Page 106 of Let the Game Begin (Kiss Me Like You Love Me #1)

Unfortunately for me, Selene had ignited a flame I had no real power to snuff out, because Luke and Xavier were just like me.

They would have done anything to have her, even just to slither between her thighs one time.

Plus, I suspected that a strange curiosity about Babygirl had been kindled in Luke.

She’d given him a thin slice of her inexperience, but he wanted the whole pie.

He wanted to take my place at the table and feast—that’s what he wanted.

Without sparing Luke another glance, I went back into the house and headed for my room.

I needed to get my car keys and take Chloe to the clinic.

As soon as I walked into my room, however, my eyes landed on my bookcase.

I noticed immediately that someone had moved my books.

Miss Anna always respected my rules, one of which was that no one was ever to touch my stuff.

I quickly deduced that there was only one person in the house who would have invaded my privacy like that: Selene.

I didn’t yell at her only because I didn’t have time. I would have to bawl her out later.

“I’m ready to go.” Chloe walked into the room, wearing a coat that let me know it was time to head out.

Once we were in the car, I did nothing but dwell on everything that had happened in the last few days: that fucking puzzle, Player 2511 and his anonymous call, the kiss between Selene and Luke, Logan and his accident.

On top of everything else, my brother had recently told me that he’d seen Player in a black Jeep before the accident.

He’d followed him and even waved right before Logan went off the road and nearly died.

I felt anger flare up with a passion at the idea of that bastard delighting in causing my brother’s near-fatal accident.

“I need to know your every move from now on,” I said abruptly to Chloe as I parked in front of the psychiatric clinic.

“What?” she asked confusedly.

“You heard me. You have to tell me where you’re going, who you’re going there with, everything you do,” I repeated firmly as we got out of the car.

“Are you feeling okay?” She followed along behind me with her eyebrows raised. I locked the car with the fob, and we headed for the entrance.

“You do as I say, end of discussion,” I ordered in my typical rough fashion, and fortunately, she chose not to reply.

We walked into Dr. Lively’s high-end clinic, and I glanced around.

There was the usual classical Muzak, the usual saggy-assed woman behind the latest generation of computer, the usual orderlies wandering the halls, and the usual waiting room where we would sit on chic sofas and wait for Dr. Lively to receive us.

“I’m feeling antsy,” Chloe groused, snatching up a magazine to flip through in the hopes of soothing some of the nerves she got every time she had another session with the psychiatrist.

“It’ll be fine, just like the other times,” I reassured her, taking a seat next to her. I balanced one ankle on the opposite knee and tried to tamp down the thoughts that were filling up my brain. I already had a giant headache, and there was still a lot of day left.

“Oh, Chloe, it’s nice to see you. I was just waiting for you to arrive.” Dr. Lively approached us, and as soon as she stood to join him, he put an arm around her shoulders. “Ready for a nice little talk?” He smiled at her and Chloe nodded uncertainly as they walked toward his office.

I tried to avoid my former psychiatrist’s gaze, but when I felt his eyes boring into me, I had to lift my chin.

“I hope that one day you’ll come to my clinic to do more than just accompany Chloe,” said the doctor pointedly. I had to give him credit: Krug wasn’t a man who gave up easily. But I was a stubborn patient who had no intention of letting him shrink my head again.

“People say hope springs eternal, but that seems hard on the knees, doctor.” I gave him an irritating smile, and he didn’t answer but only scowled at me and stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“I’m confident you’ll change your mind one day.” He turned and vanished into his office, closing the door behind him.

Once I was alone again, I stared at the white clinic walls, which did nothing but bring back memories and trigger the urge to flee, to escape. I couldn’t, though, because I needed to wait until Chloe was done.

I stood up from the couch and started pacing the waiting room. Distantly, I heard melancholy piano music that was supposed to soothe patients but only managed to irritate and aggravate me.

“This music is shit,” I said, aware that the receptionist could hear me, but I didn’t care.

I always said what I was thinking.

