Page 21 of The Therapist

It’s a tiny victory, but I take it.

Cooper exhales a quiet laugh, sitting back. “You’re good,” he murmurs, a grudging respect in his tone.

I don’t answer. I just pick up my pen and make a note.

His smile widens. “Did I get under your skin, Doc?”

Cooper Burick has been beyond difficult.

Raising a brow at him, I say, “That’s our time.”

Cooper looks at the clock on the wall, then checks his own watch. “I have five more minutes.” I wonder if Cooper’s innards are as tightly wound as his body language suggests at the moment. I’ve hit a nerve.

“We’ll pick this up next session.”

I watch as he stands, in a rather furious tizzy, and struts out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Stretching my back,shoulders, and neck feels good. I set my pad, pen atop it on the corner of my desk.

He likes to call his disease a proclivity. I prefer to call things what they are—a disorder of sexual preference, as the DSM-IV dictates. And that’s where I lost him today. I need to find an alternate route to get through to him so acceptance can happen. We can’t make much progress without it.

Footsteps clomp in the waiting room. I tut, roll my eyes behind the safety of my closed door before reaching for the handle to see what’s keeping him here. He’s the last patient of the day and I’m ready to go home.

He throws open the door. Shocked, I stay glued to my spot—hand still reaching for the knob. He pulls me up by my shirt collar. His lips hover over mine, a whisper of warmth, a promise of sin. The air between us crackles, heavy with something I don’t fully understand but both of us feel.

But then his mouth brushes mine, barely there, just enough for me to taste him.

I inhale sharply. I taste hesitation—mine. I taste hunger—his. The wrongness of this should stop me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it only makes me burn hotter.

His fingers tighten against the lace of my collar, like he knows I might slip through them, might wake up and break this moment before it fully ignites.

It is unexpected and startling, but I’m stunned into momentary submission at the feel of warm, soft lips on mine.

He’s gentle in the way he moves his mouth against mine. Almost reverent. The same way he looks at me during our sessions.

A hand curls around the back of my neck, pulling me flush against him. Wrong, wrong, wrong, right? An electric current pulses in my veins, and my mouth behaves without my brain’s permission and kisses him back.

His grip on me, the vigor with which he tastes me, makes me feel like a weak-kneed school-girl. Replete with the overwhelming out-of-control hormones that afflict them. I clutch at his shirt.

He tastes of mint and lemon. The way he ghosts his lips over mine sends little shockwaves through me and I don’t mean to, but I deepen our connection. I kiss him hard and with purpose. I melt into his warm, strong frame. I’m delirious with pleasure.

Until my brain kicks in and reminds me of the thousand reasons that this is, oh, so wrong.

I shove him, breaking the kiss. My chest heaving with exertion. The wetness between my legs a sinful reminder of a boundary crossed. He grins, grips the doorframe with his palm, and leans in again. A rush of air abandons me as I duck under his arm planted against the doorframe, pivot, and stand beside him to avoid his lips on mine again.

“Can I ask you something as a friend?” he pants.

Ignoring the tightness of my nipples, the invisible cord pulled taut from breasts to pelvis, I say, “I’m not your friend. I’m your therapist.” His eyes roam freely over my body. Heat creeps up my neck, and my skin feels electric.

“But…that kiss.” His lips pull upward in a mischievous smirk.

I throw my hands in the air. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.” I feel like I’ve bitten off more than I can chew with Cooper Burick. Standing, I wave my hands in front of me and take three steps back. “We can’t continue, Cooper. I can’t continue to see you.” He’s an inch from my face before I have time to take another step.

“I’m going to need you to change your mind.” His tongue darts out, wetting his lips.

“No,” I say firmly.

He leans toward my face a centimeter closer. I can feel his breath now. The shine on his lips a devious invitation to just give in. To stop fighting my arousal. For once, to break a rule.

“I’m not asking, Robin.” My name on his lips sounds sinfully inviting. I steel myself. I cement the right and lawful course of action in my bones.

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