In all this time, we haven’t said a single word to each other.
I feel like I need to say something, anything. “I ended things with Dan.” My words come out in a breathy rush.
His eyes darken, but he says nothing. His hands go under my thighs, lifting me, and without hesitation, he slams inside me in one swift move.
“Leandro!” I cry out.
But there are no words from him, no reprieve, no time to adjust to his size, because he starts fucking me like it’s all he’s ever needed.
Like I’m all he wants.
He’s stripped back to primal need, the urgency to fuck the only thing on his mind.
And I’ve never been so turned on in my whole life.
I wrap my legs around his waist. My fingernails score over his back. He groans and starts fucking me harder, nailing me to the wall. His mouth never leaving mine, he kisses me with an intense passion.
I’ve never been taken like this before, so, raw and intense and deep. He’s fucking me with an almost madness, and I want him just as fiercely.
In this moment, I feel like I belong to him, and him alone.
I can feel myself starting to rise toward climax as his cock hits that deep part of me, his hips slamming mercilessly against my clit.
“Leandro…” I moan. “I’m going to…come…”
Finally, he speaks, “Yes. Come, babe. Squeeze my cock with your tight little pussy.”
Pulling out to the tip, he slams into me, hard. That, and the sound of his voice, his words, send me free-falling over the edge, and I’m screaming to him and God and anyone else who might be listening.
“Fuck…India…” he grunts. “Porra, estou gozando…”
His head falls into the crook of my neck as I feel his cock pulsing inside me.
The sound of his mother language leaving his mouth while he’s coming inside me nearly sends me over the edge again.
He stays there, head on my shoulder, holding me tight, as both our bodies twitch with aftershocks.
Then, we’re just silent, two sweaty bodies connected by our most vital parts, while our hearts pound against our chests, and we try to catch our breaths.
I’m falling for him.
I can’t.
I can’t do this. I have too much to lose.
My job…I not only love my job, but I’ve worked damn hard, sacrificed so much, to get to where I am. And I need my income. I have a son to care for, bills to pay.
Reality leaves me feeling cold. “Leandro…”
“Don’t…” He lifts his head, staring me straight in the eyes. “Don’t ruin this, India.”
I swallow against the pain in my chest, knowing what I have to do. “I have to. I’m sorry.” I place my hand against his chest, gently pushing him away.
“Jesus Christ…” he growls, his eyes closing.
Then, he snaps his eyes back open and lets me down to my feet, slipping out of me. The loss of him inside me affects me deeper than I expected. Hurting, holding back the tears, I wrap my robe around myself and tie the belt, and I watch as he angrily pulls his clothes back on.
“You need to leave,” I tell him in a whisper of a voice.
UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!
She wants me to leave.
Normally, that would have me feeling relieved. Not that it’s ever happened before. Women usually beg me to stay.
But not her, the one I want, and she wants me gone.
“Leave? Are you fucking kidding me?” I all but yell.
She shakes her head. Tears shimmering in her eyes, she looks like she’s about to cry.
Seeing her like this…it hurts and confuses the fuck out of me.
If pushing me away is hurting her, then why is she doing it at all?
“India…why are you doing this?”
I reach for her, but she moves away from my touch.
My hand curls into a fist, coming back to my side.
“I have to.”
My anger and frustration get the better of me. “You have to? Why? Explain this to me because I just don’t fucking get it! You clearly want me, but you’re telling me to leave? And don’t you dare fucking say it’s because you’re my therapist. You no longer are, remember?” I jab my finger in the direction of the crumpled letter on the floor.
“I might not be your therapist anymore, but I was. That matters.”
“To whom?”
“To the Health and Care Professions Council and…to me. You were my patient. I treated you. That doesn’t just go away because of a letter. If people find out that I’m sleeping with a former patient, I’ll be done for. If the HCPC gets ahold of that information, I’ll lose my license to practice.”
Controlling my frustration, I try to soften my voice as I ask, “How long would it take for this to be okay—you and me?”
“Never.”
My anger flares right back up. “This is fucking bullshit!” I growl.
“No, it’s the truth. I abused my power. I’ve become what I despise.” A tear slides down her cheek. She brushes it away. “I’m a doctor, a therapist…who just had sex with a person I was treating.”
“Jesus, India.” I rub my head in frustration. “I am not some fucking kid who didn’t know what he was doing. I am a grown man and I know exactly what I am doing, and what I want. And what I want is you.”
I wrap my hands around her arms, not letting her move away. I stare into her face until she’s forced to look back at me.
“I want you,” I repeat. “Not just for tonight. I want to be with you. I want an us.”
“I can’t—”
“Listen—”
“No. Listen to me.”
She tries to pull away, but I don’t let go. If I let her go, I know I won’t get her back.
“You might be a grown man and in control, but when I met you, you were in a bad place, and in some ways, you’re still healing. I had an influence on you, on your recovery.”
I stare deep into her eyes. “People influence one another every second of every day. That doesn’t mean they can’t be together.”
