Page 53 of Rookie Recovery

A sky-diver without a parachute, tumbling headfirst out of a plane.

Warmth blossomed over my hand as I came hard enough to see stars. A little strangled shout escaped my lips, and my head tipped back, eyes rolling towards the ceiling. Chest heaving, heart slamming into my ribcage and against my eardrums.

Holy.

Fuck.

Holy fuck.

I struggled to regain control of my breathing, to quiet my heartbeat. Holy fuck I couldn’t remember the last time I’d come that hard. I felt dizzy, almost giddy, so fucking sated. Fuck.

The guilt eked in as I drifted back down from the clouds. I shouldn’t have done that. The last two hours, or lifetime, or however the fuck long it had been since Bowie walked through the door of my office—none of that should’ve happened.

I shouldn’t have let it get started, and yet, I had. I’d let it happen, furthered it, by telling him to go into the bathroom. And then I’d listened. Enjoyed it. Craved more of it.

He was my fucking patient. This was the most unprofessional thing I’d ever done.

My heartbeat slowed, breathing evened out. Fuck, what a mess. Cum covered my hand. Splattered the floor at my feet. Had probably gotten on my clothes. When was the last time I’d lost control of myself like that?

And why did it feel so good?

I half-staggered into the kitchen, my pants still halfway down my ass, to rinse off my hands—and my dick—so I could pull said pants back up. Moistened a few paper towels to wipe up the floor. The floor. Jesus.

This couldn’t happen again. I’d have to sit Bowie down for a talk. About professionalism and the team and all of that icky stuff I didn’t want to talk about. With him, especially. It was my fault, though. I’d let this go too far.

Maybe I did need to have more regular sex. Or at least orgasms involving other people. What had happened today—could not happen again. Ever. It was teenager-level horny and unprofessional to the max. Would I be jacking in my office after every session next?

No, I couldn’t.

The app. Right. Katie’s stupid get-laid-stat app. I straightened from the clean floor to chuck the paper towels in the bin and dig my phone out of my discarded messenger bag. I hadn’t opened the app since she’d downloaded it. I’d been distracted by a certain blond … distraction.

One I needed to stop letting distract me.

I found the pink TopTier icon and tapped it. A screen popped up to let me know I had forty-seven new potential matches—good God, forty-seven? I propped a hip against the kitchen counter, my thumb hovering over the “See Matches” button.

A little flag behind the dialog box caught my attention. A tiny number one in a red circle hovered over a message icon. Someone had messaged me? Had that meddling busybody Katie matched me?

I clicked the message icon. An inbox popped up, empty except for a single message chain. Five new messages from A_Big_Stick.

There was a cringey name if I’d ever heard one. I clicked it anyway.

I nearly dropped my phone as the first message opened.

ABS: Hey, Kitty.

It was Bowie.

I shifted so my whole butt came to rest against the counter. Bowie. I’d matched with Bowie. Of all the fucking people in the city of goddamn Bringham. I scrolled to the second message, from two weeks ago.

ABS: You like the Macarena?

The what? The dance? I scrolled down.

ABS: Your favorite sport is hockey? That’s cute. I play hockey.

A smile twitched at my mouth. I couldn’t help it. He was the biggest dork. It was adorable. Made me all warm and fuzzy and weird inside and I wanted to chase that foreign feeling.

ABS: You don’t seem like a bottom. I mean, if you’re into that, I can be, too. But I’d prefer for you to fuck me.

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