by Mia Ford
“Well, I wasn't going to put it that way, but okay,” I said. “Then yes, I will continue to see you then.”
My cheeks were burning, and I knew they were bright red. In my mind's eye, I kept seeing him on top of me, plunging his cock into me. My body reacted, recalling the way he'd felt inside of me. The way it had felt when I'd had him in my mouth. I felt a fire ignite between my thighs and felt myself getting wet despite my best efforts to avoid those thoughts in the first place.
I had to continue to act like a professional, however. I had a job to do – a job I took very seriously and very personally. I was good at what I did and enjoyed it to boot. I wouldn't jeopardize it. So, I remained in my chair, was sure to sit up straight with my ankles crossed, and my arms crossed in front of my chest. Drew smiled at me, and in that smile, I could tell that his inner thoughts weren't exactly clean – he was likely recalling everything that had just flashed through my mind. As if acting of their own accord, my eyes drifted down to his crotch and I could see the outline of his thick, hard cock straining against his pants. That only made the fire between my thighs burn hotter and more intensely
As difficult as it was, I pushed away the lascivious thoughts running through my mind. He was obviously thinking about last night. As was I. Of course, It was hard not to, especially considering how amazing it was. But whatever happened, it happened in the past.
And it could not, would not, happen again.
No way, no how.
Chapter Six
DREW
“Can you at least tell me your name?” I asked.
“I have. It's Dr. Emerson,” she responded nonchalantly.
“No, I mean your first name,” I said. “I hate that I didn't ask last night –”
“You don't need to know that, Drew,” she said, smiling in a friendly way that came off as insincere, but polite. “Let's keep things professional, okay? And we need to set up a ground rule here right at the outset – last night never happened. It's not to be brought up in this office again. You got me?”
I smirked, but could tell that she was serious. “Aye aye, Captain.”
“I'm serious, Drew,” she said.
“I got you. But you already know my name,” I said, biting my lip. “It's not fair –”
“Who said anything about being fair,” she said. “This is about helping you, not conforming to what your definition of fair is, Drew.”
Damn. She was whip smart and on it with the replies today. Not like the woman last night who seemed taken in by my every word. Today she was shooting me down left and right. She didn't seem impressed with me or anything I had to say. And I had to admit, it stung a bit.
She was a beautiful woman – and if possible, even more beautiful today than she had been in the club last night.
“You know, I have a thing for smart women,” I said. “Maybe we should –”
“Maybe we should talk about your panic attacks, since that's what your insurance is paying for,” she said, shutting me down again. “When was the last time you had one?”
“When I woke up this morning and saw that you'd left me without even saying goodbye,” I said.
That was a lie, but it was smooth. I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with that one. Not that I ever imagined I'd be hitting on my therapist, but given that I was already traveling down that road, it seemed like the perfect line.
Except, of course, Dr. Emerson didn't look at all amused by my antics. In fact, she was rubbing her temples and looking downright annoyed at me.
“Drew, if we can't keep things professional, I'm not doing you any good,” she said. “And if I'm not going to be able to help you, I will have no choice but to –”
This time, I cut her off. “Fine,” I said, looking down at my hands. I picked at the skin around my thumb as I tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be taken as a flirt or a joke. “I'm sorry. I'm just not comfortable talking about my feelings and shit, you know? It's a hell of a lot simpler – not to mention more fun – to flirt with you.”
“Is it worse because of our history together?” she asked.
“History?” I laughed. There wasn't much history, but I let it slide and answered her question truthfully. “Not really. I just don't like talking about myself.”
“I figured that much,” she said, her eyes softening as she looked at me. “Most of the men who come in to see me don't like talking about their feelings, it feels foreign or wrong to them. Because they weren't raised that way. Most of them have been taught to stuff all of your emotions down into a box. It's not manly to talk about your feelings. It makes you feel weak. Inferior. Perhaps even like a sissy. And of course, the military doesn't do you any favors with the macho –”
“Hey now,” I said, stopping her right there. “The military has done me a lot of favors. The military has been really good to me.”
“Yes, of course. I didn't mean it like that and I sincerely apologize,” she said. “I just meant that you're not really encouraged to talk about your feelings, even when you witness so much death and destruction. Keeping all of that in and never finding a way to express it does you more harm than good, Drew. It eats away at your mind and your soul. It's just not healthy.”
I shrugged.
“I'm right about that, aren't I?” she asked.
“I guess so.”
There was a silence in the room – a heavy silence as if she expected me to say more. But I knew what she was trying to do, and it didn't work. The silence didn't scare me; I was used to it. I came to expect it now that I was home. And I wasn't the type who talked just to fill empty spaces in the conversation. I wasn't one of those who got scared by a gap in the conversation and needed to fill it with whatever inane bullshit popped into my head.
“You guess so?” she asked, trying to nudge me into speaking. “I'm guessing this started at a young age. Why don't you tell me about your parents, Drew?”
