I shook my head and gestured to the door. “No. I don’t want to see him outside if I can help it. Not to mention my father shows up at the worst possible times, ruining our sessions. You can lock that door. We’ll open it after you leave, that way nobody knows that you’re here.”
Tate shrugged and dropped the string he’d been holding to hoist up the blinds.
Then he stalked toward me.
“You want some coffee before we get started?”
My question had him tilting his head.
“No, I had two cups before I got out of the RV this morning,” he answered, taking his regular seat on the leather couch. “Is there anything you want to start with in particular today?”
I bit my lip and looked away, realizing rather quickly that the man was wearing tight blue jeans that hugged his hips—and his package—rather deliciously.
The shirt he had on clung to his chest, and I wasn’t sure that I could make it all the way through this session without involuntarily coming.
Not with the way I wanted him. Not with how he’d saved me earlier. Not with the way he was looking at me—like he wanted to eat me alive.
Shit, shit, shit!
I took a seat and crossed my legs, very much aware of the increase in sensation when I did that.
The clench of my thighs sandwiched my clit between the lips of my sex, and I had to tell myself, multiple times, not to squirm. Although it’d feel good, it was nearly impossible not to know what the hell was going on—what I was doing—on Tate Casey’s end.
This is so inappropriate, I thought morosely.
Tate shifted in his seat, his eyes hot and on me, as he waited for me to begin.
Though, that was just how Tate was. So freakin’ intense that sometimes it was hard to get two words strung together that made any bit of sense.
I uncrossed my legs and crossed them on the other side. His eyes tracked my movements.
“We’re going to start today off a little differently.” I cleared my throat. “If you had to choose one thing to never happen, whether it affected you or the world in general, what would it be?”
He pursed his lips, then casually crossed his arms loosely over his belly. His feet were stretched out in front of him, partially covered by the coffee table that was separating us.
“Anything?”
I nodded. “Anything.”
He tapped his fingers loosely on the opposite hand and lowered his brows in concentration.
“Rape.”
“Not murder?” I asked curiously.
He shook his head. “No. Sometimes murder is a good thing.”
I tilted my head. “How do you figure?”
“Have you ever heard of assisted suicide?” he questioned.
I nodded.
I had. Texas wasn’t one of the states that allowed it, but it was definitely something I’d heard about while going to school, as well as in the news and on Facebook.
“That’s a type of murder,” he explained. “If those patients weren’t able to get help, they’d live a painful life however long they had left to live it.”
I nodded, understanding where he was coming from.
“Any other examples?”
He had me curious.
He laid his arguments out well, and had backup and proof for everything he gave me. It was an amazing thing to have a man that could verbally spar with me.
“Well, say that you were young…a kid,” he said. “Say that you walked in on your sister being raped.”
My stomach clenched.
I knew where he was going with this, and the anger at what Tate had to go through as a young child, and was then expected to live with it, was a harsh reality that I’d never been able to see past.
I hated Tate’s mother. I hated my father for not doing anything about what had happened to Tate’s sister, Alyssa. I hated the town for not forcing the police force to follow through.
Alyssa hadn’t been anywhere near our age. She’d been in high school when her boyfriend of six months had gotten tired of waiting, and had decided that it was time for Alyssa to give up what she’d been flaunting.
Alyssa hadn’t been flaunting anything. Alyssa had been a normal teenage girl.
However, Alyssa’s boyfriend had decided that no didn’t mean no, and proceeded to rape her in her bedroom. All the while, Alyssa’s brother—Tate—had been in the next room.
Tate, at age eight, had gotten hungry and went to find his sister to see if she would cook for him. What he’d found when he’d come into the room was a sobbing Alyssa, and a still in the process of raping her, boyfriend.
Tate had tried to intervene, not quite understanding the repercussions of what he saw, but he’d tried to help anyway. He’d gotten a fist to the face for his trouble, and had passed out.
Once Alyssa’s boyfriend had stopped, he’d left. Alyssa had then had to take not just herself, but her brother, to the hospital.
Then, two months later, she found out that she was pregnant with his kid.
It was rumored that Alyssa had then tried to kill herself, but nobody besides Tate and maybe his mother knew the truth.
“Walked into that room, and what I saw will forever haunt my brain,” he said. “My eight-year-old self was able to twist what I did see, and now every time I get into a similar situation that reminds me of it I black out. My rage is over the top, and off the charts. I can’t seem to control anything—not even my mouth. But here’s where I think murder can be good in certain situations.”
I paused and waited for what he’d say next. Would it make me smile? Would I agree with him? Would it be morally and ethically wrong, and would I have to delve into this further?
As all of these questions filtered through my brain, I was left blinking stupidly when he said what he did next.
“I witnessed my sister try to kill herself four times.”
My eyes closed, and my pen stopped doodling on my paper.
