by Ivy Jordan
All that aside, I couldn’t quite shake the new-forming fantasy of having Sawyer take me in my own office.
Chapter Thirteen
SAWYER
I woke in a cold sweat, my heart racing, hands balled into fists at my side. I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t remember how to catch a breath. My eyes bulged, and I looked around my room wildly, expecting to see a man crouched with a gun, expecting to see my comrades dead on the floor. I was still in Afganistan in my mind, stuck in a foreign land with no help and no way to get out. I couldn’t escape. I was going to die.
But when I searched my surroundings, I saw a baseball poster. I saw a high school trophy for baseball sitting on an old wooden dresser. I saw a suitcase propped against a door. Never in my life had my room looked to me so foreign and so out of place as it did in that instant. I closed my eyes, but opened them again—I didn’t want to go back to sleep and face that again. These monsters I faced in consciousness were better than what awaited me in sleep.
I always forgot when I woke up. That was the worst part of it. When my eyes opened, I was back in Austin, and I couldn’t remember what had woken me up in the first place. I only knew that I was scared and I had to get my heart to slow down. The whole world didn’t feel right, though. Everything felt gross and obscene. How could I be looking at a baseball poster when somewhere, in some other world, there was a man bleeding out on the floor?
I laid in bed for a while until I felt better, and by then, the sun was coming up through the window. I needed to get back to my day. Something nagged in the back of my mind, and when I checked my phone, I saw that I had an appointment with Quinn. I smiled and got up, eager to prepare for that.
Even if we couldn’t date, even if she didn’t want to see me, I was excited to see her. She was one of the few people I could talk to that didn’t judge me, or seem to judge me. She let me talk and didn’t treat me like I was somehow special or different. I was neither deified nor ridiculed in her office. As a person, she was level-headed and beautiful and Christ, I wasn’t done being interested in her.
It probably had something to do with that I hadn’t been in the company of a woman in years. I would have found anyone attractive—at least, that’s what I told myself as I got ready, pulling my shoes on. Quinn didn’t deserve to be pressured into a relationship with someone who could barely tell attraction from a bad case of blue balls.
Which, of course, didn’t stop me from thinking about it while I drove to her office. I tried to keep a level head, but I was excited to see her, and I wanted to talk to her. That was perfectly normal, though wasn’t it? To be excited to see a therapist?
When I arrived, I did my best not to notice. She wore a skirt today, long legs supple and sturdy, prominent because of the heels she wore. I didn’t notice the firm curve of her bottom under the tight skirt, I didn’t think about how it might feel under my fingers. I didn’t imagine holding the slender waist or seeing the rest of the smooth breasts that threatened to peek out from under her top.
None of this. I could notice none of this. I met her calm blue eyes and did not watch her blonde hair; she’d worn it down, and it fell like every cliché I could think of to describe hair—like a waterfall, tumbling past her shoulders, like everything I’d ever wanted to knot my fingers in.
I exhaled, and she lifted her brow. “Sawyer, are you alright?”
Perfectly alright, if not on edge. I offered her a smile and nodded. “Yeah, I’m alright. Can I come in?” I was on time today, not early like I was before.
She offered me a cup of tea, which I turned down—I wasn’t a fan of tea and preferred coffee, but I hadn’t had coffee in some time. She sat down in her chair, and I noticed she wasn’t wearing her glasses today. Part of me wanted to believe that she’d dressed this way to get attention from me. It would at least make me feel better about noticing it. But I had no way of asking her, and she had no way of bringing it up, and so we began the session as though I weren’t moments away from absolutely losing my mind.
“Are you doing alright today?” She asked.
I nodded and thought about the night before. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”
“You seem like something’s bothering you.”
Something was bothering me, but it wasn’t something that I could tell her. I didn’t want to lie and say that I was fine—that would be an obvious lie. So instead, I decided to tell her something that wasn’t untrue. “I’ve been having some trouble sleeping,” I said.
“Oh? Nightmares?”
“Sort of.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I mean, I think they are. I wake up, and I’m all panicked. But I never remember what any of it was about. I just know that I’m freaking out, you know?”
Quinn clicked her pen. “Do you get a cold sweat, hard time breathing, pounding heart?”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t remember what they are when you wake up?”
“Right. It’s weird. It takes me a few seconds to orient myself, and then I’m just… awake.” I shook my head. “And it’s hard for me to fall asleep after.”
She took a few notes. “That’s probably night terrors. People who get those often say that they don’t know what happened in the dream, but it’s kind of like an unconscious panic attack.”
“Huh.” I shrugged. “They’re a pain, in any case.”
“They usually happen due to some kind of disturbance,” she explained further. She tilted her head slightly. “They’re common in victims of PTSD, for example.”
I stared at her for a moment, and I frowned. I didn’t want to tell her that she was wrong, but at the same time, she couldn’t be right. “I don’t know if that’s really enough to determine that I have PTSD.”
“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “I haven’t been seeing you long enough to make any kind of diagnosis. But it is enough to tell me that there might be something that happened overseas after all. Or, hell, maybe something that happened before you went overseas.”
