Chapter Seven
Maya
I close the door, lean back against the cool wood, and kick off my pumps. Or fuck-me heels, as Ryan called them. What the hell was that?
Breathe in for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
Out for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
I push my toes into the carpet underfoot and notice the cool timber of the wood behind me as I settle my weight against it. I can do this. I am in control.
No, I’m not.
Because every inhale floods me with that damn earthy citrus scent that made me want to taste him.
And my underwear is distractingly wet. He is my patient.
My devastatingly handsome patient, who offered to lick my pussy in my damn office.
My patient, who seemed to be completely aware of what he was doing when he loomed over me.
The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome with his copper skin, brown eyes and hair, and defined muscular form.
Shit, why am I even thinking about his body?
He is my patient. And a walking red flag at that. Who the hell professes love after four video calls? Someone experiencing erotic transference that has absolutely no filter, apparently. But a voice inside me kept insisting he wasn’t wrong. That he was mine. That we were made for each other.
This is insane. Good Lord, I am losing my damn mind.
Go after him. Find him. Bite him.
No, this cannot be happening. I block out the voice that tells me everything I can’t listen to. The one that has flooded me with intrusive thoughts for years. Has pushed me toward violence and acts I would never consider.
I wince when a sharp rapping at my door alerts me to how out of control I was allowing my head to become.
I can’t afford to let my mind run rampant like that.
I slide my feet back into my shoes and open the door.
Charlotte, the receptionist that I and the other therapists in the building share, rushes in.
“Sorry, I know this is super unprofessional, but where the hell did that man come from and where do I get one?”
I raise an eyebrow, and she throws her hands in the air. “Don’t pretend he isn’t the finest thing you have ever seen in your life! I know you are the picture of serenity, but even you have to admit, if he weren’t your patient, you’d climb him like a tree!”
“He is my patient,” I reply, sharper than I intended. Charlotte is a sweetheart. At twenty-six, she is three years younger than I am and has made it her mission to get me out of my shell. If only she knew where I spent my Friday and Saturday nights.
“I know, but he’s not my patient,” she says with a waggle of her eyebrows. “Would it be a fireable offense if I asked him out?”
She clasps her hands together in prayer and gazes up at me. She looks at me with so much hope in her eyes that I almost feel bad for shooting her down. Almost.
“It absolutely would be,” I say, my voice firm and brooking no arguments. Even though it’s a complete lie because there’s nothing in her contract that prohibits her from dating patients of the therapists who work here.
I shouldn’t care if she asks him out.
Charlotte dating Ryan shouldn’t matter. It’s not like I can date him. Damn it, why does the idea of him dating anyone else make me feel like my heart is ripping apart? I’ve never felt so drawn to someone as I did to him. I’ve never wanted someone like I want him.
“But—”
“Don’t you have work to do? I need to prepare for my next patient.
” I’m being a raging bitch right now, but I can’t help myself.
Charlotte nods and leaves my office, and my shoulders slump.
She didn’t deserve that. But I need to get back in control, and the idea of Charlotte and Ryan is not helping with the swirling storm of emotions I’m currently experiencing.
I cannot afford to let my emotions get the better of me.
Glancing at the clock, I still have forty-five minutes before my next patient is due to arrive, and I’m going to need every minute of it. Pulling out some cleaning supplies, I set to work getting rid of the scent of that man.
That delicious, completely forbidden man.
Even though it feels like I’m hurting myself by doing so, I spray surface cleanser onto the leather couch and wipe it with a cloth, ensuring I remove every trace of Ryan Rivera.
Next, I open the window and spray an air freshener.
The artificial scent upsets my sensitive nose, but it’s better than smelling a man I shouldn’t even be thinking about anymore.
I’ve never had such a strong reaction to a patient before.
Sure, I’ve felt countertransference, usually a maternal one.
It’s happened where a patient has transferred their maternal feelings to me, and I’ve felt the same feelings for them.
Seeing them as a mother would, I’ve often had hopes and dreams for them, sometimes ones that don’t align with the patient’s own feelings and desires.
Supervision has helped me to keep it in check.
This is completely different, though. I’m not having positive thoughts about my patient’s future; I’m imagining Ryan on his knees for me. I’m imagining myself on my knees for him. I’m imagining tasting him. My pussy clenches, but my gut swirls with guilt.
He’s my patient.
Despite Ryan’s assurances that his feelings were real, he doesn’t understand what’s happening. He doesn’t understand the inherent power imbalance. He doesn’t even know me. Not really. I’m not only the serene therapist who listens and doesn’t look for a reciprocally beneficial relationship.
The reality of who I am is so much more complicated than what I show to people.
The thoughts of telling my supervisor that I’m experiencing erotic countertransference fills me with dread.
My hands are clammy, and a nervous tremor runs through them.
I want to disappear, to shrink and become invisible, swallowed by the floor.
I’m mortified at the thoughts of him judging me for these feelings and making me spell out exactly what I’m thinking.
The idea of telling Steven I want my patient to tear my clothes off, dominate me, and fulfill every depraved sexual fantasy I’ve ever had is unbearable. I need to talk to him. I can’t just go on hoping that Ryan doesn’t make another appointment while simultaneously hoping that he does.
I continue cleaning my office, taking solace in putting order back into my space and stripping it of the intoxicating reminders of the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. Damn it, why did he have to smell so good?
When I finally feel like I can breathe without getting more aroused, I remove my panties—because they are uncomfortably wet—and stuff them in a drawer, cringing at the fact I will be going commando for the rest of the day.
Then I focus back on my pens, making sure they are perfectly straight, and check the other items on my desk, taking solace in putting things in order until I feel like I’m a little less likely to lose my mind.
That voice in my head urging me to run after him—to hunt him down—softens to a dull thud in my mind, and I ready myself for my next patient.
I can do this. I am a strong woman. I do not let my urges control me.
Except these urges are pressing in stronger and have left me feeling completely out of control. Shit. I am absolutely screwed.