Page 4

The frightening part wasn't his admission.

It was how my body responded to it. A therapist should not get turned on by a patient describing their maladaptive coping strategies.

Yet here I was, heart hammering, heat pooling low in my stomach.

This was a clinical red flag wrapped in blue eyes and danger, and somehow that made him even more attractive.

Todd had always called it my "survival instinct malfunction".

It was like danger and desire were cross-wired in my brain.

"Let's talk about more constructive coping strategies," I suggested, attempting to steer us back toward therapeutic territory.

Julian stretched while deliberately showcasing his impressive biceps straining against his henley.

"I have plenty of constructive outlets. I have a lot of incredibly kinky gay sex.

Very athletic. Multiple positions." He paused with a dramatic sigh.

"Though I'm currently going through a bit of a dry spell.

Hard to find someone who can keep up, you know? "

I blinked rapidly, completely thrown by his bluntness. Most patients took at least six sessions to reveal their sexual habits, if ever. "That's... certainly honest."

"I'm an honest guy, Vince." He ran a hand through his hair, drawing my attention to the defined muscles of his forearm. "Not much point dancing around it. I mean, sex is just part of life. And a great stress reliever. When I can get it."

The way his eyes lingered on me left zero doubt about who he was suggesting might help end his dry spell .

God help me. My cheeks burned hotter than a teenage boy caught with porn. This man turned the most innocent exchange into innuendo with nothing but tone and those intense eyes.

What he didn't know—what none of my patients could ever know—was that beneath my careful professional exterior lurked a man who'd horrified Todd with my bedroom requests.

My colleagues saw Dr. Vincent Matthews, the cautious, empathetic therapist with the soft voice and gentle approach.

None of them would recognize the Vincent who, three whiskeys in, once begged Todd to hold me down and make me take it until I couldn't remember my own name.

The way Todd had recoiled, looking at me like I'd grown a second head, should have been my first clue we were fundamentally incompatible.

The memory made me shift in my seat, adjusting my slacks discreetly.

My desires had always been too much for "safe" men like Todd.

I took a breath, recognizing the therapeutic opportunity his candor presented. "Since you've brought it up, could you tell me more about your sexual relationships? Are these casual hookups, or do you have regular partners?"

If sex was a way into his psyche, I'd use that avenue.

Professional curiosity, of course. Nothing to do with the way my skin tingled under his gaze or how I couldn't stop noticing the ways his body differed from Todd's.

His shoulders were broader, hands stronger, and he radiated more dangerous energy.

Julian leaned back, clearly pleased I'd taken the bait. "Mostly hookups these days. I travel too much for anything serious. Grindr, bars, sometimes the gym. I have a type."

"And how would you describe your type?"

His eyes locked with mine, intense and deliberate. "Smart. Professional. A little nerdy with a nurturing side. "

My mouth went dry. He couldn't be more obvious if he'd held up a mirror.

"And do you practice safe sex?"

He scoffed. "I'm not an idiot. I get tested regularly and take precautions."

"Would you say your sexual behavior ever interferes with your daily life? Your work? Your ability to form connections?"

Something flickered across his face. A moment of genuine reflection. "Sometimes I use it as a distraction. Sex is easier than... other things."

"What other things?" I pressed gently.

"Actual emotions. Relationships." He made air quotes around "relationships" as if the concept was foreign to him. "I'm good at fucking. I'm not so good at the rest of it."

I waited, sensing there was more.

"I'm an all-or-nothing kind of guy," he continued, and for the first time, I caught a glimpse of something genuine. "When I want something, I go after it full force. Most people find it... overwhelming."

"That intensity can make forming connections difficult," I observed.

"Or incredible," he countered with a smirk, breaking the moment of vulnerability with another sexual allusion. "My intensity has certain advantages in the right context."

"In romantic relationships, you mean?"

"Among other things." He casually adjusted his position, drawing attention to the substantial bulge in his jeans. "I'm told I'm very memorable."

I deliberately kept my eyes on his face, though it cost me every ounce of willpower I possessed. The familiar heat flared in my belly again. In another life, I might have shown him exactly how completely I could surrender. My previous partners had all been so vanilla, so safe. So boring .

I swallowed hard and forced myself back into therapist mode. "You seem to use sexual references frequently. Is that a defense mechanism when conversations become too personal?"

For a split second, something like surprise flashed across his face before his cocky demeanor slid back into place. "Or maybe I just really like sex. I'm very good at it. I have references, actually."

"That won't be necessary," I said, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of my voice.

There was something almost charming about his outrageous confidence.

"I'm more interested in why you feel the need to constantly remind me of your sexual prowess.

