Page 10 of A Method to His Madness

“Actually.” She swallows, fingering the buttons. “I’m a little hot. But…I didn’t plan to take it off for the session. I’m not dressed like I usually dress. Especially around…”

“Men?”

She exhales sharply. “Yes.”

When she doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate—or remove the coat—I search for a way to calm her obvious nerves. “Ashley, you could be wearing nothing under that coat and unless you ask for my hands on you, I’ll be keeping them to myself.”

An instant later, it becomes painfully obvious that I have placed a lot more confidence in my willpower than I should have. Because Ashley finishes unbuttoning the pea coat and shrugs off the wool outerwear to reveal a body that could launch World War III. She’s watching my reaction closely, holding her breath, so I try to remain stoic—and I’ve never faced such a challenge.

For one, she’s wearing these shorts made of sweatpants material and they’re rolled at the waist, leaving them damningly short. So tight against her pussy, it’s like they’ve been twisted in a fist. She’s nipped at the waist and flared at the hip. Lithe, luscious thighs. A white tank top does nothing to conceal the plump mounds of her tits. High, pouty things that have my cock vibrating like the sidewalk when a train passes beneath.

Perhaps, just for a moment, I understand Waylon a little better. A man could be driven insane by proximity to this woman. A man would be driven to fuck her by any means necessary. I’m hard in my briefs just imagining the incredible shape of her beneath me, my dick buried between her two sweet thighs, angled for optimal pleasure.

All of these inexcusable thoughts and observations pass in a matter of seconds, however, and I’m tamping down my instinct to have her, take her…and drawing out the chair, instead. Indicating with a dip of my chin that she should sit. My restraint is worthwhile when her shoulders relax and she exhales in relief, taking her spot in front of the typewriter.

With her seated, I go to my desk and sit, adjusting my erection out of view, though there is no comfort to be had for the next couple of hours. I go through patient files and make unnecessary notations while the pace of her typing picks up slightly. Every time she leans forward to read what she’s written, the gap between her shorts and tank top widens at the small of her back. That smooth expanse of skin thickens my pulse, the very beginning swell of her ass forcing me to reposition my stiff dick over and over, but nothing helps. There’s no antidote for this lust.

Or this fascination.

It grows by the minute.

What is she writing? What is she thinking?

Has anyone ever encouraged her to write? Is this her first chance?

What made her decide to bring Waylon to therapy? Was it desperation…or is it too much to hope that she felt the same electric connection flowing between us in the supermarket?

I hold back my questions for now, but my curiosity multiplies. No end in sight.

After a couple of hours, she drops her hands away from the typewriter.

“I…think I’m done. For now.”

Calmly, I set down my pen, despite the fact that her voice just constricted every muscle in my abdomen. “You sound disappointed.”

She flicks me a surprised look, as if she wasn’t expecting such an astute observation. “Well, I…”

Remaining quiet, I lean back in my chair.

“I guess I always thought…I just needed an opportunity. Like this. And the perfect masterpiece would come pouring out. But it’s not like that at all. I’m indecisive over every word and instead of focusing on the story, I’m regretting all the ways I didn’t make it better.”

“I don’t know a lot about writing, but I gather indecision is a side effect for anyone creating art from scratch.”

“It’s far from art,” she says with a light laugh, the sound making my feel out of breath. “I’m still eager to dive back in tomorrow, though.” She looks over at me, still somewhat guarded, but not as nervous as before. “Thank you. For finding the typewriter.”

“You’re welcome.”

She glances out the window, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “What now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do we do now?”

Anything, angel. Name it.“Why don’t you sit on the couch and we’ll talk through what you want to do next?”

She only displays the barest indecision, before pushing back the chair and crossing to the modern leather sofa, sitting in the same spot as before.

I resume my position across from her in my wingback, clipboard resting on my knee.

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