Chapter 6 - Everly
I watch the door close behind Ollis, then sink into my chair, hands covering my face. My heart is racing, my body still humming with the electricity of his touch.
This cannot be happening. Not to me. Not after years of impeccable professional conduct. Not with a patient who needs my help more than he needs a romantic complication.
I should never have let him get so close. Should have maintained stricter boundaries from the beginning. Should have referred him to another therapist at the first hint of attraction.
Yet, even as I catalog my professional failures, I can't stop remembering the feel of his hands on my waist, the gentle urgency of his kiss, and his solid strength against me. In those moments, I wasn't Dr. Morgan, trauma specialist—I was just Everly, a woman responding to a man who awakens something I've kept dormant for too long.
"Stop it," I whisper to myself, standing abruptly. I move to the window, needing physical distance from the space where we just crossed every professional boundary.
I need to call Dr. Winters immediately. Need to confess what happened and seek her guidance on how to proceed. Need to determine whether I can ethically continue as Ollis's therapist (almost certainly not) and how to transfer him to a colleague without derailing his progress.
But beneath all these necessary professional considerations is a more personal truth I can hardly admit to myself: I want him. Not as a patient. Not as a case study. As a man. I want his hands on me again, want to explore every inch of his body.
"This stops now," I say aloud, as if vocalizing the decision might make it easier to follow through. "You're his therapist. He needs help, not complications."
I straighten my blouse one final time, smooth my hair, and reach for the phone to call Diane. This is the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
Yet as the phone rings, I can't help but touch my lips, still sensitive from his kiss, and wonder what might have happened if I hadn't stopped him.
The Next Day
The morning after what I can only think of as "the incident," I'm in my office early, determined to handle this situation professionally despite the turmoil of my personal feelings. My first action was calling Diane last night, confessing everything in a rushed, mortified explanation. Her response was exactly what I needed—neither condemning nor dismissive, but clear about the path forward.
"You need to refer him to another therapist," she said simply. "It's not a punishment for either of you—it's what's best for his treatment and your professional integrity."
I spent the rest of the evening drafting an email to Dr. Marcus Reynolds, a colleague who specializes in first responder trauma. The email sits in my drafts folder now, awaiting only Ollis's contact information and my final decision to send it.
I'm midway through preparing for my 11 AM session when Jim knocks on my door.
"Dr. Morgan? Mrs. Halloway just called to cancel her appointment. Something about her grandson being sick."
"Oh," I say, momentarily thrown by the sudden gap in my schedule. "Thank you for letting me know."
"Do you want me to try rescheduling any of your afternoon patients to fill the slot?"
I consider this, then shake my head. "No, that's alright. I could use the time to catch up on some notes."
Once Jim leaves, I lean back in my chair and exhale slowly. An unexpected free hour. After the emotional whirlwind of yesterday, the prospect of quiet reflection time is appealing. I turn on my small Bluetooth speaker, selecting a calming playlist of instrumental music that won't distract me from my work.
With Mrs. Halloway's file set aside, I pull out my notes on several other patients, determined to use this time productively. The gentle piano music fills the office as I review my observations and treatment plans, making occasional updates.
I'm deliberately avoiding Ollis's file. In fact, I've placed it in my desk drawer rather than the active stack on my desk—a small symbolic gesture acknowledging that he will soon be another therapist's patient.
Twenty minutes into my unexpected break, a commotion erupts in the reception area—raised voices, hurried footsteps, Jim's concerned tone. Before I can fully process what's happening, someone pounds on my office door with urgent, heavy knocks.
Startled, I set aside my notes and move quickly to the door. The moment I open it, Ollis Crawford practically falls into my office, his large frame filling the doorway. He's in full firefighting gear minus the helmet, face streaked with soot, breathing heavily as if he's just run a marathon.
"Ollis?" I manage, stepping back in shock. "What on earth—"
"I did it," he says, his words rushing out between labored breaths. "I went in. All the way in. Middle of the worst of it. And I didn't freeze. Not even for a second."
He's speaking so rapidly, his excitement and adrenaline clearly still pumping, that I can barely follow what he's saying. Behind him, Jim appears, looking both apologetic and flustered.
"I'm so sorry, Dr. Morgan," Jim says. "He just rushed past me. I couldn't stop him."
"It's alright," I assure my receptionist, though the situation is anything but alright. "Why don't you take an early lunch? Take an hour."
Jim hesitates, clearly concerned about leaving me alone with this agitated man. But Jim only knows Ollis is my patient—doesn't know our complicated history or what transpired yesterday.
