes curling at the possibility of ending this all now while I still can.
His response makes my heart stutter.
I know, but I’m gonna keep corrupting you anyway. It’s become my new favorite fucking pastime.
I can’t hold back anymore. With his words burning on the screen, I circle my clit faster, imagining his mouth there instead of my fingers. The pressure builds quickly, my back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crash through me. I come with his name on my lips, my body shaking with an intensity that leaves me gasping.
As the aftershocks fade, I slump against my bedroom wall. What have I done? More importantly—what am I going to do now?
My thighs still ache from our encounter, a constant reminder of how thoroughly he claimed me on my desk. I close my eyes, but that only makes the memories more vivid - his hands on my skin, his voice in my ear, the way he filled me so completely.
“He’s clinically insane,” I tell myself. “A diagnosed psychopath.”
The words sound hollow even to my own ears. I’ve read his file. I know exactly what he’s capable of—the manipulation, the violence, the complete lack of empathy. And yet...
My body betrays me at the mere thought of him. No one has ever made me feel so alive, desperate, or completely owned. It’s like he’s awakened a beast inside me that I can’t put back to sleep.
I slide down to sit on the floor, pressing my forehead to my knees.
The rational part of my brain, the part that spent years studying criminal psychology, knows this is textbook manipulation. Axel is playing me, using my own desires against me. But knowing that doesn’t change how my body responds to him, how I crave his touch.
I trace my fingers over the marks he left on my neck, hidden beneath my collar. Each bruise is a reminder of my complete surrender to him. There’s no going back now. There’s no pretending this never happened.
The truth hits me physically because I don’t want to stop. Even knowing who he is and what this could cost me, I can’t walk away after experiencing what it feels like to be completely possessed by a man like him.