In my experience, when someone repeatedly emphasizes how good they are at something, it often suggests some underlying insecurity or discomfort with that aspect of themselves. "

The shift in Julian's demeanor happened instantly. His easy smile vanished as the temperature in the room plummeted, and something raw and feral flashed across his face. His jaw locked with tendons standing out against his neck, and the blue in his eyes turned arctic.

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he snapped, each word sharp enough to draw blood, the carefully constructed charm cracking to reveal something lethal underneath.

I maintained eye contact, neither backing down nor escalating during this tense moment. "It's just an observation, Julian. Something to consider."

For a moment, I thought he might stand up and walk out. His entire body had tensed like a predator preparing to strike. Then, just as quickly, he seemed to catch himself. He took a deep breath and deliberately relaxed his shoulders .

"Sorry," he said. "I don't like being... analyzed."

"That's what therapy is," I pointed out quietly. "It's taking a step back to look at things, sometimes raw and painful things."

A short, surprised laugh escaped him. "Yeah. Guess it is."

I waited, letting silence create space for honesty. The afternoon light caught in his dark hair and highlighted strands of amber I hadn't noticed before. My fingers itched to touch them so I could discover if they felt as soft as they looked.

"Sex is easy," he finally said, his voice lower and stripped of the performative confidence from earlier. "It's simple. Clear objectives. Clear outcomes. The rest of this shit..." He gestured vaguely. "People, feelings, connections. That's where I get lost."

His confession hung raw and unguarded between us as the first authentic moment of our session.

The admission opened something in my chest, perhaps a recognition.

I knew that feeling all too well, though I'd spent years in therapy learning to navigate it.

Seeing it reflected in those intense blue eyes made me want to reach across the professional divide and offer something.

Was it comfort? Understanding? It was something dangerously close to intimacy.

I let the admission hang in the air for a moment, respecting its weight. "That's a valuable insight, Julian. Recognizing where your comfort zones are is an important first step."

He looked almost surprised at my response, as if he'd expected judgment rather than acceptance. Something in his posture shifted subtly, the aggressive confidence softening into something more genuine.

"Yeah, well." He cleared his throat. "Don't get used to it. I'm not usually this... open."

"I appreciate that you felt comfortable enough to share that with me," I said, meaning it. "That's what these sessions are for. "

Our eyes met and held. Something passed between us that had nothing to do with his earlier flirtations or my professional persona. It was something real . The air between us was charged with potential energy and made the hairs on my arms stand up.

The moment was broken by the soft chime of my timer.

"Looks like our time is up for today," I said, surprised at my own reluctance to end the session.

Julian nodded, the mask of confident charm sliding back into place, but not quite as seamlessly as before. I could see the cracks now. "Same time next week?"

"Yes," I said, standing. "My assistant can confirm."

He extended his hand, and I took it for a handshake. The contact was different this time, less performative and more present than before.

"Thanks, Vince," he said, his voice lower, gentler than it had been all session. Then, as if remembering himself, he added with a hint of his earlier mischief, "Looking forward to our next session. I promise to bring all my issues... and they are legion."

After he left, I sat in my chair for a long moment and processed what had just happened. In fifty minutes, Julian Keller had shown me more faces than most patients revealed in months. I had seen the shameless flirt, the angry defender, and briefly, heartbreakingly, the lost soul underneath it all.

I should refer him to another therapist. That would be the ethical thing to do, especially given the inappropriate attraction I couldn't quite deny.

More than that, there was something about him that didn't add up.

Insurance investigators didn't have hands that looked like they'd broken bones. They didn't move like a predator.

But even as I thought about it, I knew I wouldn't refer him.

Something about Julian Keller had hooked into me, some combination of danger and vulnerability that bypassed all my careful defenses.

Professional curiosity, I told myself. Nothing to do with the way his eyes lingered on me or how my body had responded to his presence.

"Why am I like this?" I asked Ferris Bueller, who had no answers to offer, only silent green judgment.

I reached for my phone, pulling up Todd's contact information before I could talk myself out of it. My thumb hovered over the delete button.

Baby steps.

I archived the contact instead. Progress, not perfection.

As I packed up for the day, I couldn't shake the feeling that something significant had just happened. My life had somehow tilted on its axis in ways I couldn't yet comprehend. That warning buzz at the base of my skull hadn't subsided. If anything, it had intensified.

Julian Keller was trouble. My professional instincts screamed it. But something else, something deeper and far less rational, whispered that maybe, just maybe, he was exactly the kind of trouble I needed.

I glanced at my reflection in the window.

The man staring back wasn't the cautious, professional therapist my colleagues knew.

My pupils were dilated, cheeks flushed. I looked hungry.

I looked like the man who had fantasized about bruises that Todd would never give me, the man who'd hidden his darkest desires behind relationships with nice, safe men who'd never understand what I truly craved.

God help me, I was already looking forward to next week. And not just for therapeutic reasons.