"Go on," I insist gently. "Everything's fine."
Once Jim reluctantly leaves, I close my office door and turn to face Ollis. He's still standing in the center of the room, turnout coat open over his department t-shirt, his chest rising and falling with gradually slowing breaths. The scent of smoke clings to him, mingling with sweat and something acrid—perhaps chemicals from whatever fire he's just come from.
Despite my professional resolve, my heart races at the sight of him. He looks wild, exhilarated, more alive than I've ever seen him—and devastatingly attractive in his disheveled state.
"Ollis," I say, keeping my voice calm and even, "take a deep breath and tell me what happened. Slowly."
He runs a hand through his hair, leaving a smudge of soot across his forehead. The smile that breaks across his face is radiant, transforming his usually serious features.
"I goddamn did it, Everly," he says, quieter now but no less intense. "Chemical fire at the manufacturing plant on the west side. Worst kind of fire—toxic smoke, risk of explosion, terrible visibility. And I went in. First through the door."
I want to embrace him, to share in this moment of triumph that means so much to him. My body actually leans forward slightly before I catch myself, maintaining a careful distance.
"That's remarkable progress," I say instead, professional words failing to capture the significance of what he's telling me. "Can you walk me through what happened?"
He paces a few steps, too energized to stand still. "We got the call about forty minutes ago. The plant supervisor said there were still three workers unaccounted for. When we arrived, the loading bay was fully engulfed, chemical smoke everywhere. Brock looked at me when we were suiting up with oxygen," Ollis continues. "Asked if I wanted perimeter duty. And I just... knew I was ready. Told him I was going in with the primary search team."
"And then?" I ask, genuinely invested in his experience, despite knowing I should maintain a more emotional distance.
"Lewis, Grant, and I went in through the east entrance. Visibility was maybe two feet at best. Heat was intense. All the conditions that would normally trigger me." His eyes meet mine, bright with triumph. "But I used the techniques—focusing on my breathing, grounding myself in physical sensations, separating past from present."
My professional pride in his application of the therapeutic techniques wars with my personal reaction to his proximity, to the lingering electricity between us from yesterday's kiss.
"We found two workers huddled in a storage closet," he continues, unaware of my internal conflict. "Got them out, handed them off to the paramedics. Then went back in for the third."
He pauses, and I can see him reliving the moment, processing it even as he shares it with me.
"There was a partial ceiling collapse while we were searching the office area," he says, his voice quieter now. "Same sound, same circumstances as Henderson. But instead of freezing, I was able to recognize the trigger and push through it. We found the last worker unconscious under a desk and I carried him out."
"Ollis, that's incredible progress," I say sincerely. "You faced your worst trigger in the most challenging conditions possible, and you overcame it."
"Because of you," he says, taking a step toward me. "Because of what you taught me."
I take a corresponding step back, maintaining distance. "No, because of your own hard work. The techniques only work if you implement them, which you did beautifully."
"You have no idea how much you've helped me," he says, his voice dropping to a lower register that has my legs shaking. "How much you've changed everything."
I should redirect this conversation. Should reiterate professional boundaries. Should tell him about Dr. Reynolds and my plan to transfer his case.
Instead, I hear myself asking, "Why did you come here directly from the scene? Surely there were protocols to follow, debriefings..."
"Brock gave me an hour," he explains. "Said I'd earned it after what we just pulled off. The others are handling the cleanup." He pauses, studying my face intently. "I needed to see you. To tell you in person."
The intensity in his gaze makes it impossible to maintain eye contact. I look away, focusing on the degrees hanging on my wall, reminders of my professional obligations.
"Do you regret it?" he asks suddenly.
I don't have to ask what "it" is. The memory of his lips on mine, his hands beginning to unbutton my blouse, is vivid in both our minds.
"I have to," I say carefully. "It was unprofessional. A violation of therapeutic boundaries that I'm ethically obligated to take seriously."
"That's not what I asked," he challenges, taking another step closer. "Do you, Everly—not Dr. Morgan, not the therapist—regret what happened between us?"
I clench my fist at my side, fighting the urge to close the distance between us. God help me, he looks magnificent standing there—powerful, alive, his eyes burning with an intensity that has nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with desire. How can I possibly lie to him when he's looking at me like that?
"No," I admit, the word barely audible. "I don't regret it. But that doesn't change the fact that it was wrong."
Something shifts in his expression—a flash of triumph, quickly tempered by understanding.
