Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Did he follow me, or does he have access to the contract I signed with Mr. Hart before I started therapy with Eli?
My stomach turns with a million questions.
Am I some type of pawn to all of them?
Has he been outside of my house before tonight?
Why does the thought of him lurking in the shadows calm me instead of freaking me out?
Am I manipulating my feelings because of what Dr. Moore said about the body knowing when someone is important?
I run my hands through my hair, realizing that I haven't wet it to wash it yet. I turn around and let the water drench my entire body, holding my breath under the flow in an effort to calm my galloping heart.
I'm having a hard time determining if I'm starting to freak out or if what I'm feeling is excitement.
How twisted would it make me feel if the thoughts of him waiting in the darkness for an opportune moment actually turned me on rather than being alarmed at the prospect?
I wash my hair, scratching my scalp as I work the shampoo into it.
I don't know how to feel about any of it, and when I get the chance to speak with Dr. Moore, I don't know that I want to bring it up in conversation. Hiding such monumental things makes me realize just how toxic the entire situation might be.
I'm not afraid that she'll judge me. In fact, I know that she won't, but she might tell me to stop. That idea makes me want to keep it all to myself, and as a therapist, I know that's the first clear sign that it may be wrong.
The goal of going to the club was not to meet a man whose touch I could stomach. It was to desensitize me so I could go out and live a more normal life without having to plan every second around the off chance that someone would get too close to me.
But those thoughts transform, twisting and taking a different shape because if my head is anything, it's a damn mess.
I can't let the idea of how kind Mr. Hart and Jericho have been fool me into assuming that Jersey is the same.
The man was at a sex club, and although that doesn't instantly make him a pervert, it's not exactly the place folks looking for vanilla sex go.
I just had sex on my front porch where anyone could walk by, despite it being so late at night.
That isn't entirely deviant, but it isn't exactly your run-of-the-mill encounter either. What if that is just the tip of the iceberg of his interests?
I wince when I snap my eyes open, allowing in shampoo suds.
I think I'm officially freaking out, even when there's a good chance I'll never see the man again, but that's just foolish thinking. I'm just trying to convince my head that everything is fine.
There's very little chance that I'll never see him again, seeing as I go to his home four times a week because I was stupid enough to let something continue even after I knew there was a crossover between professional and personal.
I manage to get all the soap out of my hair and condition it before giving it a final rinse without hyperventilating. As someone who knows small steps are still steps, I celebrate that win when I climb out of the shower and dry off.
I take long breaths, attempting to get myself under control as I dress, fighting the urge to look back out my front and back windows. But I know if I lie down, I'll never get to sleep without doing so.
Thankfully, I see no unfamiliar shadows, and I wonder when I climb into bed, waiting for Kiva to get comfortable beside me before closing my eyes, if, in just one night, I've regressed in my therapy. It has been months since I had to give in to some of my more routine OCD urges.
As I clear my mind using some tried-and-true breathing techniques, I can still feel where he was tonight, and somehow, as I drift off to sleep, it seems like a good thing rather than a bad one.
Chapter 12
Jersey
I blow out a deep breath and feel bored which makes me frustrated, and I hate feeling frustrated, especially when I'm working. It has the ability to make me sloppy, and that's the last thing anyone needs especially if they need help and I manage to miss a cue.
The beat of the music threatens to change my heart rate because it's so loud. It's a wonder how any of the people sitting around in different little areas can even hear each other.
I tilt up my glass of whiskey, no longer feeling the burn of it in my throat since it's my fourth for the night. I've never been more grateful that a sex club doesn't have a drink limit. It's a red flag for sure, but it's also exactly what I need tonight.