Page 11 of Imprisoned

My thighs press together as I remember his knowing smirk when I crossed and uncrossed my legs. How he leaned forward, making me catch the scent of his skin?—

“Stop it.” I push away from the wall and pace my bedroom. This is wrong. He’s my patient. A diagnosed psychopath. A murderer.

God help me. I’ve never felt so alive as in that room with him. Every nerve ending sang with awareness, my body humming with a dangerous attraction I can’t control.

I grab my phone, thumb hovering over Eleanor’s number. After a moment, I throw it onto my bed and head for a cold shower. I need to wash away these thoughts.

But I know, even as I strip off my clothes, that water won’t be enough to douse the fire Axel Morrison ignited inside me.

I step into the shower, turning the temperature as cold as possible. The icy spray hits my heated skin but does nothing to calm the throb between my legs.

“Get it together,” I mutter, scrubbing my skin raw. But each brush of the loofah sends sparks of electricity through my nerve endings.

Ten minutes later, I’m dried and dressed in my silk pajama set, but I might as well be naked for all the good the fabric does to soothe my sensitized skin. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I should eat something. The thought of food turns my stomach. That’s not the kind of hunger gnawing at me.

I fall back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. Axel’s voice echoes in my head.

Right now, the only violence in my head involves throwing you against that wall and fucking you until you scream my name, begging for more.

My hand slides down my stomach of its own accord. I should stop; I should call my psychologist friend Sarah and confess these inappropriate thoughts about a patient.

Instead, I slip my fingers under the waistband of my pajama bottoms. Just this once, I’ll give in—to release this tension so I can think clearly again.

My eyes flicker shut and I allow myself to recall the intensity in his gaze, the way his muscles flexed under his prison uniform when he leaned forward...

My fingers circle slowly as his earlier words replay. The way he described fucking me, one hand wrapped in my hair. The fantasy shifts as I imagine how I’d want him to take me on his prison bunk, my wrists bound with his sheets and him hovering over me, that dangerous smile promising delicious torment.

“Such a good girl,” his voice whispers in my mind. “Let go for me.”

My back arches as I imagine his teeth grazing my neck. Those strong hands that have done such violent things now touching me with reverence. In my fantasy, he takes his time, drawing out my pleasure until I’m begging.

“Please,” I whimper, lost in the illusion of him above me. He’d make me look into those piercing green eyes as he claimed me. He would growl possessive words against my skin.

My movements grow desperate as I picture him holding me down, his muscled body caging mine. The strength in his arms as he lifts my hips and positions me how he wants me. The way he takes control is intoxicating.

A tingling sensation spreads through my core as I imagine him speaking filthy He’d tell me how he’d corrupt me, ruin me for anyone else, and make me his willing accomplice in depravity.

Axel’s hands would be rough and demanding. There’d be nothing gentle about how he’d possess me, and God help me, that’s exactly what I want—to be overwhelmed by his darkness, consumed by it.

“Axel,” I gasp, teetering on the edge. In my mind, he’s grinning that wicked grin, watching me fall apart beneath him. Taking satisfaction in reducing his proper little doctor to this quivering mess.

My body tenses, pleasure spiraling higher as I picture him marking every inch of my skin. Claiming me inside and out until no part of me isn’t his.

I shatter, waves of pleasure crashing through me as I cry out his name. My body spasms, my mind lost in the fantasy of Axel above me, his green eyes drinking in my surrender.

Reality crashes back as the aftershocks fade. My hand is sticky, my chest heaving, and shame floods through me.

What the hell am I doing?

I bolt upright, disgust replacing the lingering pleasure. I just got myself off thinking about a man who tortured and killed multiple people. A man who delights in their pain and is locked up because he’s too dangerous to exist in society.

“Oh God.” I rush to the bathroom, scrubbing my hands raw under scalding water. I can’t wash away the sick knowledge that I wanted him, no matter how hard I try. I still want him.

My reflection in the mirror looks wild. My cheeks are flushed, and my pupils are dilated. I barely recognize myself.

Is this who I am? Someone who gets turned on by a murderer?

All my years of training, of studying criminal psychology, flash through my mind. I know exactly what Axel is—a manipulator, a predator. He saw my weakness in that session and went straight for it, playing me like a fiddle.

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