6. Natalie
Natalie
“Olivia sends her apologies,” Harper says as I slide into the booth beside Avery. “The baby was fussy, and Theo's at some charity event. She didn't want to leave Maya with the sitter.”
“Totally understandable,” I say. “Babies come first.”
The bar is upscale but cozy, all dim lighting and leather seats and the kind of jazz music that plays low enough for conversation.
“So.” Avery pours me a generous glass. “How's it going with Ethan?”
My stomach clenches.
How is it going? Let's see. A few hours ago, I was straddling my patient in the men's changing room while he sucked on my nipples. His hands were on my ass, and my hips were grinding against his cock, and I was seconds away from letting him fuck me on a bench.
That's how it's going.
I take a gulp of my wine.
“That bad, huh?” Avery says in a sympathetic tone.
I've replayed it a hundred times since I left that changing room, trying to understand what happened. The best I've come up with is that I felt sorry for him.
He looked so broken sitting on that bench. His shoulders hunched, his hands shaking, and his face a mask of barely contained anguish. He looked like a man about to shatter into a thousand pieces.
Every protective instinct in me surged to the surface. I forgot he was my patient. I forgot the boundaries I've spent years building. I just saw a person in pain, and I wanted to make it stop.
But that's not the whole truth.
I've been in similar situations before. Two years ago, a patient named Mark developed feelings for me during his recovery from a torn rotator cuff. He was going through a divorce, and he was lonely, and he mistook my professional kindness for something more.
One day, during a session, he tried to kiss me.
Keeping my voice calm and compassionate, I told him that I understood he was going through a difficult time, but I was his physical therapist, and it would be inappropriate for our relationship to be anything other than professional.
I recommended a good therapist for him to talk to and documented the incident. I handled it exactly the way I was trained to handle it.
So why didn't I do the same with Ethan?
Because when Mark tried to kiss me, I felt nothing but pity and mild discomfort.
When Ethan pulled me onto his lap, I felt like I was on fire.
I'm attracted to him. Desperately, stupidly, recklessly attracted to him. And that attraction made me forget everything I know about professionalism and appropriate boundaries.
What does that make me? An unprofessional therapist who can't keep her hands off a vulnerable patient. I’m no different from a doctor who seduces someone in their care. I took advantage of a man at his lowest moment. He was scared and hurting, and I let him use my body as a distraction.
No. That's not fair either. I didn't let him do anything. He gave me an out. A chance to leave. But I wanted it. I wanted him. When he said how beautiful I was, I didn't hesitate. I kissed him back like my life depended on it.
I've been in New York for barely a week, and I've already fucked up everything. My fresh start, my new career, and my chance to prove that I'm more than the woman Brody cheated on.
“Nat?”
I pull myself back to the present and plaster a smile. “It's going well, actually.”
Harper and Avery stare at me.
“Wait.” Avery sets down the bottle. “You mean Ethan Ward isn't biting your head off every five minutes? The same Ethan Ward who made his last PT cry?”
I force a laugh and take a sip of wine. “He's okay. We've found a rhythm.”
A rhythm. That's one way to describe what happened in the changing room. I take another sip of wine.
“That's amazing,” Harper says. “Cole was worried about him. He's been so withdrawn since the injury. It's good to hear he's making progress.”
“He is. Slow but steady.”
I try to focus on the conversation, but my mind keeps drifting back to the desperation in his kiss and the way he groaned when I straddled him. The raw need in his voice when he said he’d been wanting to kiss me since we met.
“Earth to Natalie.”
Avery is waving a hand in front of my face.
“Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you want to order appetizers.”
“Sure. Whatever you're having.”
Harper and Avery exchange a look. They order some kind of fancy flatbread and more wine, and the conversation shifts to their own lives.
“Liam's been at the gym constantly,” Avery says with a sigh. “I know he needs to stay in shape during the off-season, but I swear he spends more time with his trainer than with me.”
“Cole's the same,” Harper says. “He's up at five every morning for workouts. By the time I'm awake, he's already done a full session and is watching game film from last season.”
“They're obsessed.”
“Completely obsessed. Hockey is their first love. We're just lucky they have room for a second.”
They laugh, and I smile along, but I'm not really listening. I'm thinking about Ethan's hands on my thighs. The way his fingers dug into my flesh like he needed to hold onto something solid. The heat of his mouth between my breasts.
What is wrong with me?
I should be thinking about how to face him at our next session and how I’m going to reestablish professional boundaries. Instead, I'm sitting here reliving every second like it's something to be proud of.
I crossed a line, and instead of feeling ashamed, my body heats up every time I think about it.
“Sorry, I'm late.”
A woman with wild curly hair and an even wilder print dress slides into the booth beside Harper. She's beautiful with sharp cheekbones and bold red lipstick.
“Natalie, this is Ariel,” Harper says. “She’s my best friend and the reason I have any fashion sense at all.”
“I'm a buyer at Bergdorf's,” Ariel says, shaking my hand. “Which means I spend my days convincing rich women they need another handbag and my nights recovering from the trauma of it all.”
I like her immediately.
“I’m also perpetually single,” Ariel says while pouring herself a glass of wine. “Do you know how hard it is to date in this city? Last week, I went out with a guy who spent the entire dinner talking about his NFT collection. Two hours of pixelated apes and blockchain technology.”
We all laugh.
“And before that, there was the guy who asked me to split the bill and then calculated my portion down to the penny. Including tax.”
“Please tell me you walked out,” Harper says.