"I know it complicates things professionally," he acknowledges. "But I've spent the last twenty-four hours thinking about nothing but you. About us."
"There can't be an 'us,'" I say, though the words feel hollow even as I speak them. "I've already begun the process of referring you to a colleague who specializes in first responder trauma."
"Because of one kiss?"
"Because of what that kiss represents," I counter. "A fundamental breach of the therapeutic relationship. A conflict of interest that compromises my ability to be objective about your treatment."
He takes another step toward me, and this time I don't retreat. "I've already overcome the biggest obstacle—I went back into a fire today and faced down my worst fears. There's nothing stopping me now."
"You might not care about professional boundaries," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady, "but I do. This is my life, my career. Everything I've worked for."
"I do care," he insists. "I care about you enough to not want to jeopardize what matters to you. But I also know there's something between us that's worth exploring. Something real."
"What are you suggesting?" I ask, though I'm afraid I already know.
"We could be discreet," he offers. "Keep it private until we figure out what this is."
"A secret relationship?" I shake my head. "I don't want that, Ollis."
"Neither do I," he says with surprising vehemence. "I don't want to hide. I want to take you to dinner at Lou's and not pretend we're just having a casual conversation. I want to introduce you to my brother properly, not as my therapist. I want to show you off to everyone."
His words wash over me like a physical caress. No one has wanted to "show me off" in years. No one has pursued me with this kind of single-minded determination, this open admiration.
Before I can form a rational response, my body betrays me. I step forward, closing the gap between us as if pulled by an invisible force. He moves simultaneously, and suddenly we're inches apart, his height making him tower over me in a way that should feel intimidating but somehow only heightens whatever this is between us.
"Everly," he murmurs, my name a question and a plea.
I answer by reaching up, my hand finding the nape of his neck, drawing his face down to mine. Our lips meet with none of yesterday's hesitation—only hunger, only certainty.
His arms encircle me, strong hands splayed across my back, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest. The coarse material of his turnout coat scratches against my arms, the scent of smoke and sweat surrounding me.
I should stop this. Should pull away. Should remember my professional responsibilities.
Instead, I find myself helping him shrug off the heavy coat, revealing the department t-shirt beneath, damp with sweat and clinging to his muscled torso. My hands explore the contours of his shoulders and his back while his mouth never leaves mine.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along my jaw and around my neck.
"I've thought about this," he murmurs against my skin. "About you. Every night since that first session."
His confession ignites something primal within me. I pull his t-shirt upward, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He complies, yanking the shirt over his head to reveal a torso sculpted by years of demanding work, dusted with dark hair that narrows to a tantalizing trail disappearing beneath his uniform pants.
My blouse is the next casualty, his fingers making quick work of the buttons before gently pushing it off my shoulders. His breath catches audibly at the sight of me in my simple black bra, his eyes darkening with appreciation.
"You're beautiful," he says, and the reverence in his voice melts away any remaining hesitation.
We move together in a dance of discovery, shedding layers of clothing and restraint. My skirt pools at my feet. His heavy uniform pants join the growing pile on my office floor. His boots and socks, my heels, until we're both down to our underwear, breathing heavily in the middle of my professional sanctuary.
His hands find my hips, thumbs tracing the soft curve of my waist with admiration. I've always been self-conscious about my fuller figure, especially in recent years. But the way Ollis looks at me—like I'm the most desirable woman he's ever seen—banishes those insecurities.
He cups my ass with both hands, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me the few steps to my desk. Papers scatter as he sets me on the edge, his mouth finding mine again in a kiss that obliterates any remaining doubts.
His lips travel downward, across my collarbone, between my breasts, down to the rolls of my stomach. He kneels before me, looking up with those intense hazel eyes as he positions himself between my thighs.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his voice rough with desire but his eyes seeking genuine consent.
In answer, I thread my fingers through his hair, drawing him closer. "Yes," I breathe, my mind a chaotic swirl of desire and surrender.
He kisses the inside of my thigh, his beard rubbing against my sensitive skin. When his mouth finally finds my center through the thin fabric of my underwear, I gasp, my head falling back at the sensation.
With torturous slowness, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties and draws them down my legs. Then his mouth is on my pussy, hot and insistent, his tongue exploring with the same thoroughness he brings to everything.
I watch, mesmerized, as he devours me, his eyes occasionally flicking up to meet mine in a gaze so intimate it's almost unbearable. The sight of him between my thighs, his face glistening with my own juices, pushes me toward the edge faster than I would have thought possible.
