“Don’t trick me again.”

“I won’t.” Something elusive passed through his gaze. “Come on, before I change my mind and decide to put my belt to good use.”

There were things to discuss. Important things I should have demanded an answer to—like what this relationship was, and where it could even go. But instead, I followed him to his bed, where we spent the next hours saying everything with our bodies and nothing with our mouths.

Our next public appearance was Friday. This time, when I came out in some ridiculously flashy dress, he pressed me against my door and kissed me deeply, like he needed to brand himself into my skin, until I was rubbing my hand against his erection and begging him to fuck me. He let out a frustrated breath and a, “Can’t,” followed by something about business at the club.

That morning, while still lying in bed, I’d teased him about the domed church on his side, telling him I hadn’t known he was religious. Something cold settled in him after that. He’d gotten up and said he was going to the gym. I didn’t hear from him again until I got his text telling me to be ready to go at nine.

Christian knew everything about me, whereas he left me with only small morsels of himself. What I hated most about it, though, was I felt like a coward, merely tiptoeing the edges of his past for fear of him pushing me away. It seemed each day I spent with him, the closer I grew to losing my grasp on control, while his grip only grew tighter.

After kissing me senseless, he was distant during the ride to the club. Distant when he collected me from Nico’s office, where I’d been watching TV with Elena, and distant on the way home.

I was going to confront him. The words I was going to say were on the tip of my tongue. But then I stepped into his room to get undressed, and everything changed. The door shut with a quiet click behind me. I stilled, the hair on the back of my neck rising. The air pulsed with something heavy and electric that seeped through my chest and jump-started my heart.

The heat of his body brushed my back. His voice was whisper-soft in my ear as he gripped my hair in a fist, gently tugging my head back. “Who does this belong to, malyshka?”

My breath came out unsteady, my pulse slightly cold at the tension in his voice. There wasn’t a part of me that wanted to deny him at this point.

“You.”

A rumble of approval against my neck. His thumb brushed across my mouth. “This?”

“You,” I breathed.

His hand seared through my dress as he slid it down my stomach and cupped me between the legs. “And this?”

My skin buzzed with heat and breathlessness. I inhaled. “You. It belongs to you.”

He didn’t bother to take any of our clothes off before his body covered mine on the bed and he pushed deep inside of me. It was rough though constrained, with his mouth on mine, with his foreign words in my ear, with him holding me down as if I might want to escape. It was like he was trying to prove something to me, like this was all I needed.

And for a moment, I almost believed it.

“YOU DO KNOW I’M NOT a personal therapist, don’t you?”

“Didn’t you take an oath to help others in need?”

Sasha Taylor Ph.D.’s lips quirked. “I don’t believe you’re exactly in need, but I’ll admit, I’m too intrigued to turn you away.”

I sat back in my chair, resting an ankle on my knee. “I want to know what my diagnosis is.”

She didn’t have my file; she didn’t need it. She’d thought about me enough over the years—had tried to solve me like an unfinished puzzle.

She touched her pen to her chin, tilted her head. “Well, it’s been a while since we last spoke, but going off what I’ve learned about you from

our previous meetings, I’d say you’re somewhere on the low end of the OCD spectrum. I believe your behaviors to be more habits than compulsions.” She paused, leaving her indecision and unsaid words to hang in the air like fumes.

My unwavering gaze insisted she continue.

She swallowed. “I also highly suspect you’re affected by an antisocial personality disorder. Including but not limited to manipulation, exploitation, and, possibly, a lack of empathy for others.”

I’d always found mental disorders and their diagnoses boring, but I knew enough to know antisocial personality disorder was just another term for sociopathy.

A corner of my lips lifted. “Sounds serious. Should I be concerned?”

She fidgeted, averting her gaze and crossing her legs. “I’ve often wondered how you passed your psychological evaluation in the hiring process.”

“I guess diagnoses are a matter of opinion, aren’t they?”

Tags: Danielle Lori Made Erotic
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