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But he was there. Asking for my help. I could see in his eyes that he needed help – needed somebody with my level of experience. Dr. Frank was a good man and a good therapist, but I wasn't sure he'd be able to crack open a tough nut like Drew. I knew my own chances of success with him were small, but they were probably still better than Dr. Frank's.
“Very well,” I said, feeling no small amount of trepidation. “We'll give it a shot, if you insist. But if things don't work out –”
Drew's lips pulled back into a cocky smile as he finished my sentence for me. “Then, and only then, will I allow you to break things off.”
“Well, I wasn't going to put it that way, but okay,” I said. “Then yes, I will continue to see you then.”
My cheeks were burning, and I knew they were bright red. In my mind's eye, I kept seeing him on top of me, plunging his cock into me. My body reacted, recalling the way he'd felt inside of me. The way it had felt when I'd had him in my mouth. I felt a fire ignite between my thighs and felt myself getting wet despite my best efforts to avoid those thoughts in the first place.
I had to continue to act like a professional, however. I had a job to do – a job I took very seriously and very personally. I was good at what I did and enjoyed it to boot. I wouldn't jeopardize it. So, I remained in my chair, was sure to sit up straight with my ankles crossed, and my arms crossed in front of my chest. Drew smiled at me, and in that smile, I could tell that his inner thoughts weren't exactly clean – he was likely recalling everything that had just flashed through my mind. As if acting of their own accord, my eyes drifted down to his crotch and I could see the outline of his thick, hard cock straining against his pants. That only made the fire between my thighs burn hotter and more intensely
As difficult as it was, I pushed away the lascivious thoughts running through my mind. He was obviously thinking about last night. As was I. Of course, It was hard not to, especially considering how amazing it was. But whatever happened, it happened in the past.
And it could not, would not, happen again.
No way, no how.
DREW
“Can you at least tell me your name?” I asked.
“I have. It's Dr. Emerson,” she responded nonchalantly.
“No, I mean your first name,” I said. “I hate that I didn't ask last night –”
“You don't need to know that, Drew,” she said, smiling in a friendly way that came off as insincere, but polite. “Let's keep things professional, okay? And we need to set up a ground rule here right at the outset – last night never happened. It's not to be brought up in this office again. You got me?”
I smirked, but could tell that she was serious. “Aye aye, Captain.”
“I'm serious, Drew,” she said.
“I got you. But you already know my name,” I said, biting my lip. “It's not fair –”
“Who said anything about being fair,” she said. “This is about helping you, not conforming to what your definition of fair is, Drew.”
Damn. She was whip smart and on it with the replies today. Not like the woman last night who seemed taken in by my every word. Today she was shooting me down left and right. She didn't seem impressed with me or anything I had to say. And I had to admit, it stung a bit.
She was a beautiful woman – and if possible, even more beautiful today than she had been in the club last night.
“You know, I have a thing for smart women,” I said. “Maybe we should –”
“Maybe we should talk about your panic attacks, since that's what your insurance is paying for,” she said, shutting me down again. “When was the last time you had one?”
“When I woke up this morning and saw that you'd left me without even saying goodbye,” I said.
That was a lie, but it was smooth. I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with that one. Not that I ever imagined I'd be hitting on my therapist, but given that I was already traveling down that road, it seemed like the perfect line.
Except, of course, Dr. Emerson didn't look at all amused by my antics. In fact, she was rubbing her temples and looking downright annoyed at me.
“Drew, if we can't keep things professional, I'm not doing you any good,” she said. “And if I'm not going to be able to help you, I will have no choice but to –”
This time, I cut her off. “Fine,” I said, looking down at my hands. I picked at the skin around my thumb as I tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be taken as a flirt or a joke. “I'm sorry. I'm just not comfortable talking about my feelings and shit, you know? It's a hell of a lot simpler – not to mention more fun – to flirt with you.”
“Is it worse because of our history together?” she asked.
“History?” I laughed. There wasn't much history, but I let it slide and answered her question truthfully. “Not really. I just don't like talking about myself.”
“I figured that much,” she said, her eyes softening as she looked at me. “Most of the men who come in to see me don't like talking about their feelings, it feels foreign or wrong to them. Because they weren't raised that way. Most of them have been taught to stuff all of your emotions down into a box. It's not manly to talk about your feelings. It makes you feel weak. Inferior. Perhaps even like a sissy. And of course, the military doesn't do you any favors with the macho –”
