Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Red
Fresh morning air does nothing for my nerves. I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary as I pull away from the curb. The engine hums, smooth and expensive, a sound I usually appreciate. Today, it's just noise filling the space between us.
Blue sits in the passenger seat like she belongs there, totally relaxed and intimate. Her knee angles toward me, close enough that I'm acutely aware of it, even though she isn't touching me. She watches the city slide past the window, calm in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
I keep my eyes on the heavy traffic and break the silence. "This is a bad idea."
She smiles without looking at me. "Driving me home?"
"Everything that came before it. And anything that would come after I drop you off." I signal and veer right at the light. "I don't want to confuse you."
She groans. "I'm not confused."
"This crosses lines. Professional and ethical ones. The kind that end careers," I point out.
"So you've said," she softly states, then slides her hand on my inner thigh.
I keep my voice even, clinical, the way I've trained myself to sound when emotions threaten to bleed through. "Blue, if anyone reports this—hell, if anyone even suspects, I lose my license. I lose my practice. I lose everything I've built."
She tilts her head. "There are ways around every problem. But we're not a problem, Red."
"Society would say otherwise. And taking advantage of a patient is wrong," I declare, hating the words coming out of my mouth and referring to what I've done.
She laughs. "You can't take advantage of someone who wants you. And you didn't lose control last night. You stayed within the boundary, not even coming close to what I told you I gave you permission to do."
Her bare, curvy ass cheeks flares in my mind. The memory hits fast and unwelcome, mixing with how her breath caught and her moans ricocheted around the room.
I tighten my jaw and force my attention back to the road, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "That's exactly the problem."
She shifts closer, just enough that her presence presses into my awareness. "You're acting like this is something that happened to you."
I glance at her despite myself.
Her lips curve. "You chose me, Dr. Mercer. And I chose you."
The light turns red. I step on the brake, my pulse beating hard against my ribs, an insistent reminder that my body has opinions my mind doesn't want to acknowledge.
I mutter, "You can't talk to me like this. Not now. Not in this context."
She doesn't back down. "Why not?"
"Because it reinforces a dynamic that shouldn't exist." I turn to face her fully. "Because transference doesn't mean what you think it means. Because desire doesn't equal consent when there's an imbalance of power."
Her gaze softens, not in retreat but in focus. "I consented. I gave you all the power. I still do."
My cock twitches, and I groan, dragging a hand over my face. "That's not how this works."
She counters, "That's exactly how it works. You're just used to being the one who defines the rules."
The light changes to green. I press the accelerator and let silence stretch until it becomes unbearable for her.
She blurts out, "I love you."
The words land heavy, uninvited, detonating something deep in my chest. I laugh sharp and humorless. "You don't."
Her voice doesn't waver. "I do. And I know what that means to you."
"You're confusing intensity with attachment," I say, defaulting to language that has always given me distance, then adding, "It happens, but it's not real."
She leans back, studying me like she's the one assessing my mental state. Then she scoffs, "Do you actually believe the bullshit coming out of your mouth?"
I don't answer.
She continues, softer but no less certain.
"You touched me like you wanted me. You looked at me like you weren't thinking about consequences.
And when you marked me, you didn't stop yourself.
You love that you own me. You're the man I'm allowing to burn my life down as long as you keep touching me while it happens, and you love every second of it, every ounce of power and control you have over me. "
I don't.
Liar!
A thrill runs through me, and my hands tighten so much, I think my knuckles will crack. My voice turns hoarse. "I told you no one should own you."
Her smile turns slow and deliberate. "I told you I want you to."
The admission coils low and dangerous. Every instinct I've trained to suppress flares, alive and electric. Ownership is wrong. Control is a violation. I know that. I've built my entire professional identity on dismantling those urges in others.
And yet...
There's part of me I rarely acknowledge that lifts its head, alert and pleased. It's the part that notices how readily she offers herself, takes satisfaction in how easily she yields, not out of weakness but choice.
"I don't own people," I say, more to myself than to her.
She rests her fingers lightly against my forearm. "You've never had the option before. You hadn't found the woman for you. But now you have. And I'm giving myself to you, because I want you to own me. I want to know that I'm yours to do with what you please."
