Page 20 of The Therapist

I glance at my word-of-the-day calendar from Nora.

Today’s word—horripilation: the erection of hairs on the skin due to cold, fear, or excitement.

An interesting one. A definition I’d always chalked up to goosebumps. But when Cooper struts through my door, I feel horripilation ripple through my body.

He takes his seat. Watches me. I clench my thighs slightly from the intensity of it.

“Are you always this quiet?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. He stares. I’m so irritated with this whole silent business I could scream.

Cooper lounges in the chair across from me, all slow, indolent confidence, his long legs spread just enough to make it clear that control belongs to him—at least that’s what he thinks.

I know better.

I rest my notebook against my lap, keeping my expression neutral.

“Why don’t we start with the homework I gave you?”

A slow, knowing smile curves his lips. “You mean the part where I was supposed to resist temptation?” He exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Dr. Richardson, I think you already know the answer.”

Of course I do.

I knew before he even walked in, before he sank into that chair like he owned the room, like he ownedme. Cooper doesn’t resist. He relishes. He drinks in every forbidden moment like a man parched for sin.

I cross my legs, the shift in posture subtle, but his sharp gaze tracks it anyway. He notices everything.

I clear my throat. “Tell me what happened.”

He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. There’s something about the way he looks at me—intimate, assessing, like he’s undressing me one thought at a time.

“There was a couple.” His voice is rich, low, the kind of tone that slides over skin like silk. “Celebrating their anniversary.” He tilts his head, a challenge dancing in his dark eyes. “You’re blushing, Doc.”

I refuse to react. I refuse to let him win.

“Dr. R, please. We’ve gone over this. Keep going,” I say evenly.

He does. In explicit detail.

The way the woman leaned into her lover’s touch, her parted lips, the flush of her skin. How he lingered in the shadows, close enough to feel the heat of their stolen moment. How it thrilled him.

His voice is unhurried, deliberate, each word a provocation. He watches me as he speaks, waiting for the slip, the crack in my professional armor.

I won’t give him that satisfaction.

But my pulse betrays me, a traitorous thud against my ribs.

Cooper notices. He always notices.

“You disapprove.” It’s not a question. It’s a dare.

I set my notebook aside, meeting his gaze head-on. “That’s not what this is about.”

He smirks. “No? Then what is this about, Dr. Richardson?”

I lean in just enough to remind him that I set the pace here. I control this space. “It’s about why you need to watch. Why you need to stand in the dark while others burn.”

His smirk falters. Just for a second.

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