Page 37 of Imprisoned

My body aches with the memory of his touch, phantom sensations that linger like bruises beneath my skin. I close my eyes and still feel his breath against my neck, his hands claiming me. He made me surrender completely, unraveling parts of myself I never knew existed. It’s been a weekend, and already my body craves him like a drug—the high of his control, the exquisite relief of giving myself over to his darkness. Professional ethics seem pale and meaningless compared to the colors he’s painted across my senses.

The Sunday paper sits untouched on my kitchen table, its normalcy almost offensive. How can the world keep turning when everything in my life has shifted so dramatically?

My phone buzzes again, and this time, it’s not Eleanor. An unknown number flashes on the screen, and my heart leaps into my throat. I already know who it is before I open the message.

Miss me, little pixie?

My mouth goes instantly dry. This is different—dangerous in a new way. Our encounters in my office existed in a separate reality, a controlled environment where I could pretend it was all part of some twisted therapeutic experiment. But this... this breaches the walls between that world and my real life. He’s reaching into my personal space now, the boundaries completely dissolved.

Another buzz.

I can still taste you.

“Fuck.” I press my thighs together. Memories from our session flash through my mind—his hands, his mouth, the way he made me come undone. My rational part recognizes this escalation for what it is—Axel claiming territory beyond our sessions, making this connection real and inescapable. No more professional pretense to hide behind.

Yet even as alarm bells ring in my head, my fingers hover over the screen, already composing a reply. My coffee mug clatters in the sink as I stumble back against the counter. This is insane. He’s my patient. A convicted killer. Everything about this is wrong on so many levels.

Another message appears.

Did you think about me last night?

I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. Because yes, I did think about him. I thought about how his hands felt on my skin, how he knew exactly what I needed before I did. How he pushed me past every boundary I’d ever set for myself and showed me pleasure beyond anything I knew existed.

My phone buzzes again:

Answer me.

I can practically hear his voice saying those words in such a commanding tone. I shouldn’t crave the way he dominates me; I shouldn’t get wet just from reading his texts.

But god help me, I do.

Yes.

I type back before I can stop myself and hit send. My stomach immediately dips when I realize what I’ve just admitted.

His response is immediate.

Good girl.

Those two words send electricity straight through me. I slide down to sit on my kitchen floor, phone clutched to my chest, caught between shame and desperate need.

My cheeks flush, and I bite my lip, knowing I’ve crossed another line. But it’s like something has snapped inside me, and I can’t stop responding. Can’t stop digging myself deeper into this mess I’ve created.

Did you think of me?

My heart is in my throat as I wait for his reply, and my pulse is racing. I feel exposed yet strangely powerful all at once.

His next message takes my breath away.

Never felt a pussy as tight as yours, doc. Couldn’t stop fucking thinking of it.

Reading his words, I’m right back in that room with him. My body remembers the way he felt inside me, that low voice purring filthy things in my ear. I squeeze my thighs together, already aching for him.

God, what am I doing?

But I can’t stop. I exhale sharply as I type my response.

Wish I could feel you again.

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