“The second time, I stopped her, she screamed at me. She told me that I was selfish.”
I bit my lip.
This man wasn’t selfish.
“The fourth time, she was days away from having her baby.” He paused. “And that was the day, at the age of nine years old, that I knew that sometimes killing someone was okay—sometimes this Earth can’t handle them—can’t make them whole again. Sometimes, it’s the most humane thing to do, let them go.”
“I’ve wanted to kill Duncan Trey every day for the last twenty plus years.” He paused. “He’s the reason I have never met my nephew. He’s the reason my sister refuses to have anything to do with me. He’s the reason that I am the way I am. He’s the reason that I can’t fuckin’ sleep at night.” He looked at me sharply. “I’ve witnessed seven girls get raped, as well as two men.”
My belly churned.
“Most of those I saw while I was overseas in the military,” he added. “And most of them were men doing that to their wives—though it’s okay over there. The woman is supposed to do what the man says she has to do. If she doesn’t, she can be punished for her sins.”
I bit my lip, trying hard not to interrupt him. This was the most I’d ever gotten out of him in one session.
“The good thing, though, was that all of those men were living on borrowed time. One by one, they all went down by either my hand, or somebody else’s hand, until there was only one left—my sister’s rapist.”
“You won’t…”
His smile was fierce. “I won’t. But I want to.”
I licked my dry lips. This was toeing the line for me…I was at a point where I needed to make a decision.
I needed to either allow this one to go untouched, call his probation office, and tell them that this man wasn’t going to be fixed in just twenty something sessions. Or, I needed to let it go.
“Heavy thoughts?” he teased.
I shrugged.
“What I’m thinking is that you’re
a very strong man.”
He laughed and looked away, and I chose that moment to stand up and walk to my desk where a Keurig was sitting.
“Coffee?”
He grinned but shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. Thank you, though.”
I half-heartedly smiled at him and started myself a cup, waiting for the man to say he was through with this session.
When he didn’t, however, I realized that he didn’t plan on going anywhere.
He was giving me the answers today, because something had changed.
“Tate?”
He’d never once taken his eyes off of me.
“Yeah?”
His voice was rough, and for the first time today, I took everything about him in.
“Tate…”
“Hennessy.”
I took a step forward.
“Are you even a little bit apologetic?” I asked, trying to keep myself from taking that next step.
He shook his head so slowly that it was almost impossible to misunderstand.
“Prison sucked ass,” he admitted. “However, that little girl is fifteen now, has a boyfriend, and is alive right now because of me.”
I bit my lip.
“Probably should be sorry.”
I nodded.
“But I’m not.”
No, I could see that he wasn’t.
“As the person in charge of your case, and the anger management issues, I should be encouraging you to never think the way you’re thinking right now.”
He shrugged.
“But…”
“But,” I exhaled slowly. “But I’m not going to. There’s no reason to.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I can’t say I don’t agree with you,” I answered. “I would’ve probably done the same thing, being in your position.”
His lips tipped up.
“I’d hope that if you were ever put into a situation like that, that you wouldn’t do anything as stupid as I did,” he drawled. “Otherwise you might get that pretty little head hurt.”
He thought my head was pretty?
“Pretty little head?”
His lips twitched.
“And that cute fat ass.”
My mouth fell open.
“It’s not fat.”
His eyes went to my hips.
“No, you’re not fat. Your ass though? It’s not fat, fat. But it’s fat. Round. I bet it would take my hips pounding against it like a pro.” He paused. “Would like to see it flaming red from my hand smacking it, too.”
I swallowed.
That was when I noticed that I wasn’t across the room from him anymore, but standing near the edge of the couch—only a scant few feet away from him.
I swallowed and started to step back, but his hand reached out and snagged my wrist, halting my backward retreat.
“You know something, Ms. Hanes?”
I swallowed again, and shook my head.
The feel of his long, strong fingers wrapped around my delicate wrist was my undoing.
I never knew that a touch on my wrist could feel like an electrode was connected straight to my clit, but damned if I wasn’t pressing my thighs together to alleviate the ache.
His eyes missed nothing.
“What do I know?” I whispered hoarsely.
“I know that this thing between me and you will never work.”
I frowned, anger that he’d write us off before we even started simmering in my belly.
Before we’d even started? What the hell, Hennessy?
“Wanna know why I know that?”
I swallowed and nodded.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
I cleared my throat.
“What do I think?”
“You’re thinking that this is a patient doctor line that shouldn’t be crossed.”
I nodded faintly. It was. Very much so.
“But that’s not what’ll ruin us.”
“What will ruin us?” I questioned.
He grinned. “We will.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You’re the preacher’s daughter. I’m the son of the town whore.”
I bit my lip.
He was speaking the truth.
Everyone knew who I was, and everyone knew who he was. Neither of us denied that fact.