“I paid my eleven dollars and thirty-seven cents, and I never texted him again.” Ariel takes a long drink of wine. “Men are a disaster. I'm considering becoming a lesbian.”
“It's not that easy,” Avery says. “You can't just switch teams.”
Ariel lifts her chin with a determined gleam in her eyes. “Watch me.”
We all laugh, and the swirling in my stomach eases. This is nice.
But even as Ariel launches into another dating horror story, involving a man who brought his mother on a third date, my mind wanders.
What is Ethan doing right now?
Is he thinking about what happened?
Is he replaying it the way I am?
I remember the way he looked at me when I landed on his lap. He looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
And I wanted him to.
“Natalie?”
I snap back to attention. “Sorry. Long day.”
“You've been distracted all night.” Avery tilts her head. “Are you sure everything's okay?”
“I'm fine. Just tired.”
She pats my hand. “You’ll get used to the pace here.”
An hour later, we settle the bill and say our goodbyes. Hugs all around, promises to do this again soon. Ariel makes me save her number and demands I text her if I ever need fashion advice or a drinking buddy.
I order an Uber and wait outside the bar. The night air is warm, and the city hums around me, alive and restless.
My phone buzzes. The driver is three minutes away.
I think about Ethan alone in his apartment. That big body stretched out on his couch, his injured leg propped up on pillows. Is he in pain? Is he thinking about me?
Heat coils low in my belly.
The Uber arrives, and I climb in. The driver doesn't try to make conversation, and I stare out the window as the city lights blur past. He drops me off at Starlight Suites, and I walk through the lobby on autopilot. The elevator takes me to my floor, and I pause outside my door.
I glance down the hall toward Ethan's apartment. His lights are off. Either he's asleep or he's sitting in the dark.
I let myself in and lean against the closed door. My heart is racing, and my skin feels too tight. The wine has made me warm and loose, and my thoughts keep circling back to the same place.
His hands. His mouth. The thick ridge of his cock pressed against me through his swim trunks.
I need a cold shower.
I strip off my clothes as I walk to the bathroom, leaving a trail of fabric on the floor. The water takes a minute to heat up, and I stand under the spray, letting it wash away the smell of the bar.
It doesn't wash away the memories.
I close my eyes, and the memory of the locker room floods my mind.
Ethan, sitting on that bench, looking up at me with those desperate, hungry eyes. Pulling me onto his lap.
My hand slides down my stomach.
I shouldn't do this. It's wrong and pathetic.
I do it anyway.
My fingers find the slick heat between my legs, and a shaky breath slips past my lips. I'm already swollen and wet, my body responding to the memory of him as if he's right here with me.
I let my fingers circle my clit. Slow and teasing, the way I imagine he would tease me if he had the chance.
But Ethan wouldn't tease. Not for long. He's too intense and too hungry. He would take what he wanted and make me scream while he did it.
I imagine those big, rough hands on me. They gripped my thighs so hard I’m sure I’ll wake up with bruises tomorrow. I imagine him pushing me against the wall, lifting my leg over his hip, positioning himself at my entrance.
He would be big. A man like that, with shoulders that wide and hands that large, would have a cock to match. Thick and heavy and intimidating. The size that makes you nervous the first time you see it.
I wouldn't be nervous. I would be desperate. I am desperate.
My fingers move faster, pressing harder. The water streams down my body, and I imagine it's his mouth, trailing hot kisses down my neck, my breasts, my stomach.
He would drop to his knees. I imagine his tongue on me. Long, slow strokes that make my legs tremble. Then faster and more urgent, his hands gripping my thighs to hold me still while he devours me.
A moan escapes my lips, and I bite down on my lower lip to silence it. The walls are thin, and the last thing I need is for someone to hear me.
For him to hear me.
The thought of Ethan listening to me pleasure myself should be horrifying. Instead, it sends a fresh wave of arousal through me. I imagine him in his apartment, just a wall away, hearing my moans through the wall. Getting hard. Stroking himself while he listens.
I imagine him unable to stand it anymore. Coming to my door. Breaking it down if he has to. Finding me in the shower, naked and needy, and calling his name.
He would take me right here. Press me against the tile and thrust into me in one hard stroke. Fill me completely and pound into me until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but take what he gave me.
My fingers plunge inside myself, and I cry out. I pump my fingers in and out, my palm grinding against my clit with each thrust. My other hand finds my breast, and I squeeze, pinching my nipple the way he did.
His cock would feel so good inside me. Stretching me and hitting spots I didn't even know existed. He would fuck me hard. A man that wound up, that frustrated, that desperate, wouldn't know any other way.
And I would love every second of it.
The orgasm builds fast, coiling tighter and tighter in my core. I imagine Ethan grunting my name as he comes, then I would fall asleep in his arms and wake up to find him hard again, ready for round two.
I come with a strangled cry, my walls clenching around my fingers, my body shuddering against the tile. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me, and I ride it out, gasping his name under my breath.
When it's over, I slump against the wall, my legs barely able to hold me. I just came harder than I have in months, maybe years, thinking about a man I'm supposed to be helping recover.
I just masturbated to my patient.
Shame curdles in my stomach. Hours ago, I let Ethan Ward put his mouth on me. I straddled him in a changing room and ground myself against him like I had no self-control. And now I'm in my shower, fingers inside myself, moaning his name like I've learned nothing.
What kind of person does this? What kind of professional crosses every boundary and then goes home and pleasures herself to the memory?