Page 21 of Filthy and Dirty with the Bikers

My fingertips massage into the back of her neck and her eyes close as her head rolls forward. “Good girl. Relax and let me take care of you.”

She hums under her breath as though the tension in her body is leaving.

Fucking hell. We still have forty minutes left in this session. I have to end this or I’m going to do something I regret.

“I love it when you tell me what a good girl I am.” Her eyes lift to meet mine and the words come out in the softest of whispers. “I thought about it so many times last night. It made me feel so warm and content. Like for the first time in my life, I really believed I was good.”

My cock, that’s already rock-hard, presses further at my zipper, desperate to escape, aching to spread her wide and fillher up, eager to watch all her fantasies come true, even if that means watching her find freedom and protection with others.

“I love telling you what a good girl you’ve been,” I lean into her ear and smell the soft lavender on her skin, my lips so impossibly close to the lobe of her ear that I’m nearly brushing against her, “which is why we should stop this session right here.” I readjust my pants and pull away from her skin, though doing so is absolute torture.

She pants hard, looking at me as though she’s as needy as I am, as though she wants to keep going, and for the first time in my life, I’m not sure how to say no. There’s an animalistic response breaking out. An unrespectable urge to tear off her clothes and fuck her raw. An unprofessional desire to throw away eleven years of medical school, and five years of professional training, to lose my license to practice, just to know what it feels like to have her.

Who would find out? We could do things quietly. I could touch her right now. I could slip my hand between her legs and keep going until the scent of her pleasure is all over me. I could lock the door and make her thighs shake over and over again. No one has to know.

I blow out a breath and attempt to gather myself as I stand.

Her eyes float from the hard cock currently tenting my slacks upward toward my eyes. “I guess we should end this, then. I’d hate for you to lose your license.”

I clear my throat, aching to grip her hips and bend her forward against my desk, desperate to hold her tight and keep her safe, willing to chance losing everything at one moment alone with her. “I’ll text you the name of a good therapist close by.” The words come out, but it’s not me saying them. The speaker is a curated version of myself that’s been created to manage my professional life.

If I were speaking, the words would sound more feral and would lead to her bent over the back of my couch.

She swallows hard and stands, grabbing her jacket off the hook by the door. “I appreciate you. Thank you for everything.” Her breath is labored, and tears fall from her cheek as she steps back out into the world.

I want to stop her. Fuck, I want to stop her. My hands ball into fists and the second the door closes, I release the tension building with a growl. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I should’ve held my feelings at bay. She needs me now more than ever. It was selfish to tell her I love her.

Fuck!

I pace my office back and forth, replaying the moment in my head. Why the fuck did I do that and how do I make it better?

Professionally speaking, I could call another therapist and give them the rundown, but deep down, I know that’s not going to happen. I know I can’t convince myself that anyone else can help her better than me. I know I can’t leave her in her hour of need. And though it’s wrong, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m going after Molly, I’ll just have to be creative about how I do it.

Chapter Eight

Molly

It’s freezing outside, and light snow is falling, but by the time I reach my little flower shop, I know fresh air and a short walk is what I needed.

Rosie meets me at the front door with a vibrant pot and wooden wind chimes still wrapped up in cellophane. “Can you tell me why the hell we’re still getting these stupid things in all our shipments? We’ve got eighty of them and none of ‘em sell.” She tosses her long brown hair back and locks the door behind me. We don’t open for another thirty minutes but we’re usually in the shop an hour or so before open to prep.

“I’ll call the company again. I think there’s a—” Another wave of nausea hits my tongue the second the smell of soil permeates my nose.God help me!At least I didn’t vomit in Holden’s office. That would’ve been the icing on the break-up cake.

Can you break-up with your therapist?As I toss what’s left of my cookies in the tiny bathroom at the back of the shop, my mind reels with every detail of what’s gone down this morning. Most people would be grateful for what’s budding with Rhett alone, not to mention Maverick. So, I shouldn’t be hurt by Holden’s decision to pull away. It makes sense. He has a career to think about. Yet, here I am, focusing on the negative.

Maybe Tyler was right about a few things. I do tend to do that, but it’s hard not to. Holden is the closest friend I’ve had for years. He listens intently, and he genuinely cares.

He was also being paid… the little voice in the back of my head keeps ringing.Yeah, but he didn’t have to fall in love with you. That wasn’t in his job description.Okay, someone needs to shutmeup.

I pull a paper towel from the dispenser and splash cool water on my face as Rosie laughs hysterically from the front room. She likes to listen to podcasts while she unpacks in the morning, so I figure it’s either that or maybe we got the sex shop’s boxes again. The UPS guy mixed up our shipments one day, and we opened up a box of bright pink dildos which gave us an idea for a whole different kind of arrangement.

“Who laughs at their best friend vomiting upon arrival? You’re supposed to be making me tea or something, aren’t you?” I step back into the front room and grab scissors from the drawer beneath the register.

“Sure. What you need istea.” Rosie stands from the bench where she’s been unloading a cardboard box and makes her way toward the back of the shop where a small coffee pot and snack box sit. It’s a pathetic excuse for a break room, but it’s all we have room for given the size of our shop, not that I’m complaining. Our little hole in the wall is just the right size for everything we need. Carefully potted orchids, hanging greenery, a shelf for fairy garden supplies, and a cooler to keep cut arrangements fresh.

I sit in front of the half-unpacked box and stare down at the bird feeders we ordered months ago. I’m not sure what good they’re going to do us mid-December, but they’re here. Maybe folks will want them for a holiday gift.

“Here you go.” Rosie hands me a unicorn mug filled with tea and a little stick of honey. “Sorry I’m an asshole.”

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