Page 3 of Bad for Me

Judging by the long line of broken hearts he’s left behind in his lifetime, I have no doubt about that. But that’s not what I’m asking now.

“You know to stay in view of the camera. We need her face, her body, and her screams all in plain view.” I raise a brow as he flips his hand upward.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. The keys. Now.”

I reach into my pocket and wrap my fingers around the keys to the front door to the practice. As I pull them out and move to dump them into my son’s hand, I hesitate.

“You can have your fun, but I’ll be up shortly.”

Isaac’s wide grin has a bite to it. “Just hang back until I’m done. I want her to myself. I did all the hard work to get us here, I deserve to claim her first.”

I drop the keys into his hand and make a noncommittal huff. Judging by the victorious beam he wears as he turns around, Isaac takes it as a confirmation. The pounding of his footsteps against the concrete of the parking garage echoes around the space. Even when I close the window to keep the heat in, I can hear them until he’s completely out of sight.

Pulling up the camera feed in Meredith’s office, I sit back and watch her life begin to implode.

3

MEREDITH

I’m a terrible therapist.

How is it that I struggle this hard to maintain the ethical code of conduct I’ve sworn to uphold? It shouldn’t be this difficult.

Yet every Friday there’s that urge to simply throw caution to the wind and sink to my knees before the young man covered in tattoos and coated in well defined muscles. Believing that he wants me to do just that is part of the fantasy I’ve concocted. One that I feed by wearing lacy lingerie beneath my professional attire. The constantly brushing of abrasive material keeps my nipples hard and makes my breath difficult to catch. It’s a masochistic thing to do. One that I shouldn’t entertain.

But is it not more fun to have the young man wondering at my body’s reaction? Is it the air conditioning keeping my nipples erect? Or is it something else? I love watching him fight to keep his eyes trained on my face as he speaks. Today, he’s only looked once. But that look was so heated and pained, I’m convinced that during the rest of our session, he was simply staring through his peripheral vision to keep the girls in sight.

It’s wrong. I know it is, and I would neveracton anything should he make a move I’ve tempted him to take. But with my panties soaking wet, my heart racing, and my mouth dry—I feel like I’m about to combust and I love living on that proverbial edge. The suffering is more manageable knowing that, at least in my fantasies, he wants me too. My subtle teasing is a tit for tat. There’s a thrill in feeling so unabashed inwardly while maintaining my composure for the sake of my job—the risk keeps my blood pumping.

Taking a shaky breath, I press my ear to my office door. Isaac’s retreating footsteps grow faint as he moves further away. Soon they disappear altogether. As I listen to his departure, I’m aware of the sound of my heart beating. It’s loud and erratic. God, I’m so aroused right now, there’s probably a wet spot on the back of my skirt.

At least now I can do something about it.

As Isaac arrived for his appointment, I made sure that the front door was locked from the outside. This way, when he left, I wouldn’t have to go lock up before I unwound for the day.

Which I get to do now.

But first—I need something.

Opening my door, I saunter in the opposite direction from the reception room and the front door. I head down the hallway, to the last door on the right. There are only three other therapists that work in this private practice. Two are older women, creeping up there in age with the possibility of retiring soon. It’s why I was hired three and a half years ago—I’m fresh blood with much more energy to tackle the harder clients. And then there is Bernard Carlton, the owner of the practice.

And Isaac’s father.

Bernard came to me a year ago asking if I would help uphold his son’s end of the deal they’d struck with a judge. I agreed without any hesitation. Not because I knew anything about Isaac, but because Bernard asked.

If Isaac gets me all hot and bothered, his father—my boss—has me melting. I would do anything for him. If he asked me to bark like a dog, by god, I would bark like the greatest dog there is.

Not that he knows that, of course. Just like I do in my sessions with Isaac, I thrive on the challenge of remaining professional here at Bernard’s practice. At least when others are around. The thigh clenching, panty-melting, heart-racing feelings I have anytime I see Bernard, or his son, make work exhilarating.

I fan myself as I come to stand in front of Bernard’s office door. It’s locked, but that’s not a problem. Pulling out a bobby pin, I easily slide it into the keyhole and finangle it around until the lock pops open. With a smile, I open my boss’s door and walk into his office. It smells of expensive cologne. Sandalwood, a hint of something citrusy, and ferns. It’s a tranquil scent. Subtle too. I’m more aware of it than any of the clients that he works with, I’m sure, simply because I’m obsessed with it and the man who wears it.

Making a beeline for his desk, I scoop up the small, framed picture sitting beside his desktop. I also snatch the pocket square from the suit jacket he left hanging from the back of his chair. With everything I need, I slip from Bernard’s office, lock the door behind me, and head back to my own.

Humming to myself, I shut my door and place my stolen goodies on the couch. Immediately, I begin to disrobe. My blouse is tossed onto my desk. The skirt I wore today puddles at my feet. The kitten heels I wear are carefully situated beside the couch, and then my stockings are pulled off.

When I’m wearing nothing but my deep maroon lingerie, I sink down onto the leather couch cushion Isaac sat on. Already the material has cooled—his body warmth departing as swiftly as he did.

But his scent lingers. Just like his father, Isaac wears a nice cologne. This one is more woodsy, like pine trees after a rainstorm. I shiver as I lean back and let it envelop me in a comforting embrace. Turning so that my legs stretch out along the couch with my feet toward the door, I reach over and grab the picture frame I’d stolen. Lifting it up, I stare at the two men in the photograph.

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