Page 53 of Pretty Cruel Love

I lower my head and take him into my mouth, inch by thick inch. He groans, his fingers sliding into my hair, guiding me as I move down his shaft.

“Fuck, Sadie…” he breathes.

I suck him deeper, swirling my tongue as he twitches against the back of my throat. His hand tightens as he thrusts just once—sharply.

“I’m about to come,” he warns, voice ragged. “Swallow, or pull back now.”

I don’t move. I stay right where I am and take every drop.

He slides his fingers through my hair one last time, still breathing heavily.

I don’t know if I’ve won his approval or just broken another rule. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken—and his breathing is all I hear.

“Should I go back to my bedroom now?” I ask.

“For what?” He pushes me back onto the bench and pushes up my shirt, pressing kisses against my breasts. “The cameras already think you’re there…”

22

DR. WEISS

Night Eleven

“Do no harm.”

Those three little words in the Hippocratic oath seem fairly easy to follow—until you meet a patient who makes them fucking impossible. Certain cases should come with an“unless”clause.

Before I took the detour from brain surgeon to behavioral specialist, I prided myself on shadowing doctors into the OR. They were masters with scalpels, slicing and stitching the brain to make the patient whole again.

It wasn’t until years later that I began seeing some of these so-called “fixed” patients in my office, begging for sessions with me.

Their surgeries had gone well. No pain, no complications. But something deeper—something vital—was broken.

Instead of reaching for a scalpel, those doctors should’ve picked up a clipboard. Maybe—just maybe—we’d have fewer fucked-up people walking around today.

Then again, I’m currently sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting for the sound of Sadie’s footsteps in the kitchen. Waiting to steal a glimpse of her. To find an excuse for her to come to my side of the cabin again.

I’m risking my entire storied career just for the chance to feel this woman’s mouth again. And most of the harm I’m doing is to myself.

“You’ve already fucked up halfway,” I mutter. “Might as well see it through to the end.”

Pulling on a T-shirt, I head down the hall and peer around the corner.

Sadie isn’t in her room. She isn’t in the kitchen.

I step into the session room, thinking she might be waiting there.

When I hit the lights, the only thing waiting for me is her empty chair.

I haven’t been locking her patio door at night—I trust her—and I’m dreading the consequences of that decision. If she’s slipped through a blind spot during camera turnover, no one will ever believe I didn’t help her.

Bracing for the worst, I twist the patio doorknob and push it open. The guards are close, chatting and smoking loudly. There’s no way they missed seeing her if she tried to run.

I’m about to check if she slipped onto my patio when I hear water splashing from her bathroom.

Approaching the doorway, I stop cold at the sight of her in the tub. Her hair cascades in wet waves down her back, and while her stomach and legs are covered in bubbles, her breasts are fully exposed.

“You’re about five moves away from losing our game,” I say.

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