Page 69 of Rather: The Therapist

“Not at all.”

“Whew,” she sighed, loudly.

“Where are all the things you’ve spoken of? You’re practically empty-handed.”

“I know. I ran back out to the car thinking I could carry everything in myself, but I can’t. I’m going to need your help.”

“My hands are a bit occupied, but I can help get a few things.”

Putting away my weapons while stepping outside in the dark of the night in the company of another woman in a brand new neighborhood was absurd and simply wasn’t happening. For her safety and mine, they would accompany us outside and back however many times the load required.

“Good. Come on. Everything is in the backseat. I was thinking we could do a little shopping, yeah?”

She opened the door and headed toward the car. I followed, keeping my eyes and ears on guard.

“The way my closet looks, I’m thinking we could do the same.”

“Fair enough.”

FOUR

Tardiness wasn’t tolerated, but absence was unacceptable. Princeton’s was the only excusable absence, which was why it didn’t bother me much that he’d be home for the second week in a row. What was chipping away at my sanity was the lack of information or a decent explanation as to why.

Princeton was accustomed to routines. He learned them. He loved them. But, as of lately, he loathed them. His naps were more frequent and his fuse was shorter. At the drop of a dime, literally, the stemming began and outbursts beyond his control took over his small body.

A trip to his physician revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but I knew something was wrong with my son. And, autism wasn’t the case. He’d had that all his life. Something deeper, something more unsettling was the matter and I needed to get to the bottom of it. I just didn’t understand how or how much time it would require.

I met our home affairs manager at the door. Because I knew everyone was inside seated already, there was hardly any reason for me to move any swifter. I was late. The damage had already been done.

“Good evening, Sir.”

“Good evening,” I responded, pushing past the tray with champagne flutes atop.

My bladder was already urging me to visit the closest toilet. I cut a quick left off the main hallway in pursuit of the bathroom reserved for family. We weren’t allowed in the guest bathrooms which were just down the main hallway on both ends.

I loosened the button on my suit in preparation. The realization that my button had gotten caught by a thread led me to investigate. As my head lowered and my eyes followed, the sound of heels clapping against the floor reserved my attention.

Creased eyebrows and a wrinkled forehead contorted the rest of my features. Chocolate-coated stilts led me to impressive curves and eventually a face that would surely go down in history as one of the greatest. Hair flowed effortlessly down a chiseled back and arms.

Down boy. I warned.

My attempt to suppress my yearning was useless. I swelled in my pants as I watched carefully as Rather placed one foot in front of the other, headed in my direction. Her head was high and her heels were higher. Her chest protruded, piercing the air with her pebbled nipples.

That fucking perfume. I groaned, internally, as she passed me by.

Our eyes locked briefly. Without a word, she continued to pound the marbled flooring. My heart sped although time seemed to stand still. Her progress was slow. Methodic. Alluring. Agonizing.

Gradually, my head turned to meet her backside. A reel of our time in Private Suite 102 played as the distance between us began to increase.

Her legs wrapped around my body.

Her lips against my ear.

Her request.

Her creamy center.

Her volcano.

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