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‘Don’t you?’ It’s a gruff reply that has her tilting her head forward.
There’s a look of defiance in her eyes. Surrender too. ‘I guess it’s exactly what I want from you.’
* * *
We didn’t have the ‘your place or mine’ conversation, but I’m glad he’s taking us back to his apartment. I was drunk when he brought me here before, but in the morning I realised we were in Bermondsey and his home was actually a converted wharf building right on the river. Completely hollowed out at some point, leaving the open-plan design he obviously prefers.
It’s not far from my office and he rides quickly—as eager as I am, obviously, to renew our bodies’ acquaintance with one another. And I am so desperate for that, but other things are knotting through me.
Noah Moore is a mystery and the part of me that likes to find order in chaos needs to understand him. Despite the fact he isn’t my patient, and never can be, the therapist I trained to become and have spent years working as needs to dig through his issues, to understand what brought him to me in the first instance. It’s a compulsion.
I need more than just to understand him, though; I need him.
He pulls his bike up in front of the building and I step off before he does, removing my helmet, not giving him a reason to touch me—yet.
I wait by his front door and he takes only a moment to join me, unlocking it and pushing it inwards, staying on the outside, his arm outstretched to allow me entry. I move past him but, once inside, all the memories of last week slam into me and I am sucked back in time.
‘Are you hungry?’ He is maintaining a distance that is interesting.
‘Yeah.’ I think I might be, though it’s hard to read beyond the desire that’s swarming me.
I follow him into the kitchen, where he disappears into the fridge—it’s a huge fridge, two, actually, side by side. I wonder at the kind of entertaining he does to necessitate that.
He pulls out a couple of cardboard boxes, each the size of a laptop, and places them on the bench, then reaches in for a bottle of wine. He pours me a glass and grabs a beer for himself.
‘So, did you rationalise what we did last week?’
I think about lying to him, but don’t. ‘You want me. I want you. It’s a simple equation. Apparently desire outweighs common sense.’
He nods. ‘I like that. Mathematical sex.’
‘Sure.’ I bite down on my lip. ‘I never thought I’d do anything like this.’
‘Why not?’ he asks curiously.
‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘Obviously,’ he teases. ‘Not.’
I force myself to meet his eyes. ‘My whole life is dedicated to helping people.’ I swallow. ‘You came to me for help. And I can’t be that person. But, beyond that, what if I do something that hurts you...?’
‘Do you think I’m that fragile?’ he prompts with disbelief.
I shrug my shoulders. ‘Why did you come to see me? Why do you think you need therapy?’
He is instantly wary, just like in our first session. He tries to cover it, out of deference to what we’ve shared, but I see it. I see the wall he throws up between us.
‘Don’t hide from me,’ I say softly. ‘Tell me.’
His jaw clenches and a muscle moves at the base of his throat. ‘Tell you what?’
‘Why you came to me!’ I shouldn’t be annoyed—in my office I wouldn’t be. With my patients I can control my emotions completely, but Noah isn’t my patient. And here, with him so close and my body flaming with liquid heat, I am just a woman, not a doctor; I’m a woman who is full of desire and little else right now.
‘I’ve told you. I’m not sleeping.’
‘And have you ruled out any physiological cause for that?’ I push, watching as he steps away from me and grabs his beer, throwing back at least half of it in one long draught.
‘Such as?’ He has slipped into a combative mindset. He looks at me as though I am his enemy and I don’t want that—I am pushing him too hard and I know it won’t achieve results. Not with anyone and least of all Noah Moore.
