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I spend the rest of the week distracted. I almost expect Gabriel to call, to reach out in some way.

We had sex.

I had sex.

With someone other than my husband.

You were the only person I’d had sex with in… over a decade.

I know sex doesn’t mean what it used to, that lots of people have sex all the time and it means nothing more than sex. Fun. An activity to do together, no strings attached.

But with Gabriel, there are all sorts of strings. All kinds of fucked-up, twisted knots and complicated ties, because on the list of people I shouldn’t have had sex with, he’s at the very, very top.

He pulled my hair, and I liked it.

He called me a good girl, and I loved it.

Worse, I’d tried to self-asphyxiate to take the high even higher.

Something a patient told me she likes.

A very ill young woman.

And I’d been the one to initiate the entire thing. Gabriel had been ready to walk away.

I stopped him.

And told him to fuck me hard.

I’d never even done those types of things with my husband.

Not to mention we hadn’t used protection. I’m still on the pill, but he didn’t know that. Plus, there are other concerns than pregnancy, aren’t there? We were reckless.

Yet I smile at that thought. Reckless. And I loved every damn minute of it.

I tap my fingers over my coffee mug, still full to the brim. An untouched salad sits on the corner of my desk, compliments of Sarah, who volunteered to go for lunch. But my eyes are glued to the spot where he bent me over, and I liked it.

Loved it.

Spent the next three nights remembering and turning my vibrator on high, because there are no low or medium settings when it comes to Gabriel.

I shake my head, try to shake off the thoughts, the imaginings. I should reach out to him. Tell him it was a mistake. Apologize, even, for encouraging it to happen. As his psychiatrist, I’m in a position of power. I could lose my license. Again. Maybe this time for good. It was wildly inappropriate, even if he’d all but told me he wanted me during our session…

My mouth goes dry. He wanted me.

“Meredith?” Sarah pokes her head in. I jump like I’ve been caught doing something bad. “Oh, I’m sorry to startle you. Are you all right? You look a little pale.”

That’s better than beet red.

“I’m fine, just tired. What’s up?”

“I have an updated patient list for the week.” She offers the papers to me—three total, one for each day. I flip to Friday, but instead of the five appointments I previously had scheduled, I see only four. And a name is missing. His name is missing.

“I thought I was seeing Gabriel Wright on Friday?”

She shrugs. “He called and canceled this morning. Something about going out of town suddenly for work.”

“Okay, thanks.” Sarah takes her leave, but I’m still staring down at the list. What in the world would Gabriel be called out of town for suddenly? He’s a professor. Maybe a conference?

My immediate reaction is a deep emptiness that feels a lot like disappointment. Not the sort of emotion I should feel for a patient. Even Gabriel. And then something else—a flicker of panic.

He doesn’t want me.

The sex wasn’t good for him.

I fucked it up.

No. No, no, no. I’m his psychiatrist, and what we did was wrong. It would be normal for him to cancel on me. Hell, for him to report me.

If, a couple of years ago, I’d heard of a psychiatrist doing what I’ve done—and not just the sex but stalking him…

Oh Lord. I drop my face into my hands on my desk, but even that reminds me of him. Of me bent over, him holding me against the desk as he—

I should burn that skirt. Those panties. I’ll never wear them again without thinking of him. Of us. Heat flushes over me, and I grab the stack of papers Sarah dropped off, fan myself with them.

Maybe he’s avoiding me. Or maybe he’s actually busy. But either way, it’s better that I don’t see him. Better we never let that happen again.

When my appointments end just after five, I get on the train and head to my own appointment. When I scheduled it, it was routine—see the therapist every few weeks. Check in. Assure him I am still fit to be practicing.

But today I’m glad for it. Glad I scheduled it weeks in advance, glad I have someone to talk to. Because talk I must. And with seemingly no one in my life, I’ll gladly pay Dr. Alexander to listen.

“Dr. McCall, welcome.” He gives a general wave of his arm as he frowns down at the notebook in his lap. “Please, sit.”

I do, folding my hands in my lap. He’s still doing something—maybe scribbling a note from his last patient or preparing for our appointment. I glance around the office, and the thought comes to me, unbidden—has he ever had sex with a patient? In this very room?

Surely not. Surely he is a good therapist.

Unlike me.

“So, how are you doing today?” Dr. Alexander fixes me with his warm, kind smile. Just like he always does. He must have perfected it in front of a mirror. Practiced it day in and day out. Do I smile at my patients like that? Make them feel welcome just by looking at them?

“I’m… stressed. Tense.” I force a smile that I’m sure shows him exactly how I’m feeling.

“What’s going on?”

“Well.” I lick my lips, glance down at my hands. “I told you I’m seeing someone.”

“Yes.” He nods encouragingly.

I hesitate, trying to figure out how to tell him. Or if I should tell him. I mean, I can’t tell him about Gabriel, exactly. But I need to tell him, tell somebody.

“I had sex,” I say. Not a lie. I did have sex. I know he’ll assume it’s with the man I’m seeing, with Robert. And I’m okay with that. Relief floods me, realizing how I can talk about it.

“And how was that? How did it make you feel?”

The desk. Gabriel’s hands on my body. The sharp, wonderful pleasure and pain—

“It was good. At least, I think it was.”

“Wonderful.”

The word comes from Dr. Alexander’s mouth, and I realize it’s true. Having sex with Gabriel, being fucked by Gabriel—because that is the only appropriate word for what we did—was confusing and unexpected and obviously not right, but it was also wonderful.

“So what’s stressing you?” he asks.

“Well.” I feel my teeth digging into my bottom lip. I exhale slowly. “He’s ghosted me.”

It’s not totally true. It’s not a lie, though. Of course, we don’t usually call or text or—well, anything. Except appointments, or me stalking him, which I’m not doing anymore.

But God, I’m even calling what I’ve done stalking now.

“I see. How does that make you feel?”

“Horrible. Like I did something wrong. Like there’s something wrong with me. Like I’m—I was used.” My chest feels lighter at the admission. At the realization. “And angry. So angry.”

“Have you communicated with him at all?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“So he hasn’t reached out?”

“No. Nothing.” My hands shake, anxious energy pulsing through me.

“And have you reached out to him?”

That makes me stop. “No. I haven’t.”

“Is it possible he feels you’ve ghosted him as well?”

Dr. Alexander’s words linger. It’s a fair question. If it were Robert, I would reach out. I would text or call or even drop by…

But it’s not Robert.

It’s Gabriel.

And with Gabriel, there are no rules. Because we’re not dating. We’re not casually having sex.

We’re… I search for the right word or phrase, but can’t think of anything. It’s almost like we’re playing a game. A game with no rules or boundaries. It’s thrilling and panic-inducing. My fingers clutch at the fabric of my slacks, wondering who will make the next move. And what it will be.

“What do you think would happen if you reached out to him?”

“I don’t know. I heard… I heard he had to go out of town.”

“He sounds like a busy man.” Dr. Alexander crosses one ankle over the other and studies me.

His words penetrate. He’s being a good therapist—suggesting I consider Gabriel’s point of view. And he’s right. Usually, I’d absolutely agree with him.

Except this is Gabriel.

And with Gabriel, the normal rules don’t apply.