Page 31 of The Therapist

I bite my lip and turn around. My eyes scan the room—floor to ceiling—looking. My breath catches in my lungs when my gaze snags on it—

The vent.

High on the wall, just above the bed.

A chill seeps into my bones. I almost call out. To see if he’s there. Watching.

How ridiculous.

I flop into the chair and bite my thumbnail in thought, but I can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes on me. I close my eyes in an attempt to stave off the feeling. But…

The idea of him watching me makes my belly whoosh with excitement. Makes me wonder what it would be like to give in. To just have a taste of something out of the ordinary. My mind is loose from the wine.

I glance at the vent and realize I want him to feel caught—like a child, sure my gaze is focused on his, ready to be chastised. Instead of scolding though… I do something else entirely—I vow to make him feel watched for once.

I know he’s there—Cooper, hiding behind the vent louvers like the voyeur that he is. I can feel his eyes on me like weights, heavy and greedy

Eyes glued to the vent louvers, I make a decision. A decision that shocks even me.

I shuck off my coat—slowly. I shrug it off one shoulder at a time, letting the fabric drag across my skin. The coat falls to the floor with a whisper.

Next comes my top. I grip the hem and lift it inch by agonizing inch, letting my fingertips graze my stomach, my ribs, the underside of my breasts. My skin breaks out in gooseflesh.

The fabric catches on my nipples, and I let it linger there for a moment, savoring the way the friction makes me shiver.

My skirt’s next. I unzip it slow as molasses, letting the sound of the zipper ring out in the silence like a bell. When it falls to the floor, I’m left in nothing but my lace panties and bra.

I run my hands down my thighs, feeling the smooth silk of my skin, and then I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties. I drag them down with a deliberate slowness, bending over just enough to give him a show. I step out of the panties and kick them aside.

I reach around to unclasp my bra, slowly letting it fall down my arms and to the floor. I turn to face the vent louvers. I let my hands wander. My fingers trail over my stomach, down to my thighs, then up to cup my breasts. I squeeze them hard, kneading the flesh and rolling my nipples between my fingers until they’re so sensitive it almost hurts.

I let out a soft moan and then I slide one hand down between my legs. My fingers find my clit.

I circle it slowly at first, teasing myself, letting the pressure build until I’m shaking with need. My other hand stays on my breast, pinching and pulling as I work myself closer and closer to the edge.

My fingers dip lower, slipping inside me. I thrust them in and out, curling them just right to hit that sweet spot.

My moans come louder now, ragged and desperate, and I swear I can feel Cooper’s eyes burning into me. My fingers work faster, harder, driving me toward that explosive climax. My head falls back as I come, my legs shake, and I have to brace myself against the wall to keep from collapsing.

When I finally catch my breath, I glance toward the vent louvers one last time, a wicked grin spreading across my face.

“Hope you enjoyed the show,” I whisper before slinking away to the bathroom to clean up.

***

I wake in a panic.

Sweat drips between my breasts, the sheet there drenched. I stare at the vent near the ceiling in terror as my heart hammers against my ribs. My cheeks flame hot. My innards coil like a spring.

I climb out of bed and into the bathroom to brush my teeth and pee. Avoiding my reflection as if the person reflected will be a monster full of unspoken criticisms, I slip on a dress and sandals. I need to move. To exert my nervous energy. There’s a chance all the anxiety coursing through me is unwarranted.

He couldn’t possibly watch his own guests.

The legalities, the potential for being caught, is so much greater than spying on people afar. Even voyeurs must abideby the don’t-shit-where-you-eat adage, right? Still, the niggling voice at the base of my skull screams the worst case scenario and suddenly air feels hard to come by.

I race down the hall, followed by the opulent staircase and straight out the heavy wooden front door. I barely pause on the grand front porch before noticing a break in the dune grass.

A path.

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