“You’re all sunshine and giggling unicorns. A doctor that the whole entire fucking town can’t help but love, and I’m the dark, dangerous man that’s been to prison. That has killed someone. Nobody but my own crew likes me. You’re sweet honey, and I’m gasoline. Highly flammable and something that everyone is wary of.”
“I like the smell of gasoline,” I blurted.
His lips twitched.
“We’re gonna do this once, and once only.”
He pulled me closer, and by God if I didn’t do what he asked without protest.
“Straddle my hips.”
He’d see my garter belt. My stockings. The ones that I wore for him.
Oh, fuck.
I shook my head.
“What we’re about to do could ruin my career.”
His smile was sort of scary.
“How’s your heart?”
I placed my free hand to my chest, and felt it beating. “It’s racing.”
He smiled at that news. “What about your cunt?”
I shivered.
That word, coming from his mouth, would be my undoing.
“My vagina is…wet.”
Why was I being so honest with him?
“Do you ever say cunt…or pussy?”
I shook my head.
I tried really hard not to curse. The worst word I used was hell or damnation.
Being the daughter of a preacher was one way to stop yourself from using those kinds of words.
It’d been touch and go in college, but I’d managed to stay strong.
This man, though? He had the power to make me do anything, and I think he always had.
“What about cock?”
I shook my head, my eyes going to where his fingers still wrapped around my wrists to keep myself from looking at his lower half. Because if I did, I might very well throw myself at him.
“No,” I rasped.
My eyes became fixated on his tattoos. Starting at his fingers, they flowed up his wrist into a perfect sleeve. There wasn’t an inch of his skin that wasn’t covered with something. A jester. Swirls from some tribal pattern. A flower. Rose petals. A constellation. Mickey Mouse. The word ‘Alyssa.’ It just went on, and on, and on.
Each one I wanted to ask its meaning, but I couldn’t make my mouth work.
My body was focused on other things—like the throbbing between my legs.
I wanted nothing more than to drop my hand between my legs, and swirl my fingers around that unfamiliar bundle of nerves.
Yes, you’re reading that correctly. Unfamiliar.
I’d never had an orgasm.
Never.
I’d never once touched myself down there.
I’d had sex one time, and one time only.
It was the night I got really, really drunk.
I’d been at a party, had started drinking, and it’d lowered my inhibitions enough for me to do something I’d never been able to do before. Have sex.
It’d been a boy from my physics class. He’d been what you would call a nerd, and had been exceptionally terrible at sex.
I’d come onto him, and he’d taken me up on the offer almost immediately.
He’d taken me up to his room, shut the door, and followed me down onto the bed.
There I’d let him touch me.
I knew I hadn’t gotten off. I was fairly sure I hadn’t even been all that turned on.
But I’d always been curious.
However, when I was sober, I wasn’t able to lower my walls enough to ask for what I want
ed.
There was a time that I thought something was wrong with me, but right now, standing next to this man, I realized that there wasn’t anything wrong with me.
I just hadn’t been near the right man long enough to realize what I wanted.
And I wanted Tate Casey, almost more than I wanted my next breath.
His eyes watched my face, studied every single expression that crossed it.
“Are you a virgin, Hennessy Hanes?”
I shook my head.
That was one thing I wouldn’t be able to lie about, and didn’t have to.
I wasn’t a virgin.
I hadn’t come. I never got myself off. And I hadn’t had sex in over ten years.
But I wasn’t a virgin.
Practically, yes. But technically, no.
My drunken night of sex with my first and only sexual partner had ended with him getting off the moment he’d sank his penis inside of me. I guess I should be lucky that I at least got that. Krisney hadn’t had sex with any man but her ex-boyfriend, Reed. Reed, who had shown her what she was missing, and then had taken it away from her. Mine, at least, hadn’t done that.
“Good,” he growled.
Then I was in his lap.
This was going to be bad. I knew it. He knew it. We all freakin’ knew it.
My notepad hit the floor, and the next thing I knew, my mouth was on his.
I was straddling his thick thighs.
They felt like rocks underneath my ass, as well as the long, thick column of his cock.
I told myself this was a bad idea.
I was breaching all kinds of patient/doctor boundaries.
Did I care?
Hell no.
Should I care?
Hell yes.
I felt his hands on my outer thighs, and it took me a long minute to realize that he’d gotten my skirt up to my hips, exposing everything from the waist down.
I pulled away from him, my chest heaving, and stared worriedly into his eyes.
He looked down, not realizing my rising panic.
Why was I panicking?
Because I don’t shave my vagina.
It likely looked like a wooly mammoth was covering my vagina.
Oh, God.
I started to pull away, but then I felt his thumb sweep over my panty-clad lips, and froze.
“Like that you got hair.”
My breath stalled in my lungs.
“I-I don’t shave,” I told him.
Burn in Hail Page 7
