Page 13

Ten

Past

W e’re four sessions deep and I fear I’m in trouble. The days that Cooper comes, I find myself dressing to impress, anticipation coursing through me until our time slot. He’s charming, devilishly handsome, and seemingly pulled together. Try as I might, I can’t shake him from my thoughts.

His therapist still has not responded to any of my calls, emails, or requests. A very curious thing in the world of psychiatry professionals. It raises red flags.

I glance at my word-of-the-day calendar from Nora.

Today’s word—horripilation: the erection of hairs on the skin due to cold, fear, or excitement.

An interesting one. A definition I’d always chalked up to goosebumps. But when Cooper struts through my door, I feel horripilation ripple through my body.

He takes his seat. Watches me. I clench my thighs slightly from the intensity of it.

“Are you always this quiet?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. He stares. I’m so irritated with this whole silent business I could scream.

Cooper lounges in the chair across from me, all slow, indolent confidence, his long legs spread just enough to make it clear that control belongs to him—at least that’s what he thinks.

I know better.

I rest my notebook against my lap, keeping my expression neutral.

“Why don’t we start with the homework I gave you?”

A slow, knowing smile curves his lips. “You mean the part where I was supposed to resist temptation?” He exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Dr. Richardson, I think you already know the answer.”

Of course I do.

I knew before he even walked in, before he sank into that chair like he owned the room, like he owned me . Cooper doesn’t resist. He relishes. He drinks in every forbidden moment like a man parched for sin.

I cross my legs, the shift in posture subtle, but his sharp gaze tracks it anyway. He notices everything.

I clear my throat. “Tell me what happened.”

He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. There’s something about the way he looks at me—intimate, assessing, like he’s undressing me one thought at a time.

“There was a couple.” His voice is rich, low, the kind of tone that slides over skin like silk. “Celebrating their anniversary.” He tilts his head, a challenge dancing in his dark eyes. “You’re blushing, Doc.”

I refuse to react. I refuse to let him win.

“Dr. R, please. We’ve gone over this. Keep going,” I say evenly.

He does. In explicit detail.

The way the woman leaned into her lover’s touch, her parted lips, the flush of her skin. How he lingered in the shadows, close enough to feel the heat of their stolen moment. How it thrilled him.

His voice is unhurried, deliberate, each word a provocation. He watches me as he speaks, waiting for the slip, the crack in my professional armor.

I won’t give him that satisfaction.

But my pulse betrays me, a traitorous thud against my ribs.

Cooper notices. He always notices.

“You disapprove.” It’s not a question. It’s a dare.

I set my notebook aside, meeting his gaze head-on. “That’s not what this is about.”

He smirks. “No? Then what is this about, Dr. Richardson?”

I lean in just enough to remind him that I set the pace here. I control this space. “It’s about why you need to watch. Why you need to stand in the dark while others burn.”

His smirk falters. Just for a second.

It’s a tiny victory, but I take it.

Cooper exhales a quiet laugh, sitting back. “You’re good,” he murmurs, a grudging respect in his tone.

I don’t answer. I just pick up my pen and make a note.

His smile widens. “Did I get under your skin, Doc?”

Cooper Burick has been beyond difficult.

Raising a brow at him, I say, “That’s our time.”

Cooper looks at the clock on the wall, then checks his own watch. “I have five more minutes.” I wonder if Cooper’s innards are as tightly wound as his body language suggests at the moment. I’ve hit a nerve.

“We’ll pick this up next session.”

I watch as he stands, in a rather furious tizzy, and struts out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Stretching my back, shoulders, and neck feels good. I set my pad, pen atop it on the corner of my desk.

He likes to call his disease a proclivity. I prefer to call things what they are—a disorder of sexual preference, as the DSM-IV dictates. And that’s where I lost him today. I need to find an alternate route to get through to him so acceptance can happen. We can’t make much progress without it.

Footsteps clomp in the waiting room. I tut, roll my eyes behind the safety of my closed door before reaching for the handle to see what’s keeping him here. He’s the last patient of the day and I’m ready to go home.

He throws open the door. Shocked, I stay glued to my spot—hand still reaching for the knob. He pulls me up by my shirt collar. His lips hover over mine, a whisper of warmth, a promise of sin. The air between us crackles, heavy with something I don’t fully understand but both of us feel.

But then his mouth brushes mine, barely there, just enough for me to taste him.

