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“All of them?”
Shame squirms into our sacred space. Professionally speaking, one or two or even three recordings of Grayson’s torture sessions would’ve sufficed for research into his diagnosis. But just like now, despite the warnings, the draw to experience…to feel this forbidden connection between us was too great.
“Yes,” I answer honestly. I’m a professional. And as a professional, I have every right to conduct extensive research into my patient.
But the dare in his eyes glints, a challenge to unmask those dark desires lurking beneath my surface. “Which one is your favorite?”
The rules of psychoanalysis are simple: there are no rules. In this safe haven, I can confess my excitement, my arousal at watching the woman be bound and racked until her limbs snapped. But I won’t admit that aloud. I refuse to give in to him.
“That’s our session for today,” I announce. I straighten my skirt as I start toward the hallway, forgetting my proximity to the inmate in my office.
Grayson hasn’t forgotten.
My march toward the other side of the room is thwarted as he grabs hold of my skirt. Every muscle in my body tenses, the hairs on my skin stand, all senses captured by him and his clutch on my skirt.
In an instant, I realize he purposely riled me for this exact outcome.
The rattling of chains heightens my anxiety, then I’m yanked backward. Forced to stand before him, I stare down at where he grips the hem of my skirt, bunching the fabric in a tight fist.
“Release me,” I demand, somehow controlling the tremor in my voice.
His gaze roves deliberately up my body to meet my eyes. “You want to touch my scars.”
The heat of his skin touches my bare thigh, his rough knuckles an abrasive and enticing friction. I swallow. “That would be inappropriate.”
“But you still want to.” He releases the fabric one finger at a time, until I’m free of him. But I’m not. The dare in his eyes still holds me captive. “I want you to.”
We should be like two similar poles of a magnet; we should repel each other. But our magnetic fields attract, snapping together forcefully.
As if he fears I’m a creature to be spooked, he gently rests his hands on my hips, and a shiver rocks me. “But if you do, I get to touch you,” he challenges.
This is more than prohibited. It’s dangerous.
I breathe in deeply, inhaling his masculine scent, torturing myself for what I’m about to do. In spite of my heart pounding in clear warning, I place my hand atop his. I let my palm travel over his rough fingers to his wrist, and on to his arm. Where the beveled scars wrap his flesh. Like wiry bands inserted beneath his skin, the scar tissue is smooth and cruel. Some more recent than others, and the thought of him inflicting the wounds while enraptured in erotic deviancy…
My breath catches as his fingers make contact with my inner thigh.
I shut my eyes against the onslaught of emotions—the illicit and erotic way he makes me feel as his coarse palm grazes up my thigh, my skirt bunching against his wrist.
“Look at me.”
The demand races through my blood, scorching my veins. I open my eyes on impulse.
Grayson’s electric blue gaze holds me imprisoned while his hand brands my skin. He inches upward, the abrasive pads of his fingers exploring, mapping me, as he gauges my response.
A whimper escapes, and I have to bite my lip to hold back another. A muscle jumps along his jaw, then he’s roving higher, torturously slow. I tremble under his intimate touch. The stronger his touch becomes, the more I crave to dig my nails into his flesh. My fingers form claws on his arms.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, he licks his lips and says, “Do it.”
The dare slithers over my body, the pulsing heat between my thighs inviting him to touch me, and as I surrender, his fingers skim the seam of my panties. A shock of awareness snatches my breath and I step back, breaking the connection.
I don’t stop walking until I’m safely behind the yellow line. Grayson’s heated stare tracks me, his chest moving up and down with his uneven breaths. His features strained as if he’s feeling the same suffocating pain that burns my lungs. The room pulsates with each of his breaths, in harmony with the pounding of my heart.
I’m losing my mind.
Flustered, I turn my back to him and run my hands over my skirt as I rush to the office. Within minutes, the officers have Grayson shackled and transported. He didn’t speak, didn’t say a word. Giving no hint to the storm brewing between us.
I stand in the center of my office, feeling the weight of what transpired heavy and pressing. The wood floor shifts beneath my feet. Gravity only needs one slight push to send me spiraling down.