My parents. As soon as she mentioned them, my entire body tensed up. My fists were balled up in my lap and I had to look away. Had to look at anything but her.
“I see that struck a nerve, and I'm sorry. There's just no notes in your file about your parents –”
“Because they're dead,” I said, letting out a deep breath. “They died a few years back. It was a car accident.”
Dr. Emerson's eyes grew wide. “I'm sorry, Drew. I had no idea.”
And I could tell by the expression on her face that she meant it. She was sorry. She was sincere, didn't try to patronize or placate me. She came across as genuine, sincere, and compassionate – and I liked her a little more because of it.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to smile, but failed. “It's okay. You didn't know, and I'm not here to be coddled, now am I?”
“No, you're not here for the coddling,” she said. “But I also don't want to make things worse for you. If I had known, I would have brought it up in a gentler way.”
“Gentle? With me?” I snorted. “No one has ever felt the need to be gentle about anything with me. I mean, look at me – do I look like the type of man who needs you to be gentle?”
Dr. Emerson smiled, a soft smile that felt warm and genuine. “No, but as I know from experience, looks can often be deceiving, Drew. Sometimes the biggest, most manly men are the ones who need the most help emotionally. They're the ones least likely to talk about what's really bothering them. The least likely to seek out help even though their soul is rotting from the inside out.”
I shook my head, trying hard not to laugh. This all sounded like new age, touchy feely bullshit to me, and I really didn't want anyone – including a woman I fucked the night before – to feel the need to be gentle around me. I wasn't some weak ass bitch and I didn't need to be treated with kid gloves.
“I'm a Navy SEAL,” I said. “I've seen men and women die, right in front of me, and in some really outlandishly terrible ways. I'm just fine.”
“Oh really?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “If that's the case, then why a
re you here?”
ooo000ooo
She had me there. As I left her office, I was as confused as ever as to why I was seeing a shrink. My dear old dad would be so fucking ashamed of me right now. Talking about my feelings and shit with a therapist – it just wasn't our way. Wasn't how we doing things. We sucked it up, dealt with our shit, and carried on. Dr. Emerson had been right about that. I wasn't raised to be open about my feelings, because I was a boy. A man. And I had a job to do – serve in the military, protect our country and eventually, one day, provide for a family. None of that would be easy and I never expected it to be.
I stopped in the hallway and turned around. Walking back to her office, I opened the door and peeked inside.
“So, you still won't tell me your first name?” I asked.
“No.” She didn't even look up from her notes as she answered.
“Then at least answer one question, please,” I said. “Why were you there last night? At the bar? And why did you go home with me?”
She stopped writing, but still didn't look up, her eyes fixed on the notepad in front of her.
“Why does that matter, Drew?” she asked.
“Because, well, I wasn't looking for this – whatever it is this is. I was just lonely and looking for someone to spend my birthday with. And then I found you. That's what I was looking for. And I just got to wondering what it was you were looking for?”
She turned and looked at me, finally, and there was sadness in her eyes. “Maybe I was looking for the same thing, Drew.”
It made sense, but it also didn't. Why was she lonely? It was no mystery why I was lonely. But she was a beautiful, successful young woman who could have anyone she wanted – I was sure of that. She had to have family and friends and co-workers – all things I'd lost and hadn't been able to find again.
But it was obvious by the way she sat there staring at me, that there was no way she was talking about it. She wasn't going to open up to me the way she demanded I opened up to her. Not now, at least.
“Well hopefully you found what you needed,” I said. “I promise to not bring it up again.”
“I appreciate it,” she said, turning back to her work briefly before looking back up at me. “Oh, and happy belated birthday.”
“Thanks,” I muttered to myself as I continued walking toward the waiting room.
Chapter Seven
AMELIA
I listened to his footsteps fading away as he made his way out of my office and down the hallway. As soon as I heard the door at the end of the hall close – which meant he was back in the waiting room, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My body relaxed into the chair as a powerful wave of relief washed over me.
I'd see him again in a week, but at least I had a week to mentally prepare myself for it. I'd been completely blindsided when I opened the door and saw him standing there. But I'd do a better job of keeping an even keel next time. I made that vow to myself.
He'd promised to not mention sleeping together again, but I wasn't sure it would be that easy. It was on his mind – as it was mine, truth be told – and it would always be the elephant in the room, no matter what we were talking about. It was the one reason I wasn't sure this arrangement was going to work out.
I had second thoughts about keeping him on as a client. Then third, fourth, and fifth thoughts. Reaching for the phone, I came so close to calling Dr. Frank and requesting he see Drew Hunter from now on. But the man had requested to stay with me. Maybe he was hoping he could sleep with me again, or perhaps he actually needed me. It was a crapshoot at that point.
But I was an expert in what he was going through and knew that if anybody could help him, it would be me. It was just impossible to know if I was doing the right thing or not.
I held off on calling Dr. Frank and put the phone back in place. I wouldn't refer Drew out. For now, at least.
