Page 8 of The Fall Before Flight

I groan. “Must you call me that? It’s so predictable, trying to make me think about my mother by using that name. I expect more from you.”

He shifts again, hips lifting slightly before settling back against the desk. I manage to stop myself before my eyes veer to his crotch.

It’s disturbing, the effect he has on me. The last man who flooded me with need by merely existing was… Shit, it’s been a long time. Maybe Kyle, the hockey player from Canada.

“What are you thinking about?”

Angry for a reason I can’t digest, I tell him the truth, “The hottest fuck of my life.”

Dr. Chastain’s expression doesn’t change. Calm. Contained. “Did you have a relationship with him beyond sex?”

“Nope.” And because I’m annoyed, I add, “And we didn’t have sex. We fucked.”

There.

Finally, a physical response. His lips have thinned. Behind his glasses, his blue eyes remain sparkling ice. “Have you ever fucked someone you love, Amelia?”

I widen my eyes dramatically. “You just said a dirty word, Dr. Chastain! Shame on you.”

No smile. Nothing.

I concede defeat, admitting, “My high school boyfriend, maybe.”

“Donovan Vicks?”

I squeeze my eyes closed. “Jameson is getting castrated when I get out of here.”

Chastain ignores my muttered vow. “You were together during your junior and senior years, correct?”

My skin starts to itch again. “Yes,” I grind out.

I listen to his footsteps coming closer but don’t open my eyes. My nose catches a subtle waft of his light, expensive cologne and the muskier scent beneath. Desire dances from my breasts to my belly.

“Why do you think you’re a horrible person? A user of others?”

I open my eyes, finding him where I expected—in the chair across from me. His tie is gone, and the patch of golden skin at the base of his throat teases me. Begs me to lick it.

“I’m sick,” I whisper, trying to make him understand something I don’t really understand myself. “When I see people, I don’t see… people. I see puzzles to solve. Weaknesses to exploit. Answers to find. I like watching people break.” I shake my head. “No, I love watching people break.”

“What you love is making them feel,” he says, that deep voice fluttering between my legs.

I tense. “What? No.”

His head tilts, pale eyes floating over my features, leaving frostbite behind. “You shock and hurt people because their responses tell you they care. More than anything, you want people to care.”

My eyes burn. My throat aches like I just smoked a cigarette to the filter. I laugh—it’s more of a croak. “Whatever you say, Doc. You’ve got me all figured out.”

Chastain pulls off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with two fingers. “What you do—the pranks, the manipulating, the lying—you’re in search of human experience. And believe me, you would thrive just as easily on happiness and gratitude as you do on hurt and surprise.”

I have no pithy response. His words scratch and rip into my gut, tossing soul debris left and right.

I want to curl into a ball and sob. I want to leap off my chair and scream, You don’t know me! and throw a lamp at his head. Or slap him, then kiss him.

But I do nothing, fighting impulse tooth and nail. I breathe through the itch in my bones, the maelstrom inside me. And I stare at him.

He finally blinks, younger looking without his glasses, the blue of his eyes more stunning against thick, inky lashes and olive skin.

“Tell me what you want to do to me, Amelia. What punishment have I earned for making you feel?”

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