Page 8 of Unethical

The upstairs bathroom faces the woods. The seclusion gives her the confidence to leave her curtains open. The light turns on, and I snap my attention to it. She comes into view and strips off her shirt, slowly, almost as if she knows I’m watching her. Like she’s putting on a show for me. But I know that’s not true.

She would freak out if she saw me, not put on a show. She’d clutch that shirt to her body to hide what I’m so desperate to see.

Her breasts relax as she unfastens the back clasp on her bra. Her tits squeeze together again as she tugs down each strap. After she removes her bra, she drops her hands to her skirt. The stiff material glides past her ass and slips down her thighs. I imagine how the fabric might feel in my hands as I unzip my jeans and pull my cock from the slit.

I have wanted little more than to have my hands on her. I don’t even care in what form. I don’t even care if she’s awake to feel my touch.

She gets in the shower and closes the door. I see only the pixelated outline of her body through the glass. I lean back against the tree and stroke myself. My imagination runs wild.

I imagine sitting on the flimsy couch in her office, my thighs spread and her head bobbing on my dick as she sucks it. I imagine choking her with my cock. I’d call her doc, mock her weakness for fucking a client, and impale her throat afterward. I envision the drool all over her pretty chin as she sucks me off.

She comes out of the shower with her hair slick against her neck. As she reaches for a towel, her big, beautiful tits pull together before spreading again as she dries herself off.

She hasn’t smiled once since leaving the office. It’s kind of sad. The woman needs to be dicked down, but she’d never let me be the one to do it.

Sarah looks out the window. I sink against the base of the tree, even though I’mprettysure she can’t see me, but I’m not positive she can’t. That’s what I love about jerking off out here. The risk of getting caught by her. The anger and fear on her face would be so worth it, even though I know her fear would precede lights and sirens and a return trip to prison.

Honestly, I won’t mind returning to prison if I can go back with my mind full of her and my balls empty. And that’s a dangerous thought.

Chapter Eight

Sarah

Iget in the shower after another long day of sessions. Steam engulfs me, and I breathe it in through my nose and out through my mouth, just like I teach my overly anxious patients. Behind closed doors, I’m one of them. I’m just as anxious and unsure. Just as nervous about the monster hiding under the bed.

The breathing exercise works, and soon I’m centered once more. It’s been a trying day. With certain patients, the hour flies by and I enjoy the productivity of our conversations. With others, the hour drags and we get nowhere. I’m forced to sift through the different methods we learned in school to draw a useful sentence out of them. Today was more of the latter, and it’s been exhausting.

Maxim’s sessions are like that. I find the end of a string and pull, but there’s no give from his side. I sigh as I remember that I have to meet with him tomorrow. It’s been a week already? How?

My gaze drifts to the gap at the edge of the shower curtain, and I peer into the darkness beyond the window. Sometimes I feel watched, as if I’m not alone in my own home. But I am. In fact, I haven’t had someone in my house in a long time.

I’m a workaholic, which means I don’t have much time for relationships. Hell, I hardly make time for myself. At the end of the day, I barely have the energy to stand in the shower or brush my teeth, let alone something as frivolous as reading, painting my nails, or indulging in a hobby. Self-care isn’t in my vocabulary.

How strange that I don’t take the time to find my happiness, yet I’m expected to help others find theirs.

I’ve considered getting a pet to break up the monotony. It might not be so bad to come home and vent my frustrations to another living being, especially when that living being can’t speak back. Then I think of all the care an animal requires, and I’m just not up for that right now. I can barely take care of my own needs.

I’m tired of carrying my clients’ problems and horrific pasts like a weight around my neck. No one should be expected to cart around their own baggage along with everyone else’s. They don’t teach you how to deal with these things in school—the burnout and fatigue.

The mental illnesses you inherit.

Warm water washes away today’s efforts. I drop my head to the wall, letting the spray focus on the back of my neck, where my tension is carried. I want to call out tomorrow. It’s my damn business, and I should be able to take a mental-health day. I’m allowed to be weak sometimes.

But then I remember my client tomorrow. I’m under pressure because of Maxim’s mandated status, which makes me feel mandated, too. I groan. I’ll never make any progress with him. Instead of speaking the truth, he just vomits someconvoluted version of events, and I can’t help him if he can’t be honest with me. Or himself.

Worst of all, his presence sucks the air out of the room, leaving me in a silent void that slowly suffocates me. I’ve never met a human more capable of applying pressure with a mere look.

I think about how he watched me through the blinds of my office, peering through me in a way no one ever has.

My hand rides down my body and hangs up on every imperfection that I become acutely aware of. What does he see when he looks at me? The slight weight gain? The bags under my eyes? Or something more?

I imagine someone touching me. Not Maxim, though. Anyone but him. I dip my hand between my legs and run my fingertips along the fine hairs that cover my mound. My touch pries apart my lips, and I circle my fingers until it starts to feel good.

I lean against the shower wall and arch my back as I drag the showerhead lower. The spray of water works my body, and I pretend strong, manly hands grip my hips as some stranger drops to his knees and licks me.

My eyes close, and I tilt my pelvis as moans grip my throat. When I imagine the hands on me, I realize I’m not envisioning a stranger. Those are Maxim’s hands. I recognize the artwork that runs up his forearms.

I open my eyes, rip the showerhead away, and slam my hand against the wall. Goddamn it. I just wanted to enjoy one thing. One. I want to forget about my job for a minute so I can get off and release the tension that ripples beneath every inch of my skin.

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