2. Rosy
Rosy
I look at the clock, fighting the heat I’ve been feeling low in my belly all week. It’s been six days since Atlas Tucker, tech billionaire and the hottest man in town, stepped into my office. And ever since, he’s all I can think of.
I stare at a picture of him before me, one I dug up under the guise of ‘professional research’.
But I know my interest in him is not professional at all.
His dark eyes stare back at me from the screen, sharp and knowing, as if he can see right through the glass of my monitor and into the mess I’ve become.
I click the browser closed and press my palms flat against the cool mahogany of my desk, trying to steady myself, but I feel the heat between my legs.
I’ve felt it since he was last in my office.
For six days, I’ve been lying awake at two in the morning with my hand between my thighs, replaying the way he said dominance in that low, gravelly voice that curled through my belly like smoke.
Six days of showering twice because the first one didn’t wash the ache away.
Six days of sitting across from other patients—wealthy, important, demanding patients—and hearing nothing because Atlas Tucker’s voice is still ringing in my skull.
I want to take his offer as much as I want to turn him away.
I am twenty-eight years old. I have a doctorate from Columbia.
I am the youngest psychologist ever hired at Blackwood & Hart, the most prestigious mental health practice in Manhattan, where our client roster reads like the Forbes 400 and our hourly rate could feed a family for a week.
I have worked my entire adult life to be here.
I have sacrificed everything—friendships, relationships, any semblance of a personal life—to prove that Rosy Black belongs at the top.
And I am about to throw it all away for a man who walked into my office and told me he wanted to dominate me. A man who was born to dominate, born to make women like me weak in the knees. God, why does he have to be so handsome? With that rough voice, he coaxed out every fantasy in my head.
The guilt sits heavy in my chest, a stone I’ve been carrying since that first session ended.
I know the APA code of ethics by heart. I could recite it in my sleep.
Section 10.05. Sexual intimacies with current patients are unethical.
I should end this now. I should transfer him to another psychologist today, tell him that we wouldn’t suit, and he’d be better off with someone else.
I should put a professional distance between him and me.
He’s the kind of man who gets what he wants, and some deep, depraved part of me wants him to get me, wants him to break down my walls and claim the wanton hiding in my soul.
I press my thighs together beneath my desk and feel the slick heat there.
When I close my eyes, I can picture him behind me, his broad chest pressed against my back, his hands sliding down my stomach, his mouth at my ear telling me what a good girl I am.
I picture my face pressed against this very desk, my pencil skirt pushed up around my hips, his hands gripping my waist while he takes me from behind.
I picture him calling me babygirl in that voice that makes my knees weak, and I picture myself saying yes, Daddy, please, yes.
I have never said those words to anyone. I have never even imagined saying those words to anyone. But Atlas Tucker has opened the floodgates of my dirty mind, and there is no stopping them. I might have graduated at the top of my class, but there’s an area in which I am woefully inexperienced.
I am a virgin.
Twenty-eight years old, and I have never been touched. Never been kissed the way I want to be kissed. Never felt a man’s hands on my bare skin, never even had the time to feel those things. But with one gaze, with one session, Atlas Tucker brought all those needs to the surface.
A knock at my door makes me jump so hard my pen rolls off the desk. I snatch it up, smooth my skirt, and call out, “Come in.”
Atlas Tucker fills the doorway like he was made for it.
Six foot three of tailored dark suit, silver-dusted dark hair, and those dark, analytical eyes that find me instantly and pin me to my chair.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The way he looks at me is enough to make my breath stutter.
And god, the scent of his musky cologne is drugging my mind.
“Dr. Black.” His voice is exactly as I remember it. Low. Gravelly. Dangerous. He closes the door and takes his place on the couch. “You look well.”
I don’t. I look like I haven’t slept in six days, which I haven’t. I get out of my chair and join him there.
He takes up the entire leather chair, spreading his knees wide, and I force my gaze to stay on his face and not on the thick muscle of his thighs straining against expensive fabric.
“So,” I say, picking up my notepad like it’s a shield. “How have you been since our last session?”
