Chapter 8 I’m Addicted To You
I’m Addicted To You
Eli's Search History: how to tell your therapist she’s your soulmate?
Eli
"Did you have a nice weekend?"
A rosy flush creeps over Emily's cheeks.
She spent the weekend reading the book I left for her and getting a lot of use out of her vibrator.
At one point, she actually left her flat (shocking, I know).
I assumed she would just be going for a food shop.
But my angel went and bought herself a stack of romance books after finishing the first one.
I'm so proud of her.
"Good, thank you," she replies, smiling shyly as she tucks a strand of silky brown hair behind her ear. "And you, Eli? Did you do anything interesting?"
My weekend was certainly enlightening. Most entertaining. But I settle on, "Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Good, good." She clears her throat, clearly flustered.
Probably because she calls out my name every time she comes.
It's addictive.
I must hear it in person while my cock is buried deep inside her sweet cunt. I won't accept any other ending to this obsession. Not that I imagine myself ever tiring of her.
"Can we discuss where your obsessive tendencies come from?" Emily asks, her question souring my mood.
God, I hate that she's always asking me about this.
I don't want to talk about other women with her.
It feels wrong.
“What do you want to know?” I force a lightness into my tone.
“I’m interested in seeing if we can get to the root cause. Maybe you could tell me about your childhood?”
I scowl. That’s one thing I really don’t feel like discussing.
But the hope in her eyes?
Damn it.
“Sure,” I grit out.
She smiles warmly, gesturing for me to continue, to open up.
Fucking hell.
I could lie or offer half-truths.
But I want her to really know me.
So, I go for the real truth.
“My father was abusive,” I say, watching the way her brow furrows ever so slightly. “Not physically—not often, anyway. Emotionally. Verbally.”
She waits, giving me space to continue.
“He used to tell me I was worthless. A disappointment. He’d scream if I disagreed with anything. I hated that house. When he kicked me out, it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
She nibbles her lip, like she wants to ask something but doesn’t want to interrupt.
“What do you want to ask?”
She laughs, the sound shaky. “When did he kick you out?”
This is the part I’ve kept from her. Because I know what comes next. And I know what it will make her think—about Jenny. But I’ve chosen honesty.
“The day I met her—Jenny—he threw me out that morning. Told me never to come back. I was ready to end it. Or disappear. And then… I saw her.”
Emily slowly tilts her head down, bringing the end of her pen to her lips like she’s chewing on the thought. “What else happened that morning?”
Astute little witch.
“I cut myself that morning.”
She inhales sharply.
“It wasn’t the first time,” I add. “I did it a lot.”
“Do you remember when it started?”
I shrug. I’m in too deep to back out now. My eyes drift to the green plant in the corner of the room. The one that hides my camera. Easier to look at than her.
“Thirteen, maybe. My father had just told me he wished I’d never been born. Cutting… gave me something else to feel. Something real. Something I could control.”
“Do you still feel that need?” she asks softly.
I shake my head and meet her gaze. I get lost in the honey-brown warmth of her eyes, until she clears her throat and offers me a gentle smile.
“No. I stopped the day I met Jenny.”
“What about when she disappeared? Didn’t the urge come back then?”
“No.” My throat tightens. “As long as I could watch someone—anyone—I was okay.”
“And now?” she presses. “You’ve told me you haven’t been stalking anyone new.”
“I’m not a child anymore,” I grit out. “His words don’t mean anything to me now.”
She tilts her head. “Do you really believe that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I snap, too fast.
She just shrugs. “It’s just a question.”
“How is dredging up the past supposed to help?” I ask, frustration lacing my voice.
“You tell me, Eli.” Emily’s tone is calm but cutting. “It seems like you don’t think you have a problem anymore. You haven’t stalked anyone since starting therapy. You think your father doesn’t influence your present actions. So why are you here?”
What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?
I want to tell her the truth. I want to say:
I’m here because when I see you, the rest of the world disappears.
Because your perfect face and those delicious curves consume me.
Because I want you in my bed, marked by me, owned by me.
I want to carve my name into your skin like a brand, so you’ll never forget me.
I come here just to see you, even if this whole thing is a lie.
The need buzzes under my skin like an addict desperate for a fix.
I’m addicted to you, Emily Morgan—and I’ll never let go.
But… probably not the right words.
So instead, I offer a half-truth this time.
“I lied,” I blurt.
She arches a brow, waiting.
“I am stalking someone.”
I see the flicker in her eyes—the question she’s too professional to ask. Is it her?
It would be so easy to say yes. To let her know. But I’m not quite ready.
“Another Jenny,” I add. And unless I’m imagining it, there’s a flicker of disappointment in her gaze.
“When did it start?”
Fuck.
“Last week?” I say, wincing at the question mark in my voice.
“Is that why you asked for another session?”
I nod, silent.
“You should have told me, Eli. I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”
I don’t want your help.
When I first walked in here, I thought I did. The cycle bored me—the endless loop of watching the same type of woman, never showing my hand. They were never her, and that drove me mad. When they moved away or got boyfriends, I’d be almost relieved.
I did want help.
But now… now I know it wasn’t the watching I needed to be cured of. It was the emptiness. The cycle.
Emily broke it.
I’ve never been this obsessed. The thought of her leaving—of some other man touching what’s mine—makes my throat close up.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, eyes downcast. “I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to see me differently. Didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“I’m not disappointed.”
I look up. Her gaze is steady. No pity, no revulsion. Just calm compassion.
She really is an angel.
Her smartwatch vibrates, signalling the end of the session.
“I think it’s good that we’ve moved to twice a week,” she says, standing. “We’ll pick this up Friday.”
I don’t want to go. I need her more than I need oxygen.
But I have to wait.
“See you Friday,” I manage, stepping out of the room—forcing myself not to look back.