She was onto me, then. It seemed there wasn’t a secret I could keep from her. There weren’t any secrets that I wanted to keep from her, either, except the ones that might make her look at me with disgust. Because, in the back of my mind, I still wanted her to like me. It was stupid and absurd, but it was true.
“I…” I frowned and furrowed my brow. “I, um, I’m still bothered some by some of what happened. Some of the things I saw, anyway, some of the things I, um…” I shook my head, surprised at my own inability to talk about it.
Quinn didn’t say anything. She watched me without pity, without that awful look people got where they wanted, in some sense, to hear a horrible war story. I saw it often in civilians. They yearned for stories about bodies being blown apart. They ached for blood because they had no idea what it was really like.
There was none of that in the way she watched me. She was merely waiting, waiting to see if I’d finish my story, if I’d leave off. It was the most patient look I’d gotten since I came home, without demand or neediness.
I wanted her to look at me with neediness, but a different sort. The thoughts began to bubble to mind again, and I pushed them down, opting to continue talking instead of thinking about my name on her lips as…
“I don’t think I can talk about the specifics,” I said. I cleared my throat. “I, um, I don’t think I can talk about exactly… Can’t tell the stories.”
Quinn nodded, finally having her answer, and she jotted it down. How could she sit there and not sense the tension in the room? I must be imagining it. I was confusing this entire relationship with my horrible, horrible case of blue balls. It was shameful. I wanted to be ashamed but couldn’t manage it.
“That’s perfectly fine,” Quinn said. “Honestly, just that you admitted you had something happen is a big step. You’re acknowledging the problem.”
I hadn’t acknowledged my biggest and most current problem. But, Quinn didn’t need to know that right at this moment. I nodded, offering a terse smile.
“A
nd of course, you know that this is all confidential,” Quinn reminded me.
“I know,” I said. Of course. Because she was my doctor, and I was her patient, and this was all perfectly fucking professional.
We spoke mainly about my childhood for the rest of the session, not really making any breakthroughs or discussing anything important. I didn’t want to disclose anything further but did want to talk about something to distract from my inability to get my mind off of her in the worst way possible.
When the session was through, I stood up. “Thank you,” I said, and started to dart out the door.
“Wait, Sawyer.”
When I turned around, she had her bottom lip in her teeth. If I could have taken her right there, I would have done it. I took a breath to steady myself.
“I was thinking…” Quinn shook her head. “Look, I was thinking that maybe you should see someone else.”
Shit. I’d done something. I’d given myself away. I knew for a fact I didn’t have a boner, and I hadn’t made any lewd comments, so I wasn’t sure what I’d done, but I’d done something to betray my intentions. “What?”
“Not that there’s any problem,” Quinn said. “I was just thinking you should see someone else because I… I’d like to get to know you better. Outside of here. I want to go to dinner with you.”
I stared at her, unsure of what exactly to say. All of a sudden I wasn’t sure that I’d ever known how to speak. “I don’t want to see someone else.”
“But I…”
A sense of dread filled my stomach. I wouldn’t be able to talk this easily to anyone else. No one else listened this well. I walked forward and, despite the muscles in my body that screamed at me not to do it, took her hand in mine.
“You might be the only one who can help me,” I said carefully.
She stared at me, eyes wide. I could see the red coming to the surface of her cheeks, and her mouth parted slightly. I’d gone too far, and yet not far enough. She didn’t move away. The silence hung in the air like an impenetrable cloud.
She leaned forward, and I claimed her mouth in a kiss.
Chapter Fourteen
QUINN
We stood so near one another, and it felt alien, this closeness. When he took my hand, I nearly jerked back because I knew that we shouldn’t be touching like that. We shouldn’t have been touching at all. I should have been ordering him out of my office.
Instead, I leaned forward, and he leaned down, and he kissed me. I could have cried with happiness just to finally feel his lips on mine, the gentle scratch of his stubble against my cheek when he pulled away slightly.
Before he could say anything, I pressed my mouth back against his. There was something hungry about this. I wanted nothing more than to feel his body against mine, and I could tell that he wanted much of the same. We didn’t need to beat around the bush, then. I paused for a moment to make sure the blinds were drawn—I didn’t want any strangers walking into this.
He pulled me closer by the waist, mouth against my cheek, against my neck. I stumbled backward and the backs of my legs hit the couch. How badly I’d wanted this, how desperately I’d felt for this, it nearly made me ashamed. I pressed myself against him.
His hands moved down to my ass, and he fit his leg neatly between the both of mine and squeezed, grinding against me in the process. I groaned into his mouth, almost too drunk on sheer desire to press my tongue against his. There was no way to get close enough.
One of his hands found its way under my shirt, and I felt a sure, confident squeeze on my breast. I moaned my consent and broke away to toss the garment off over my head, and Sawyer made surprisingly quick work of my bra before taking his own shirt off.
I had never noticed his tattoos before. How had I not noticed? It occurred to me that every time I’d seen him, he’d worn a long-sleeve shirt, and this must be why. I had little time to take him in, though. He moved us, pressing me against a wall.