Visions of Blue in handcuffs, waiting for me and at my mercy, pop into my head.
Get a fucking grip, asshole!
I pull up to the curb and cut the engine. It idles, and the air between us grows thick and charged. I count to ten, then turn toward her. "This is exactly why we need boundaries. You're asking me to step into something that isn't safe for either of us."
"How is it not safe for you, Dr. Mercer?" she challenges, her eyes searching mine, unafraid.
Too many scenarios fly at me, all of her, in positions she shouldn't be in, with me controlling each one.
She leans closer, and her hot breath hits my ear. "You already own me, Red. Once you own someone, you don't get to return them."
I swallow. Her truth presses in from all sides. And I'm utterly fucked.
The drive went too fast. The conversation went nowhere. Every word we exchanged tightened the knot instead of loosening it.
Panic continues to swell until I blurt out, "You need another therapist. I'll work on a referral for you today. Someone objective."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "If that's what you need to tell yourself to survive today, but we both know you won't. You love getting inside my head as much as I love getting inside yours."
I open my mouth to respond, and she pushes the door open. She slips out and leans down. Her voice drops into an intimate warning. "I'll see you tonight."
She shuts the door and saunters into her building without looking back.
I sit too long in the car, my mind split cleanly in two. One side catalogs next steps with damage control and ethical procedures.
The other remembers her taste, the way she trusted me, and how she shook when I had her full attention, controlling her body.
"I'm fucked," I mutter, turn on the engine, then pull out into traffic, pissed I didn't cut things off between us and get her to understand we can't be together.
I maneuver through traffic, get to work, and park. I step inside the building, inhaling the floor polish and coffee. It's a familiar combination that usually settles me the second I step inside. Today, it does nothing.
In the elevator, I stare at my expression, noting my posture aligned with competence, but I don't feel anything but ineptness.
The ride up is mercifully empty. I stare at the numbers as they climb, replaying the last moments in the car despite my best effort to shelve them.
Blue's certainty clings to me, not loud or hysterical but calm in a way that unsettles. She didn't plead. She didn't bargain. She made statements like facts already logged in a permanent place.
She doesn't know what love is.
Doesn't she?
No. She doesn't.
Her voice hits me sharply. "Once you own someone, you don't get to return them."
The doors open, yanking me into reality. I step out, shoulders squaring as I move through the hallway.
"Good morning, Dr. Mercer," Shirley greets.
I nod. "Morning." I brush past her and open my office door, waiting for relief to hit.
I set my briefcase down, straighten a stack of files that don't need straightening, and shrug out of my jacket.
The chair creaks softly as I sit, the sound grounding me for half a second before my thoughts slide right back to Blue and the way her pussy glistened and tasted.
"Focus, asshole," I mutter, and open the first patient file. I force myself to read every line but barely comprehend it.
Ten minutes in, the words blur worse. I rub a hand over my face and try again, slower this time.
The phone beeps.
Shirley announces, "Your first patient is here."
"Send her in, please," I reply, and sit straighter, then glance down, remembering when Blue was under my desk.
An ache blooms everywhere it shouldn't. I rise and move to the armchair.
"Hi, Dr. Mercer," Julianna Price chirps.
"Good morning. Please have a seat." I motion to the opposite chair.
She obeys, and the session starts.
I listen when my patient speaks. I respond appropriately. I guide the conversation where it needs to go. On the surface, I'm present.
Underneath, memory keeps intruding.
The cadence of Blue's voice when she said my name latches with the way her eyes held mine without hesitation. And her unflinching certainty in the way she offered herself, not as a question, not as a fantasy but as something decided, never fades.
I adjust my posture and redirect my attention before the thought can take root further. This is exactly how mistakes compound. One lapse invites another. I know the pattern well enough to lecture on it.
Today, I'm a victim of it and unable to end its abuse.
Between sessions, I step into the hallway and breathe slowly, counting the inhales and the exhales. I tell myself this is nothing more than a delayed consequence, that the pull will fade once I reassert discipline.