9. Whiplash #3
‘Of what?’ Greta replied pointedly, drawing on every ounce of the strength that made her Dr Greta Fucking Vincent.
‘This, this thing you do. Is this part of it?’
‘I don’t understand what you—’
‘This!’ Greta flinched at Dylan’s suddenly raised voice.
Dylan’s expression twisted as if wishing she could take back her tone, or tamp down her anger.
Greta squared her shoulders and set her jaw as Dylan continued.
‘You. The way you push me to the fucking edge and then leave me there. Is this what you like?’
‘You’re not making sense, Dylan.’
‘You play with me like I’m a spider. Lulling me in, being gentle, then pulling off a piece of me, then another. It’s how you like to fuck, so why wouldn’t it be how you do everything else?’
Greta now understood exactly what Dylan meant, but she had to push her away. She couldn’t let Dylan pull down anymore of her wall, not one more brick. She couldn’t let her in. This had to be it. Greta steeled herself, drawing in a long steadying breath.
‘You’re right.’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘This is who I am. I pay you to obey me, and if you don’t do that, we’re nothing.’
‘Fuck you, Greta,’ Dylan spat out.
The words flew through the air, almost physically winding Greta. She knew her own words were incongruous to the moments they had shared and the growing intensity between them, but that was insanity, and this was the reality. It was not to happen. It was over. Whatever it was, it was over.
It had to be.
‘This was a terrible idea,’ Dylan continued, raising both hands as if to surrender. ‘You were right. I should have left you alone. You’re a client. It was inappropriate and unfair of me to ask you to meet, and I apologise.’
Dylan scrubbed at a single tear on her cheek with her fingers. The tear Greta watched build on her long lashes and fall from her eye. As Dylan turned to the door, regret pooled under Greta’s skin like fresh bruising.
‘No, Dylan, please—just listen to me.’
‘There’s no point, Greta. This is so fucked, and you’re right, it’s not a film…and I am most certainly not Julia fucking Roberts.’
She walked to the door, pulling it open as Greta slammed urgently into her back, shoving the door closed and clasping her hand over Dylan’s on the handle.
Her other arm outstretched over Dylan's shoulder to brace against the wood.
The pulse in Greta's wrist pounded near Dylan's cheek, the scent of her Chanel perfume filling the space around them. Pressing her forehead into Dylan’s muscular shoulder blade, Greta reflexively breathed her in.
‘Stay,’ Greta whispered into the soft wool of Dylan’s jumper.
‘Please.’ Dylan pressed her forehead against the door, her chest heaving so hard Greta felt the movement roll through Dylan's back. Greta repeated the whispered plea, her thumb tracing the ink of Dylan’s finger tattoos as if she could feel the texture of them.
‘I’m sorry.’ Dylan said nothing, her jaw clenched so tightly the muscle bounced.
She tried to turn the handle, but Greta gripped her hand, stalling the movement.
‘Dylan, please,’ Greta pleaded, burying her face into Dylan’s back and drowning in her scent.
Greta's voice was the lowest, softest whisper she had ever managed.
Dylan didn't pull away; instead, she shifted her fingers against Greta’s, slowly interlacing them.
The sudden heat of their joined hands sent a wave of intensity straight through Greta's chest. As Greta’s warm breaths seeped through the wool of her jumper, she felt Dylan slightly shudder against her.
‘I’m more—’ Dylan started.
‘I know. I know. I know,’ Greta interrupted in a repeated whisper, forcing her face harder into Dylan’s back, desperately trying to hold on to her emotion. ‘I know you are. I know.’
The swell of longing in the pit of Greta’s stomach twisted into an agonising ache.
Rolling her forehead over Dylan’s spine, her fingers still sought out the soft skin of Dylan’s hand.
The electrifying contact felt exquisite.
It was more than a carnal need, more than a want to be fucked, more than an impulse to control every element of a situation.
As her thoughts crystalised with every brush of Dylan’s fingers, Greta knew at that moment it was more, and fighting it was slowly breaking her apart. Piece by piece.
Dylan’s entire posture softened, as if the rest of the world had narrowed to the two of them against the wood of the door.
‘Can I turn around?’ Dylan asked tentatively.
A beat.
‘I can’t trust myself around you, Dylan. I can’t—’
‘Don’t.’ Dylan’s voice quivered. ‘Please don’t finish that sentence.’