Page 80 of Rather: The Therapist

“This is my chance to prove to him that all he’s ever done for us wasn’t in vain. This is my chance to prove we have his back just like he has ours. I can’t fuck this up. I won’t fuck this up. It doesn’t matter how drawn to you I once felt. I’m marrying your brother. That’s it. That’s final. That’s my reality. Get it through your thick skull. Get i–”

“Oh, Rose,” Priest grunted, sitting his glass on the dining table.

“My have you forgotten,” he hissed, “but I’m here to remind you. When you cross that threshold, you’re in my world, baby girl. You don’t think without my permission. You don’t speak without my permission. You don’t move without my permission. You don’t do a motherfucking thing without my permission. You move when I say move. You open when I say open. You fuck when I say fuck. You suck when I say suck. You cum– when I say cum.”

Priest gazed at me as he removed the jacket of his suit. He laid it on the chair to preserve its perfection and avoid wrinkles.

“When you enter that motherfucking door, I own your thoughts. Your words. And, your body. Maybe I’m not the smartest man on the planet and my education isn’t as extensive as you and your siblings, but I don’t need a fucking degree to know that if you didn’t want to be here you wouldn’t be.”

He removed the cuff links and unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt.

“Your absence would’ve told me everything I needed to know. But, your presence… it has told me a whole fucking lot, Rose. Not only do you miss this dick, but you miss the experience this suite gives.”

Sarcastically, he chuckled with a shake of his head.

“I don’t blame you one bit, baby, because it’s addictive. Two hits and I’d become its slave. As headstrong as a girl you are, you fell victim too and that’s alright. Remember something, Rose. I had that shit before that deal existed. The sacrifice doesn’t change things between us. It simply ups the ante.”

He unbuttoned the last button on his shirt and pushed it from his shoulders. His body was agonizingly impressive. Fit. Sculpted. Defined.

“Understand that I have more than two months before I have to give you up and I intend to take my precious time doing so. You might be my brothers after the day we’ve set for you, but right now– you’re mine. So take off them fucking clothes and put your hands on that fucking bed. We have unfinished business.”

“We– Pries–”

“Fine.”

He was tilting his head one second. Next, he was in front of me. His breath on my nose. His hands cupping my ass. His rod against my center. His lips on mine. His tongue down my throat.

Just like the rose he claimed me to be, I opened for him. The passion he infused in the kiss was reciprocated. I mimicked his energy. I inherited his thirst.

He took his precious time carrying me to the bed where he peeled the linen dress from my body with disgust. Underneath was a black seamless thong, a thigh holster, and my Beretta. He inched toward my gun, ready to remove it and the holster, but was sadly mistaken.

“Don’t.”

He continued, not caring much for my demand. Once my gun was on the ottoman beside the bed, Priest hovered over me with his head low and his eyes trained on me.

“You don’t run shit in here, Rose.”

My nipples had hardened to the point of pain. His large hand over the right one felt criminal. With an open palm, he rotated it in the center. Though the movement was subtle, the effects were unbearable.

“Understood?”

At once, his index finger and thumb tried fusing themselves to my left nipple. Priest squeezed. I squirmed below him, wanting to beg for his consideration but refusing to. The defiance he was met with struck a chord within him.

Instead of tender circles around my right breast, he trapped my nipple between his fingers to double the pain and suffering that made me slippery below. My heart raced in my chest, galloping at one-hundred beats per minute.

Please! I begged, internally. I’d heard it a million times or more from clients in my chair. Never had I ever been at the mercy of another man. Never had I been on the receiving end of the torture. Never did I think I’d resort to the same feelings, same thoughts as my clients.

Yet, here I was, waiting for Priest’s form of therapy. The kind that had me cumming non stop two years ago. The kind that had me rubbing my clit every night for six months at the thought of it.

The kind I had every intention of seeking when Kofi established the rules of our arrangement. The kind that had me springing from my chair to meet him here though I promised it was only to tell him we couldn’t be involved.

Sexual therapy.

Emotional therapy.

Physical therapy.

Mental therapy.

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