“Honestly?” He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the chair, and the pose is so casually dominant that my stomach flips. “I have a new problem. On top of the stress. On top of the insomnia. On top of the board of directors trying to micromanage my life.”
I swallow. “What kind of problem?”
“You.”
The word lands in the center of my chest and detonates.
“Care to elaborate?”
“You’ve taken over my mind, Dr. Black. I keep thinking about you, about doing things to you.”
“W-what kind of things?” I know I shouldn’t ask, but I want to know so bad.
“I’ve been thinking about bending you over that desk,” Atlas says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone that makes my skin prickle.
“And fucking you nice and slow.” I can see his arousal now, and god, it’s turning me on.
“I’d fuck you against that desk, right here in your office, your skirt on the floor.
I wonder how your pussy looks, wonder how it feels when I’m inside you.
Are you as tight as you look? What kind of sounds do you make when you’re close to climaxing? ”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I press my thighs together beneath my desk. “Mr. Tucker, that’s completely inappropriate.”
“You asked, doctor.”
“I did.” I sigh, meeting his eyes, trying to cling to the final thread of professionalism I have. “I think it might not be advisable to continue our patient-therapist relationship, Atlas. I could refer you to someone else, someone who might not add to your problems.”
He smiles. “Running away, Rosy?” My pussy reacts instantly. It’s the first time he’s used my first name. I like it. “No, thank you, I prefer my current shrink.”
“Atlas—”
He leans forward. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about all week, staying up at night? How to get rid of me?” He leans forward, his dark eyes pinning me in place. “Too bad, I don’t give up easily, not when I know you’re dying for this as much as I am.”
“Mr. Tucker, you do realize that we’re in a professional relationship. There are boundaries we cannot cross.”
“Professional, huh? Then, let’s do this in professional interest. Help me get rid of this little itch I have.”
I cough, feeling my blush deepen. “That wouldn’t be right. You might not know, but my job is at stake here. A doctor cannot sleep with her patient.”
“No, but she can learn him better. Sometimes, the best way to understand the problem is to experience it.”
He smiles then, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that makes my stomach flip. He sits back, spreading his legs wider, and begins to speak in that commanding voice of his while my eyes remain glued on his erection. My pussy pulses, wanting to feel that monster inside me.
“I admire your achievements, Dr. Black. Columbia, top of your class, the youngest psychologist at this prestigious firm, all very admirable. But surely you want more.” His gaze travels over my body with deliberate slowness.
“I can see it in your eyes. The hunger. The need to surrender control to someone who knows exactly how to handle a woman like you. The need to go beyond books and experience something for real.”
My breath hitches in my throat. I should stop this. I should end the session right now. But I can’t move.
“You want to be dominated,” he continues, his voice dropping to that dangerous register.
“You want someone to take control, to make you feel things you’ve only dreamed about.
You want someone to take off the pressure of being the perfect psychologist, the perfect daughter, the perfect student. You want to let go.”
I can’t speak because he’s reading my mind like a book.
“What are you suggesting?” I ask in a cracked voice, so close to giving in. His eyes sweep over my blouse, and he can see the outlines of my aroused nipples poking against the fabric.
“A demo,” he says, at last. “I have these intense urges, you know. They are difficult to explain. If I could show you, I think it would help our sessions greatly.”
He’s using my professional weakness to make me give in.
I can’t believe what comes out of my mouth next. “All right.”
His eyes widen for a second, surprised I’ve given in, and then he stands up.
His tall frame dwarfs me as he looks down at me.
The door is closed but not locked, and he doesn’t attempt to lock it either.
He slowly walks to my desk, running his hand along the edge.
He pushes away my journal and things, making some space on the edge, before he drops his tone lower and crooks his finger at me, “Come here.”
My body shoots up to standing as if on command, his dominant voice working its magic on me.
I’ve never felt such an intense pull to anyone before, but within seconds, I’m standing before him, my heeled shoes pounding hard on the wooden floor.
He smiles at me, his fingers reaching for the buttons of my silk blouse. “May I?”
I swallow and nod, knowing how crazy this is. But I want this depravity. I want to do something bad.