I inhale sharply. I taste hesitation—mine. I taste hunger—his. The wrongness of this should stop me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it only makes me burn hotter.

His fingers tighten against the lace of my collar, like he knows I might slip through them, might wake up and break this moment before it fully ignites.

It is unexpected and startling, but I’m stunned into momentary submission at the feel of warm, soft lips on mine.

He’s gentle in the way he moves his mouth against mine. Almost reverent. The same way he looks at me during our sessions.

A hand curls around the back of my neck, pulling me flush against him. Wrong, wrong, wrong, right? An electric current pulses in my veins, and my mouth behaves without my brain’s permission and kisses him back.

His grip on me, the vigor with which he tastes me, makes me feel like a weak-kneed school-girl. Replete with the overwhelming out-of-control hormones that afflict them. I clutch at his shirt.

He tastes of mint and lemon. The way he ghosts his lips over mine sends little shockwaves through me and I don’t mean to, but I deepen our connection. I kiss him hard and with purpose. I melt into his warm, strong frame. I’m delirious with pleasure.

Until my brain kicks in and reminds me of the thousand reasons that this is, oh, so wrong.

I shove him, breaking the kiss. My chest heaving with exertion.

The wetness between my legs a sinful reminder of a boundary crossed.

He grins, grips the doorframe with his palm, and leans in again.

A rush of air abandons me as I duck under his arm planted against the doorframe, pivot, and stand beside him to avoid his lips on mine again.

“Can I ask you something as a friend?” he pants.

Ignoring the tightness of my nipples, the invisible cord pulled taut from breasts to pelvis, I say, “I’m not your friend. I’m your therapist.” His eyes roam freely over my body. Heat creeps up my neck, and my skin feels electric.

“But…that kiss.” His lips pull upward in a mischievous smirk.

I throw my hands in the air. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.

” I feel like I’ve bitten off more than I can chew with Cooper Burick.

Standing, I wave my hands in front of me and take three steps back.

“We can’t continue, Cooper. I can’t continue to see you.

” He’s an inch from my face before I have time to take another step.

“I’m going to need you to change your mind.” His tongue darts out, wetting his lips.

“No,” I say firmly.

He leans toward my face a centimeter closer. I can feel his breath now. The shine on his lips a devious invitation to just give in. To stop fighting my arousal. For once, to break a rule.

“I’m not asking, Robin.” My name on his lips sounds sinfully inviting. I steel myself. I cement the right and lawful course of action in my bones.

“Unacceptable.” My voice is faint, but lacking real conviction. His nostrils flare as my words hang in the space between us.

He waves away my words as if they’re inconsequential and straightens. But Cooper is patient. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand. He takes another step closer. His fingers clutch the collar of my blouse as he leans in. His head dips to mine.

His lips skim my cheek, and I swear electricity sparks everywhere they touch. They inch toward my lips.

He lets me feel it first—the heat, the taboo, the desire curling between us like a rising flame. His lips part against mine, not forceful but persuasive, coaxing, creating the illusion of safety while every fiber of my being screams that nothing about this is safe.

And maybe that’s why I want it so badly.

Then he speaks, his voice a murmur against my lips. “I want to watch you, Robin. I want to see you.”

His words snake through me, a slow, decadent poison, curling in places I pretend don’t exist.

That should be the final straw. It should snap me out of this.

It does—but not in the way I expect.

I shove him again. Hard.

He stumbles back, eyes flashing, breath uneven. I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of my heart, trying to remind myself who I am, what I stand for.

Cooper watches me, and for the first time since he walked through that door, I see it—the flicker of uncertainty beneath his arrogance.

I drag in a shaky breath and meet his gaze head-on. “Get out.”

His jaw tightens. “Robin—”

“Now.”

I watch as he hesitates, as his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for me again.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he gives me one last look—dark, unreadable, promising—before turning and walking out.

The moment the door closes, a deep sigh hurls from my lungs. My fingers brush my lips as if Cooper’s lips on mine still exist there. The kiss felt good, and not just because I haven’t been kissed with that much zeal in ages, but that’s what worries me most.

If there are only three truths I’ve learned in this life, it’s this: life is a maze, love a conundrum, and trouble can find you no matter where you try to hide.

Developing an emotional attachment to a patient is a liability. It clouds judgment. It happened with Amelia, although she was never my patient, and I feel it taking root with Cooper.

This was a mistake.

A beautiful, shattering mistake.