Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Lust zigzags through my middle and sinks low, stealing my breath. “Don’t you think we should complete your session?”
“We’ve been at this for five years, Mandy.” He strips off his shirt, revealing his incredible physique to the office. To me. He’s more robust than ever, the tattoo of my face standing out prominently in the center of his chest. “I don’t want to be cured of my obsession with you. And you don’t want me to be cured, either.”
There is a lot of truth to what he’s saying. Five years ago, in the hotel room of that casino, I gave in to the abyss. We share it now. Quite honestly, we are animals when it comes to one another. Possessive, starving creatures that never get enough. But I’ve remained determined to keep us as healthy as possible, while we both battle our intense infatuation with each other. Bobby wraps me in a fog of contentment that tempts me to see nothing, do nothing, be nowhere but with him and I battled it for years in order to earn my degree.
Now we do therapy sessions together, which is by no means professional or ethical.
Or helpful, it seems.
And they always seem to end with me naked.
“The goal was never to cure you, Bobby. It was to help you cope with me going to work, having friends. Going to the store by myself…”
“You’re a great psychologist, Mandy, but I’m going to be fucked up for you until the day I die. No amount of time on this couch is going to make me feel relaxed when you’re not standing right in front of me. Or…” A low rumble builds in his chest. “…when you’re squirming around beneath me, whining for an orgasm.” He reaches out and traces my kneecap with his knuckle. “Get over here so I can eat you out.”
My core flexes in response to that command, a melting sensation beginning inside between my legs. “Bobby, we should talk—”
He lunges to his feet, eliminates the scant distance between us and wrestles me out of the chair. Before I can even form a protest, he’s throwing me down onto the couch, my notebook falling to the wayside. “You want to talk?” My husband shoves my knees open and spits on my naked mound. “Talk about why you never wear panties to my sessions.” He wets his lips, intense blue eyes heating, devouring the sight of my sex. “You like playing hard to get with your man, gorgeous. Admit it.” He rips my white blouse down the middle, buttons popping off and scattering on the hardwood floor, his palms stroking my braless breasts with ownership, skill, authority. “You want the big, filthy fire captain to come in here and get a little too aggressive with his hot, helpless therapist? Is that what you want?”
“I…I…”
“Goddamn.” He spits on my sex again, his face diving into my stomach to roll around in a revelatory way, his hands everywhere, everywhere. “New kink, baby? Every second of my life, I’m burning alive for this pussy and yet, you keep making it hotter and hotter and fucking hotter.” Slowly, he turns his head and looks at the shades that normally cover the windows of my twenty-third-floor office. I’ve left them open today. We’re in plain view of the building across the street. Dozens of windows. My husband’s face transforms with lustful understanding. “Ah, I see. You want them to watch me rough you up?”
A sound catches in my throat.
I probably need to schedule my own therapy sessions, because I arranged this moment unconsciously. I bring Bobby to my office under the guise of managing his behavior, but mine is just as bad. We’re bad for each other…in the most intoxicating, enlivening, eternal way. We always planned to have children, we still do, but we can’t come up for air long enough to make the decision to start a family. My husband demands my undivided attention, and I was born to give it to him—and vice versa. Babies will come someday.
Maybe.
But I’m not so confident we could be good parents with this twenty-four-seven drug use controlling our lives. He’s my drug and I’m his. Junkies shouldn’t be parents, right?
We’ll talk about it tomorrow, I think, knowing we won’t. And I’m fine with that.
I’m fine as long as his skin is touching mine.
I’m transcendent.
Immortal.
“Yes. Rough me up, please, Daddy,” I whisper, feeling his erection thicken against my leg. “Extra rough.”
His breath releases unsteadily, his pupils dilating. “You know exactly what I need today, don’t you, my perfect little wife?”
Do I?
Yes.
I naturally compensate for him, his moods. It’s easy to tell he had a hard day at work and has some frustration to burn off. I will always make sure my husband gets what he needs. After all, he does the same for me. Perhaps I left the blinds open so we could play dangerously, but I’ve added the rough part without thinking, knowing it will feed him. Smooth the jagged edges left behind by the fire.