“But those people didn’t take an oath like I did.”
My body is rigid with frustration. It’s like talking to a wall. She won’t hear me.
“So, by becoming a doctor, that means you’re also a fucking nun?”
“No, but it means I can’t fuck my patients!” she snaps.
I drop my hands from her arms. Her hands cover her face. I watch her, listening to her shallow breaths.
Slowly, she lowers her hands from her face and looks at me. I can see her words in her eyes before she says them, and my stomach twists.
“I’m sorry, Leandro, but this was a mistake.” Her words are whispered, but I feel like she just screamed them at me. “I took advantage of you. I’m so, so sorry.” Her hand slides over her stomach, tears filling her eyes.
In this moment, I feel like I’m missing something, but I’m so blinded by my anger that I can’t see clearly enough to see past it. “You didn’t take advantage of me!” I explode.
“You confided in me. I know how you use sex as an escape from your problems.”
Her words instantly make me feel dirty, worthless. I hate that she can make me feel that way.
I grit my teeth and speak, “Used to—past tense, India, and you, above anyone, know this. Having sex with you was because I wanted to…because I want you.”
“No, you think you want me, but you don’t really. You just have a reliance on me.”
“Bullshit!”
“It’s not. It’s the truth. You just can’t see it yet. But with time, you will.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a fucking child, India! I didn’t come to you for therapy because I was suicidal or not in control of my own mind. I came for your help because I needed to get back in a fucking car.”
“You had—have PTSD. You were drinking and using sex as a way to cope. You were in a bad place.”
“Not as bad as you think.”
&nb
sp; “You’re painting a different picture in your mind because of what you think you want.”
I pull at my hair in frustration. “I know exactly how I feel, not because of a patient-therapist attachment. I wanted you from the moment I saw you—before I even knew you. And, yes, you’ve helped me, but you haven’t gotten in my head and twisted things around. I want you because I want you. And for no other reason.” I cup her cheek with my other hand. “I want you,” I repeat softly.
Closing her eyes, she takes a shuddering breath.
For a moment, I think I have her until she opens her eyes, and I see how shut off she is.
“I’m sorry, Leandro. In time, you’ll see that I’m right. Ending this is right.”
I’ve lost her.
The feeling is like a bullet to the chest.
“You’re fucking wrong, and with time, you’ll see that.” I step back away from her, turning away.
“The kart…” she starts, pulling me back.
I stay there but don’t turn around. I can’t look at her. It’ll hurt too much. My chest feels like it’s bleeding out from the hole she just put in it. “Do what you want with it. Sell it, and give the money to charity. I don’t fucking care.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers from behind me.
“Yeah, I’m sure you are.” Sarcasm drips from my words.
I yank the door open and then stop. I pull a card from my wallet and toss it on the hall table. “If Jett still wants to get into karting, give this guy a call. He’ll help get Jett started.”
I risk a look at her.
She’s crying. “I’m sor—”
“Yeah, I got it the first time. Have a nice fucking life, Dr. Harris.” And I slam my way out of her house and her life.
I’D LIKE TO SAY I’VE MOVED ON FROM LEANDRO, but the truth is, it’s like I’m still standing in my hallway, watching him leave.
The ending I play through my mind is the version where I chase after him, tell him I’ve changed my mind, that I want him.
The reality is, I’m sitting in my office after my day has ended, alone and missing him.
For days after he left my house, I wanted to speak to him. But each time I picked up my phone to call him, rationality would get the better of me, knowing I could lose everything if I went after what I wanted.
Then, time slipped by, and before I knew it, it had been weeks, bleeding into months, and there was no going back for me.
He’d moved on.
Even though it was hell—not seeing him, not speaking to him—it had to be this way.
But even still, I torture myself with him.
I do my usual ritual where I tell myself not to go online and search today’s news for him. I relent for a few days, thinking how strong I am, and then I crack, just like I’m going to today.
I bring the screen on my MacBook to life. Bringing up the search engine, I type in Leandro Silva. The screen fills with stories of him and the races he won this past year since he returned to Formula 1.
I feel an undeserved sense of pride when I see the pictures of him crossing the finish line and when he’s on the podium, holding the trophy. I might have helped him to a point, but he took himself the rest of the way.
I am happy for him. Happy that he’s racing. That he has his life back the way he wanted it. He has it back in every way it was, if the press is anything to go by.
Leandro’s name has been linked with several women since the racing season started, and there are pictures of him with women.
Each one hurts as much as the next.
He’s moved on. That’s what I knew he would do.
I knew that his attachment to me was purely because of the closeness we’d built during his treatment and what he felt for me was gratitude.
Still, it hurts badly to know I was right, especially when I can’t seem to move past him.
I filter the page to read recent news stories.
Nothing new since the last time I checked a few days ago. Just the same pictures of him arriving back home for the British Grand Prix, which starts next weekend.
Staring at the pictures, I trace my finger over his face, like the Internet stalker I’ve become.
