Page 23 of The Flames Between Us

I'm aware of her presence across from me—the slight flush on her cheeks from the intensity of our session, the way she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

"Ollis," she says softly, my name a gentle warning on her lips.

I should acknowledge it. Should thank her for the session and leave. Should maintain the professional boundary she so carefully established at the beginning of our meeting.

Instead, I find myself leaning forward. "I can't stop thinking about seeing you at Lou's."

Her eyes widen slightly. "We've discussed that. The boundaries—"

"I know," I interrupt, surprising myself with my boldness. "I know all the reasons why this is inappropriate. Why it crosses lines. Why it complicates everything."

"Then you understand why we need to end today's session," she says, though she doesn't move away.

"Do you think about me?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Outside of these sessions. Do you think about me the way I think about you?"

A visible shiver runs through her. "That's not a question I can answer."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both," she whispers.

I'm not sure who moves first—maybe we both do—but suddenly the careful distance between our chairs has vanished. I'm standing, she's rising to meet me, and then my hands are cradling her face, and her glasses are slightly askew, and I'm kissing her.

For one breathless moment, she freezes—surprise or resistance, I can't tell. Then her body softens against mine, her hands finding my shoulders, her lips responding with an intensity that matches my own.

My hands slide down to her waist, feeling the curve of her body beneath that professional blouse. Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling me closer with surprising strength. I back her gently against her desk, our bodies pressed together in a way that leaves no doubt about the mutual attraction we've been fighting.

My hands find the buttons of her blouse, fumbling slightly as I begin to unfasten them. She makes a slight sound against my mouth—encouragement or hesitation, I'm too lost in the moment to discern.

One button. Two. The edge of a lace camisole becomes visible beneath the parting fabric.

Suddenly, her hands cover mine, stilling them. She breaks the kiss, breathing hard, her forehead resting against my chest for a moment before she steps back.

"Stop," she says, her voice unsteady. "We have to stop."

Reality crashes back like a bucket of cold water. What the hell am I doing? This is my therapist. The person helping me rebuild my career and my sense of self.

"Everly, I'm sorry," I say, taking another step back to give her space. "I shouldn't have—"

"This is my fault too," she interrupts, refastening her blouse with trembling fingers. "I let this happen. I've been... less than professional in maintaining boundaries."

The flush on her cheeks has deepened, spreading down her neck to the hint of collarbone visible above her blouse. Her lips are slightly swollen from our kiss. She's never looked more beautiful or more troubled.

"You should go," she says quietly, adjusting her glasses. "Please."

"Can we talk about this?" I ask, unwilling to leave things so unresolved.

She shakes her head. "Not now. I need... I need to think about what this means for your treatment. For my professional ethics."

The mention of ethics hits me like a car crash. I've potentially compromised not just my own therapy but her professional standing.

"I'm sorry," I say again, meaning it deeply. "The last thing I want is to cause problems for you."

"I know," she says, and the sadness in her voice cuts through me. "Please, just go."

I gather my jacket, moving to the door with reluctant steps. At the threshold, I turn back. "Will I see you for our next session?"

She doesn't meet my eyes. "I don't know. I'll have Jim call you once I've... once I've figured out how to proceed."

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