Maddox
My eyes drifted to the silky hosiery hugging her legs before settling at the hem of her black skirt. A respectable length. Proper. Demure.
Yet as I drew in a slow breath, I could swear the faint scent of her arousal lingered in the air between us.
She had written down every filthy fantasy she wanted like a shopping list. From something as simple as a kiss to—
I took a steadying breath.
“Let’s do some breathing exercises,” I said, waiting for her to close her resentful eyes.
We were almost there. Weeks of careful work had brought us to this point, each session guiding her a little further, each confession loosening another thread of restraint.
The perfect storm.
Her hips shifted slightly against the couch.
My couch.
“Inhale,” I whispered.
She obeyed slowly, drawing the air deep into her lungs. Her chest rose beneath the green silk of her blouse, the fabric stretching over the curves I had tried very hard not to imagine.
Tried.
“Hold,” I said, my voice tightening for a fraction of a second.
I nearly slipped and called her my good girl.
I counted the seconds carefully.
“And release.”
Her lips parted as she exhaled, the breath leaving her in a soft stream.
I was so hard it bordered on painful.
“Inhale,” I said again, forcing the words past the ache building through my body.
I ignored the urge to reach for her. Ignored the far more dangerous urge to give her exactly what she was asking for without saying it outright.
Instead, I continued guiding her through the rhythm.
Breath by breath.
Gradually her shoulders softened, the tension leaving her frame as they began to droop. The tightness in her expression faded, replaced by the calmer version of Stella I had been carefully cultivating for weeks.
Relaxed.
Trusting.
Mine to guide.
Yet even as she settled, my mind betrayed me.
Hosiery or stockings.
Panties… or nothing at all.
Sweet… or savoury.
My mouth watered.
Soon.
?
?
?
Once I closed the door behind her, I dragged my hand slowly down my face, pressing my palm briefly against my mouth as I exhaled.
There was no record of her being my patient. I had never accepted payment from her parents. I had even encouraged her to go out this weekend—something simple, something harmless, even if it was just a walk.
And I had her location at all times.
Bumping into her would not be difficult.
The house felt quieter without her presence lingering in the hallway, but the tension she left behind clung stubbornly to the air.
I turned and walked back to my office.
My gaze settled immediately on the cream couch she had been sitting on.
It was nothing like the antique red velvet one in my sex den—an original piece from a prominent London whorehouse, preserved and restored long before it came into my possession.
This couch was modern. Clean. Professional.
Or at least, it had been.
I topped my glass up before crossing the room, taking a slow sip and letting the scotch roll across my tongue, the familiar burn grounding me as I lowered myself to the wooden floor.
And something else.
My nose grazed along the leather until I reached the spot.
There was no mistaking her scent.
My fingers tightened around the glass as I leaned closer, dragging my tongue slowly over the padded leather.
She was perfect with scotch.
Sweet.
Ripe.
Mine.
I licked the spot clean before taking another sip of my drink. As I stood, my eyes drifted to the turquoise-and-gold-bound notebook.
She’d opened the gateway.
I was ready for her.
?
?
?
I scoured another floor but didn’t see Stella. I was about to turn toward the stairs when a couple moved aside, exposing a pile of red hair twisted high on someone’s head.
Her.
With my phone tucked away, I moved towards her.
She stood staring at a painting.
I rested my hand on her shoulder and she jumped.
“Dr Maddox,” she gasped.
“Just Maddox out here,” I murmured, releasing her shoulder, though my fingers trailed lightly through the strands of hair escaping her bun.
Her green eyes darkened, her pupils widening as her lips parted. She began twisting the strap of her purse between her fingers. A slow blush crept across her cheeks. Her breath shuddered before she deliberately slowed it, inhaling long and deep.
I didn’t say a word when I offered her my arm.
She stared at it for a moment, swallowing before slipping her arm through mine. I pressed my arm gently against hers as we turned back to the painting.
“A cow,” I murmured.
“A pretty cow,” she corrected.
“Definitely a British cow,” I said, observing the grey skies looming around the animal.
The brushstrokes were creative, giving the creature a rough, textured presence.
Stella giggled.
The giddy sound pulled a broad smile from me.
“This is a weird coincidence,” she murmured as we moved to the next painting.
“Or fate,” I said lightly.
She hummed softly as she stared at the painting while I stared at her.
The faint scent of her perfume lingered between us.
Elie Saab.
I would never smell it again without thinking of her.
The bottle I purchased didn’t smell the same.
But I had to make do with it lingering on my pillow until Stella was ready.
She began commenting on the modern canvas before us—a vase with fluorescent flowers sprouting wildly from it.
I preferred the black-and-white cow.
This version of Stella was nothing like the young woman I had first met. She was happy, vibrant, and her eyes were alive.
I nodded absently and followed her to the next painting.