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Holy fucking shit.
Nick Craven is tall, maybe 6’1” or 2” with broad shoulders and a nicely toned chest that tapers into slender hips. He’s dressed in all black: fitted shirt, waistcoat, beautifully tailored trousers. I place him as being in his mid-to late-thirties, though I cannot be sure. His hair is thick and black, like his clothes, and he has a warm, olive complexion and lips that are slightly swollen. A nasty scar runs across his left cheek, giving him the appearance of a suave Bond villain. He is far from handsome, far from conventional-looking, yet there is something magnetic about him. Something I findirresistible.
“Good to meet you, Doctor Craven,” I mumble.
“Please, call me Nick.” Hazel eyes stare straight into mine, holding me prisoner,eyes that overwhelm, that shine with kindness, intelligence and serenity.“Can I take your coat?”
“No! I mean … yes, of course.” I laugh nervously. I’m so agitated I can barely string coherent sentences. Suddenly, I’m paranoid about my appearance. Has the rain smudged my mascara? What about my hair? Do I look okay? And if I take off my coat, what will Nick make of my Mickey Mouse sweater, tasselled skirt and purple tights?
With trembling fingers, I start unbuttoning my coat, but before I’ve finished, Nick’s behind me, hands on my shoulders, sliding my sleeves down with maddening ease. Momentarily, his breath burns a trail of fire on my neck, awakening a hunger within me I thought had died long ago. Just one touch and my crotch starts doing crazy things. Just one touch and he’s got me jumping through hoops like a circus animal. No man has ever had this effect on me.
“You’re wet,” Nick murmurs.
My eyes widen.Good God. He knows he’s affecting me.
“W-what?” I stutter.
“Your clothes …” he smirks, carrying my coat to the rack. “They’re absolutely drenched. Not a very pleasant day. Did you come by car?”
“No, I walked here.” I sigh with relief. I must have got the wrong end of the stick.
Or have I?
With unnerving agility, Nick hangs up my coat, closes the door to his office then walks to the window and shuts the blinds. It all seems to happen simultaneously. “That’s better. We don’t want any distractions.”
I couldn’t agree more.
“Right, let’s make a start.” He gestures to one of the big, padded chairs in the middle of the room. “Please take a seat, Carly.”
“Thanks.” I love the way he says my name; love the way his dulcet tones play with my clit and make my stomach all jittery. With a voice like that, he could get me to do virtually anything.
I collapse in the padded seat, throat tight with anxiety. Nick takes the chair opposite and presses his fingertips together. For a moment, his eyes linger over my body, their slow, sensual progress sending a shiver down my spine. I clench my hands hard in my lap and pick a point on the floor to focus on. The intensity of his stare is making my head spin. Jesus, I’m reasonably attractive, but certainly not worth the once-over he’s giving me.
“So Carly, tell me a bit about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?” I ask timidly.
“Oh, just the basics: how old you are, where you grew up, that sort of thing.”
“I already filled out the questionnaire at reception.”
“This isn’t an interview. I don’t make notes, so nothing you say will be recorded. All I want is an informal chat with you. Before I start a course of treatment, I like to first build a picture of my patient: gauge your dreams, your fears, and your aspirations. In short, before I agree to take you on, I need to first clarify that we will be a suitable fit for each other.”
“You mean you might not be able to help me?”
Nick laughs softly. “A popular misconception about hypnosis is that it works for everyone. The truth is some people are more susceptible to it than others. Though most of my patients can be successfully treated, there’s a small percentage of people for whom it wouldn’t work. Finding out more about you helps me determine which of the two categories you fall into.” He smiles wryly, and for the first time, I catch a glimpse of his pearly-white teeth. “Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, it does.”
“So Carly … give me a brief history ofyou.”
I stare at my hands, not knowing where else to look. His gaze is too raw, too intense. I clear my throat. “Um, well, I’m thirty-six years old. I grew up in Fulham but now I live in Battersea. I currently work as a receptionist for a media company in Charlotte Street.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Charlotte Street? That’s not far from here.”
“Yes,” I smile. “It’s literally around the corner.”
He hesitates, processing this information. Then he asks, “Are you married?”