“Is it too late to be professional, Dr. Rodgers?” he asked, my name a low growl on his lips. I’d never wanted someone more, never felt such a lust in my blood.
“Terribly too late, I’m afraid,” I confirmed, rolling my hips up against him.
He cursed and twisted my nipple almost harshly between his fingers. I yelped, and he chuckled, kissing my neck again. He trailed his kisses lower until his mouth, like a firebrand, was against my chest. Teeth, tongue, heat against my breasts, but he always knew just when to back off, and he didn’t linger too long.
“I’ve been wanting this,” he admitted, speaking against my stomach. “I’ve been sitting on that couch…” he shook his head.
He’d started to talk dirty, and I needed to hear the rest of it. “What were you thinking?” I asked, nearly panting. His fingers moved in small motions up my thigh, up my skirt. He pulled my legs farther apart, sitting on his knees.
“I was thinking about what you looked like,” he said, pressing another kiss, this one on my hip. His hand moved further up my thigh, brushing the sensitive skin up higher. “About how you left your hair down. Like you were daring me to take you in your office.”
His hand rested against my underwear, moving lazily, like he had all the time in the world. My mouth opened, and no words could come out. My underwear came off, and I felt it hit my ankles.
“Is that what you want to do?” I asked, as though we weren’t halfway through the process already. “Take me in my office?”
He said nothing, only pressed his fingers to the folds of my sex. He found my clit and circled it. I buried my fingers in his hair and drove my hips up, trying to force him to bear down, and he evaded me.
“Is that what you wanted?” he asked. “After all the effort we’ve gone to for keeping things professional?” As he said ‘professional,’ he dragged his thumb, and I closed my eyes.
“Yes. Yes, yes.”
“You wanted me to take you in your office?” He pressed two fingers inside me, meeting little resistance, and curled them towards him.
I could hardly answer. His thumb continued to grind against me, fingers pumping steadily in and out of me. I could feel that I was going to come.
He stopped. “Is that a yes, Quinn?”
“Fuck, yes. Yes, please. Please.” I stared at him, entirely helpless, subject to his will.
He stood up and turned me over, moved me like I weighed less than nothing. Instead of bending me over the desk, which might have been painful, he merely turned me towards it, and I pressed my hands to the surface. I pushed my ass towards him, still with that skirt on, inviting him closer.
I was completely out of my mind. I was completely out of my mind, and he was completely out of his, and I didn’t want to go back.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered behind me. It thrilled me to know he liked what he saw.
One of his strong hands found my waist, and he pulled me up slightly. I took a deep breath in and felt the hot length of him pressing against me. He eased himself into me oddly carefully for the aggressive encounter we’d had so far. He filled me slowly, almost agonizingly slowly, inch by inch until he was seated inside me.
I could hear his breathing, ragged and hard, as he began to move in and out. He found a rhythm easily, and I could hear myself moaning, almost crying. I sat up slightly, and he reached around to grab one of my breasts, pulling down on the nipple. I cried out, and at that moment, he moved his hand between my legs and worked my clit with an expertise that made me burst.
I lost myself then, hopelessly jutting back against him, crying out in his arms. When I began to come down, he let out a small shout behind me and pulled away suddenly.
When I turned around, the sight of him, naked in front me with his expression dazed, made me smile. I pulled him down against me to kiss him again.
He finally pulled away and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Are you on birth control?” he asked me.
It was an odd question to ask, but, to be fair, one we should have considered beforehand. “Yeah,” I answered.
“Have been since I was a teenager.”
We hadn’t used a condom. Still, I didn’t have any STD’s, and I doubted that he did. Some part of me started to panic and remember all the statistics—there was no way to be sure without a condom, after all, and he could lie about having an STD. I could go to the doctor the next day, at least. But then, I might have to explain that to the doctor.
I’d had sex with a patient. I pulled my skirt back on and watched as Sawyer pulled his jeans back on. Then my bra, cup by cup, and my blouse on haphazardly. I’d had sex with a patient that I had serious concerns about. This person had told me earlier that very day that he was still troubled by what he saw overseas, and expressed disdain at seeing another therapist.
I could have genuinely destroyed his chances at a recovery. I began to rack my brain for some kind of excuse for myself. There had been sexual tension from the get-go—I should have told him to see someone else much sooner. I had certainly consented to this, and so had he, but one of us should have stopped.
We’d been making progress, and now we’d set that progress back. I couldn’t expect him to see me as a professional after this. I couldn’t expect to see him as only a patient. I didn’t want to see him as only a patient. A wave of dread hit me, leaving me almost nauseated. I felt like shit, and yet still some part of me wanted him to bend me back over that desk, to see how much further he could take me, as if we hadn’t done enough to damage this relationship.
What had happened? I could barely wrap my mind around this. Everything spiraled out of control so quickly, and now I couldn’t regain that control. I pulled my hair up in a ponytail, and he pulled his shirt back on—I’d forgotten to take stock of his tattoos. Would I get the chance again?