Not that he wasn’t handsome before—because, of course, he was—but in these pictures, he looks amazing. There’s a lightness in his expression, which wasn’t there before. I’m guessing it’s because of his return to racing.
He looks beautiful.
Leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes, trying to ease the ache of missing him.
Will this ever stop?
I thought I’d be past it now. Maybe if I stopped torturing myself with news of him, then maybe I’d be able to move on.
Sitting up, I shut down the screen.
My phone lights up with Jett’s name.
“Hey, honey,” I answer.
“You still at work, Mum?”
“Yeah. I’m just finishing up, and then I’m heading home.”
“Well, just letting you know that I’m at the track with Uncle Kit and Carter. We’re gonna grab something to eat here. We won’t be home too late.”
Dinner for one. Takeout and a bottle of wine it is.
“Okay, be safe and have fun.”
“Will do. See you later, Mum.”
“Bye, honey.” I put the phone down on my desk and let my head follow it with a thud.
I’m turning into a total sad case Friday night, I’m childfree, and the best I can do is takeout and a bottle of wine.
I berate myself for this every week, too, yet I still do the same thing.
There’s a knock on my door.
I lift my head from my desk. “Come in.”
It’ll be Sophie, my new assistant. She’s been with me for a month now. Sadie left to go traveling with her boyfriend.
“I’m heading off for the night.” Sophie crosses the room. “Here’s the mail. I forgot to give it to you earlier.”
“Thanks.” I take it from her hand.
“The top letter was hand-delivered.”
“Hand-delivered? What do you mean, hand-delivered?”
“A man came in earlier. He asked me to make sure that you got the letter.”
“What did he look like?” I turn the letter over in my hand. My name is handwritten on the front.
“Black hair. Really good-looking.” She grins.
My heart starts to race.
“And he had a foreign accent. I think it was—”
“Brazilian?”
“Yeah.” She clicks her fingers. “Do you know him?”
“Yes…I do.”
My hands are trembling, and I can’t stop staring at the letter in my hands.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna head off. Have a good weekend, Dr. Harris,” she says, retreating.
“Yeah, you, too,” I utter, distracted.
The second the door closes, I slide my finger under the fold of the envelope and open it. My mouth is dry, fingers trembling. I pull out the contents of the envelope.
Tickets. Two of them to the Prix at Silverstone next week. Full VIP weekend passes.
And a folded piece of paper.
I open it, reading the same handwriting.
TICKETS FOR JETT, AS PROMISED. I HOPE TO SEE YOU THERE, TOO.
L.
My heart free-falls through my body.
He brought the tickets here. Hand-delivered them. But didn’t ask to see me.
Of course he didn’t.
The last time we saw each other, I was ending us before we had barely begun.
Maybe he wants to see me. Hope lifts my heart even though it’s wrong to feel it because nothing has really changed. Only time between us. I was still his therapist.
I hope to see you there.
Or maybe he doesn’t want to see me, and he’s just being the good guy that I know he is and giving Jett the tickets he promised.
My heart sags back down.
I miss him though. Like I’ve never missed anyone in my life.
I need to see him. For what reason, I don’t know. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I just know I can’t go on feeling like this.
And if he doesn’t want to see me, then it gives me a foundation to start moving on from him because I’ve not found a way to move on in the last seven months.
But I guess there’s only one way to find out if he does want to see me.
So, it looks like I’m going to the British Grand Prix.
THEY’RE HERE.
She’s here…India.
It’s been seven months since I last saw her, and now, we’re in the same building.
I can feel her nearness like a vibration throughout my body, systematically making me feel alive and terrifying the fuck out of me.
She’s here. I got her here, and now, I’m afraid to face her.
A million reasons not to go see her run through my mind.
I asked the guy doing the VIP tour to text me and let me know when India and Jett arrived.
I received that text an hour ago, and I still haven’t had the nerve to go see her.
I’m telling myself that I’m needed in the garage. Truth is, it’s practice sessions, and one of the test drivers has my car out on the track.
I’m just standing here, watching the screens, as he takes my car around.
I could go see India now.
Only, I don’t know if she wants to see me. Sure, she’s here, but Jett is obsessed with Formula 1, so of course, she’d bring him.
She was the one who ended us. Well, not that there actually ever was an us, because she never gave it a chance to get that far.
Granted, after I left, I didn’t try to go back. I walked out of her house, and I shut down.
I haven’t seen or spoken to India since I left her standing in her hallway.
Afterwards, I was hurt, frustrated and seriously pissed off, and instead of going home, I went straight to Lissa headquarters, got my Formula 1 car ready, climbed in her, and took her out on our test track.
My anger at India got me past that final stage of my fear. So, I threw myself back into racing, so, I didn’t have to think about her. It only worked when I was in my car. Every other waking moment was controlled with thoughts of her.
I have everything back that I wanted after the accident. I still have my fears, but they don’t control me like they used to. But, now, without India in my life, it feels just as empty as it did before.
Revived Page 12
