Page 4 of Daddy Knows Best

"Intense? Terrifying? Exactly what you need?" Sara supplied. "The rumor mill says he's gorgeous too. Six-two, shoulders like a swimmer, voice that could melt butter."

My brain unhelpfully supplied an image: a tall man in an expensive suit, holding a leather paddle with the same precisionSara used for spreadsheets. The heat spread upward, warming my chest and neck.

"This is insane." I downed half my cocktail in one go. "Even if I wanted to—which I don't—therapy's expensive. Specialized therapy with a hot doctor who apparently spanks people? That's got to be like, what, three hundred a session?"

"Two-fifty actually. I checked."

"Sara!"

"What? I'm thorough." She flagged down our server for another round. "Look. I’m gonna pay for you.”

“What?”

“Mhmm. I consider it an investment. One day, when you’re rolling in cash, you can pay me back.”

“You can’t.”

“I can. That’s what friends are for. You need help.”

The business card sat between us like a dare.

"He probably has a waiting list," I said weakly.

"Six weeks normally." Sara's grin turned wicked. "But he had a cancellation. There's an opening for an initial consultation Thursday at four."

My jaw dropped. "You already called?"

"I made an inquiry. On your behalf. Which you can totally ignore if you want to keep playing financial Russian roulette with your future."

The second round of drinks arrived. This time I didn't hesitate, taking a long sip while my mind raced. Everything about this was crazy. Seeing a therapist who incorporated kink into treatment? Letting some stranger—some apparently hot, terrifying stranger—essentially dominate me into financial responsibility?

But another part of me, the part that had stood outside that boutique drowning in shame, whispered: What if it works?

"He's legitimate?" I fingered the card again. "Like, this isn't going to end up on some weird documentary about women who disappeared after answering sketchy ads?"

"He's got a whole office in that medical building on River Street. The fancy one with the fountain." Sara clinked her glass against mine. "Completely above board. Reviews online are stellar, if cryptic. Lots of 'changed my life' and 'wish I'd found him sooner' with strategic details left out."

"For obvious reasons," I muttered.

"Look." Sara's voice gentled. "I know this sounds out there. But Em, what you're doing isn't working. You need someone who can get through to you in a way traditional therapy hasn't. Someone who can work with your specific . . ." she paused, choosing her words, "response patterns."

"My response patterns?"

"You crave structure but rebel against it. You want someone to take control but only if you trust them completely. You respond better to external accountability than internal motivation." She ticked off points like she was giving a presentation. "Sound familiar?"

Uncomfortably familiar. Like she'd been taking notes on my personality since we met.

Maybe what I needed was exactly what Dr. Nathan Whitlow was offering.

"Thursday at four?" I heard myself ask.

Sara's smile could have lit up all of Chicago. "Thursday at four."

Chapter 2

Thursday.Fourp.m.Likea death row inmate, I counted the minutes leading up to my own execution by therapy.

The office suite looked nothing like a dungeon. Soft blue light glowed from frosted sconces. There was a tiny waterfall on the check-in desk and the walls held tasteful photos of koi ponds, not Rorschach tests. It smelled faintly of lemongrass and dry-erase marker.

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