Page 35 of Daddy Knows Best

"Come here." He opened his arms, and I didn't hesitate. Couldn't hesitate when he was offering what I'd craved since he'd pushed me away in his office.

I curled into his chest, careful to keep my tender backside from pressing against anything. His shirt smelled like rain and that cologne that haunted my dreams. One arm wrapped around me, hand settling on my hip with careful pressure.

"You're safe," he murmured into my hair. "The monster can't bite here. Not when I'm watching."

The reminder of my crayon drawing, of that horrible hungry thing I'd illustrated, made fresh tears spring up. But these felt cleaner somehow. Like grief rather than shame.

"I'm sorry," I whispered against his chest. "For the shopping. For lying. For climbing on you in your office like some—"

"Stop." His arms tightened. "We don't apologize for wanting connection. For needing more than clinical distance when you're struggling."

I pulled back enough to see his face. The professional mask had cracked completely, leaving just Nate—tired, conflicted, but unmistakably present. His eyes held storms barely contained.

"But you said—"

"I know what I said." His hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing away tear tracks. "I know every rule I've set, every boundary I've drawn. And I know that pushing you away was . . ."

He paused, jaw working like words were fighting to escape.

"Was what?" I prompted, barely breathing.

"Necessary," he said finally. "And the worst thing I've ever had to do."

The confession hung between us, changing the air in the room. My hand had found its way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing under the professional facade. He was just as affected as me. Just as torn between what was right and what was real.

“I’ve never . . . never felt like this about a client before. I’ve never doneanythinglike this before.”

“Gotta admit, I’ve never done this with a therapist before, either.”

"This crosses every line," he said, but his thumb kept stroking my cheek, betraying his words.

"Then cross them." The words came out steadier than I felt. "Or step back. Because I can't—I can't do the in-between anymore. Can't pretend you're just my therapist when you've seen me fall apart. When you've put me back together. When you wake up at three in the morning to save me from myself."

His eyes closed, and I watched him wage war with himself. The responsible therapist versus the man who'd driven through pre-dawn rain for me. Professional ethics versus whatever this was between us.

When his eyes opened, they were dark with decision.

The kiss wasn't like our desperate collision in his office. This was deliberate, a choice made with full awareness of consequences. His lips found mine with careful pressure, asking permission I'd already granted. I opened for him immediately, tasting spearmint and rainwater and the specific flavor of lines being crossed.

His tongue swept into my mouth with controlled hunger, mapping territory like he'd memorized my responses. I moaned against him, the sound swallowed by the kiss that felt likecoming home and leaving it all at once. His hand tangled in my hair, angling my head for deeper access, and I let him take whatever he wanted.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. His pupils had blown wide, that careful control shattered completely. But instead of pulling away, he pressed his forehead to mine, sharing air and space and the weight of what we'd just done.

"Emily," he breathed, my name a prayer and a curse.

"I know," I whispered back. Because I did.

His hand trembled as it pushed hair back from my face, and I saw the war still raging in his eyes—duty versus desire, ethics versus everything crackling between us.

"One release." His voice came out rougher than I'd ever heard it. "Clinical after-effect mitigation. The endorphins from punishment need resolution or you'll crash hard later."

We both knew he was lying. Or not lying exactly, but bending truth into shapes that let him touch me. Clinical purposes. After-effect mitigation. Such clean words for the hunger written across his face.

"If I continue," he said, each word careful as footsteps through a minefield, "I resign as your therapist. Permanently. Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes." No hesitation. I'd rather have him as something real than keep the professional distance that was killing us both.

His jaw clenched, that muscle jumping like it did when he fought for control. "Say it clearly. What am I asking?"

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