My cell phone buzzed, pulling me back to the here and now. It couldn't be Drew, he didn't have my cell phone number, but my pulse raced nonetheless.
Can I see you? Please, Amelia, the message read.
My heart sank.
It was Charlie.
My finger hovered over the Delete Message option, but my hand shook violently as I stared at the words on the screen. I moved to delete it again, but couldn't bring myself to do it.
It buzzed again.
I screwed up, I know it now. I miss you so much.
Tears welled up in my eyes. As much as I hated to admit it, I missed him too. Or at least the man I'd always thought him to be. The last few months though, I'd seen somebody entirely different, somebody I hadn't even recognized. And I didn't like it. Not one bit.
I silenced my phone. No need to deal with that at work. Not now. Not ever, honestly.
ooo000ooo
The train ride home was uneventful. Some nights, Charlie joined me on my ride home, coming to my house to spend the night. Other nights, we went to his place. We didn't spend every night together, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to live a double life so easily. But we'd spent enough nights together for this solo train ride to feel extra lonely and depressing.
Charlie tried to call while I was on my way home. A few times actually. I never even bothered to listen to the voice mails. Hearing his voice might break me, might convince me to cave in and see him, and once that happened, I would lose it. I would give in and go back to him. I knew myself well enough to know that.
I was sad, of course, but there was anger seething underneath the surface as well. A deep, abiding, and justifiable anger. We'd been through so much together, how could he do that to me? Did I really matter so little to him that some other woman could take my place so easily?
If you listened to his frantic text messages, you'd think that wasn't the case – that he thought me irreplaceable. But I saw what he'd said to her. I'd read his texts to her. I knew he said the same things to her that he'd said me.
And what he'd told her – as well as what he'd told me – were utter and complete bullshit.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to block out the visions of him with her. I tried to think of anything else, anything at all. And that's when I thought about the night before with Drew. A smile tugged at my lips as I remembered the way he'd touched me, the way he'd kissed me and how good it felt to be with him.
Drew had made me feel desired and sexy – something Charlie hadn't done in a while. Over time, the sex had slowed down between us, but I'd just assumed it was normal. That's what happened when couples were together awhile, right? But eventually it stopped altogether, and I no longer felt that he wanted me in that way. He was always content to keep his distance, and he never looked at me as a sexual being again.
Little did I know at the time, that he was seeing other women in that way.
But Drew – just the way his gaze moved over my body was enough to make me stop doubting my attractiveness. He made me feel beautiful again. Sexy. Desired.
Earlier, when he'd asked me what I needed from our encounter, I'd told the truth. Yes, I wanted to escape the never-ending loneliness that had become a part of my life. And being with someone, even for just one night, was a cure for that. At least temporarily. But it was more than that. I needed a man to make me feel sexy again, to desire me in a way Charlie hadn't in a very long time.
And I'd found that with Drew. He'd given me exactly what I needed. And for that, I was grateful. Eternally grateful. And I always would be for that gift.
Because, while the loneliness was there to stay with me for a while like an unwanted roommate, I could cling to our time together and remind myself that Charlie wasn't the only man in the world. There were others out there who would find me desirable and sexy. And that the loneliness and pain I was feeling so keenly in that moment, wasn't going to last forever.
Chapter Eight
DREW
“So what happened to you while you were over there?” Dr. Emerson asked. “The notes don't go into too much detail about what you went throug
h, but they mention somebody in your unit named Mason Shoemaker –”
I flinched when she spoke and it was almost as if she'd slapped me. Honestly, I would have preferred it if she had. I probably would have preferred a million other things other than her bringing up Mason. I sat on the couch across from her, doing everything within my power to avoid turning the conversation toward her. The temptation to crack a joke or talk about anything other than Mason or my time overseas was strong. And it was apparently my most common avoidance tactic.
I leaned back on the couch and actually felt myself drawing inward beneath her scrutiny. I wasn't one who could ever be considered a wilting flower. I didn't back down from anybody and always confronted things head on. But for some reason, when it came to Dr. Emerson – specifically, Dr. Emerson prying into my past – I just clammed up. Intimidated wasn't the right word, but it was probably close. That uncertainty was a new, strange feeling – and one I didn't care for, truth be told.
And she knew that cracking jokes or diverting the conversation was my way of getting out of talking about myself, and especially about what happened over there – and called me out on it regularly.
“Who was he, Drew? This – Mason?”
I remained quiet for a moment and tried to sink into the couch cushions. I didn't want to talk about Mason. There were things I didn't want to talk about. Things she wouldn't understand. Things nobody who didn't serve, didn't have to do what we had to do, would understand. There were also things I couldn't talk about – aspects of our missions that were still classified. Aspects that helped shape and define my relationship with Mason. It was a fine line and one that I had to tread carefully. A line I didn't know that I even wanted to approach, let alone cross.
“Drew?” she asked softly.
“Mason was my – best friend,” I finally said in a voice barely more than a whisper.