Bored, I stopped abruptly to stare at one of the paintings on the wall. The caption read: “Titian, Sacred and Profane Love , oil on canvas, 46in ×110in, circa 1515.”

“I’m sorry you’re not enjoying the shitty music,” said an immediately recognizable voice.

The tall, impressive man was watching me with a delighted smile—it was Dr. Keller.

He nodded at me and considered the painting I’d been looking at.

I’d only been looking out of boredom, not because I was especially interested in art, though I supposed I knew enough about it.

“So what do you think? What does it mean?”

Did he think that I was stupid? Uncultured or ignorant?

“You’re asking me?” I sneered, stepping back to put some distance between us again. I hated it when people tried to invade my space.

He made a skeptical face and then just looked at me in amusement. “I would like to hear your opinion about this reproduction of a painting we have on display here in the clinic,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder.

I glanced from the man to the painting and sighed. This shrink was even stranger than I’d thought.

“Considering that the woman on the left is wearing clothes and the other one isn’t, I’m guessing she’s the chaste lady and the other one’s the whore,” I answered nonchalantly. Dr. Keller scratched his chin with one hand, his forehead creasing thoughtfully.

Why was he looking at me like that? Weirdo.

“You were close. The clothed woman does represent a sacred, pure sort of godly love and the semi-nude woman represents profane, carnal, passionate love,” he added, looking me in the eye.

“But Titian suggests that we all contain both types of love within ourselves.” Then he pointed out the infant Eros situated between the two women and splashing intently in the water that filled the stone sarcophagus upon which the women sat.

What was he trying to tell me with this?

“You know, Neil, we can look beyond appearances with just about anything. Last time, I offered you the example of my desk, remember?” he asked, still examining the painting.

“This painting, for example, might be interpreted in such a way that it could become relevant to your life.” He gave me a small smile, and I looked at him in bemusement.

Understanding the man was genuinely difficult for me.

“Think about it…”

I turned to stare at the naked woman in the painting, and my mind immediately leaped to Kimberly.

There were also two types of women in my world: ones like Kimberly, who represented profane love, and then there were the others, those peerless women who represented universal strengths.

They were intelligent, capable of both giving and receiving love.

They were passionate, but they also had pure and precious hearts. They were sacred love.

I had learned about profane love too early in my life and thus had grown up with the belief that it was the only kind that could exist. But in reality, pure love was also out there somewhere, offered by those people who were capable of giving not only their body but also their soul.

Perhaps I was the one who had been depriving myself of that kind of pure love—of pure women—because I was a man without limits.

Emotionally unavailable, incapable of feeling things, and only willing to give anything of myself in bed.

“I don’t believe in love,” I pronounced after a long, meditative silence. I looked up and finally met Keller’s eyes.

“What about sex? What do you think of that?” he asked, scrutinizing me.

That was an even more complicated question, and I wasn’t about to explain to him the psychological mechanics that required me to perpetuate my abuse over and over again.

I took a step back and put my hand to my throat where it felt like my sweater was getting tighter.

Maybe it was some kind of conditioned response in my head.

I always felt like I was suffocating when I thought back on my history.

“Sex is a form of pleasure that one human shares with another for various reasons. I do it to survive,” I whispered, feeling my voice break the way it always did when I talked about personal things.

“Is there a difference for you between sex and love?” he asked again, clearly intending to get at the heart of the matter.

“No. ‘Making love’ isn’t something that exists as far as I’m concerned.

It’s just a more romantic way to say what people really mean which is: ‘I want to fuck you.’ Women in particular want men to be romantic and not treat them like sex objects, so they need to hear all the typical clichés about love.

” I shrugged, giving voice to more of my thoughts than I’d planned.

“I see. So, you argue that two souls can never connect via their bodies? In your opinion, intercourse is solely physical. Is that right?” He lifted an eyebrow and waited.

I couldn’t figure out whether he was intrigued by the way my mind worked or if he was trying to pry into my personal life.