When I come apart, it's with his name on my lips, my hands gripping his shoulders for anchor. Before I can fully recover, he's standing, removing the last barrier between us.
I stand in awe at the sight of him fully naked— impressively endowed. His erection stands proud, larger than any I've been with before, thick and perfectly proportioned to his frame.
A flicker of uncertainty must cross my face, because he pauses, concern tempering his desire.
"Are you okay? We can stop if you want."
"No," I respond, perhaps too quickly, too eagerly. "Definitely not stopping."
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest as he steps closer.
"Good," he murmurs, taking himself in hand and guiding the blunt head of his cock to my entrance.
I squirm at the initial pressure, the stretch more intense than I anticipated. He moves with control, easing forward incrementally, giving my body time to adjust to his size.
"You feel fantastic," he breathes against my neck, his voice strained with the effort of restraint.
I grip the edges of my desk, papers crumpling beneath my fingers as he establishes a steady rhythm. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure radiating through me, building upon the orgasm he's already given me with his mouth.
There's a part of my mind—the professional, rational part—that knows this is wrong on multiple levels. That I'm violating not just ethical guidelines but potentially legal ones. That this could end my career if discovered.
Yet if this is so wrong, how can it feel so right? How can this connection with Ollis feel more genuine, more honest than anything I've experienced? I push these thoughts aside. The future and its consequences can wait. Right now, there is only this—only us.
His pace quickens, his hands tightening on my hips. He gives my ass a playful smack, then leans close to my ear.
"Turn around," he commands softly. "Bend over."
The authority in his voice sends a fresh thrill through me. I bite my lower lip, nodding as he pulls out to allow me to reposition. I turn, bending over the desk, presenting myself to him in a way that would have embarrassed me with any other partner.
His hand brushes reverently over the curve of my ass.
"You look gorgeous like this," he says, then he's pressing forward again, sliding back inside me with ease, my body now slick and receptive.
Each thrust produces a wet, unmistakable sound of our joining that only heightens my arousal. He establishes a powerful rhythm, his body slapping against mine, the desk creaking slightly beneath us. My breasts rub against the cool surface of the desk, and I feel the tension building again, faster and more intensely than before.
"I'm going to come," I warn, barely recognizing my own voice, husky with desire.
"Do it," he encourages, one hand sliding around to find my clit, adding pressure that tips me over the edge. "Come for me, Everly."
His words are my undoing. I shatter around him, waves of pleasure crashing through me as my inner muscles clench around his cock. He groans at the sensation, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more primal.
"I can't—" he manages, his fingers digging into the flesh of my hips. "I'm not going to last much longer."
I feel him pulling out, but in a moment of reckless abandon, I reach back to grab his thigh. "Stay," I urge. "Stay inside me."
He hesitates only a moment before driving deep one final time, his body going rigid as he spills himself within me. I feel each pulse, each jet of warmth filling me, marking me in the most primitive way. Being claimed by this honorable, powerful man feels right in a way I can't articulate—only experience.
Afterward, he helps me turn to face him, gathering me in his strong arms. We're both breathing hard, skin slick with sweat, the scent of smoke and sex mingling in the air around us.
"What happens now?" I ask softly, reality beginning to seep back in around the edges of our intimate bubble.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his expression tender yet serious. "I don't have all the answers," he admits. "But I'm sure about this—about us. About giving it a real chance."
I nod, my professional mind already cataloging the necessary steps. "I'll still need to refer you to another psychologist before we can officially see each other socially," I say. "There's no way around that."
"I understand," he says. "And I should tell you—I'll want to tell my brother about us. About you."
I consider this, the practical implications. "That's okay. We just need to be thoughtful about the transition."
His smile widens. "I want to tell all of them, actually. The guys at the station—they're my family. And this—" he gestures between us, "—this is worth sharing."
Something warm blooms in my chest at his words. He's not ashamed of what's happened between us. He wants to claim me openly, proudly.
"I understand," I say, returning his smile. "They're important to you."
He leans down to kiss me again, a softer, more tender connection than our earlier passion. We're still naked, still damp with sweat and other evidence of our lovemaking, but in this moment, I feel a happiness I'd almost forgotten was possible.
I know that what we've done crosses every professional boundary. That it might even be considered legally problematic given our therapeutic relationship. But as I stand in the circle of his arms, I can't bring myself to regret it.
Love—or whatever this powerful emotion growing between us might be—knows no boundaries. Not professional ones, not ethical ones.
And for the first time in my life, I'm ready to let those boundaries fall away and see where this connection leads.