Page 83 of Her Wicked Knights
Oh, fucking hell.
His eyes snap open and lock on mine as his mouth falls open, a soft groan of approval clawing through.
It's weird. It's fucked up. It's wrong on so many levels, but his gaze seems to hold me hostage for a minute, unable to look away or close my eyes. He doesn't say anything or make an effort to stop the woman sucking his dick, and she doesn't stop moving, bobbing forward and backward even as I stand behind her, horrified by my own intrusion. His green eyes bore into me, snaring me in his gaze, and something like fire spreads along my spine. I'm humiliated, desperate, and now... aroused? What the fuck is wrong with me?
You were coming here to have him figure that out,a voice in my head reminds me.
That voice in my head taunts me all the time. It's not my conscience, though, not a moral compass. It's my best friend... or at least, it's her voice saying things that my mind is thinking in some dark recesses. It's probably brought on by survivor's guilt or something; either way, it's enough to bring me back to the reality of standing in this doctor's office, watching him get head from who I can only assume is his secretary. She hasn't stopped, entirely unbothered by my presence.
I close my eyes, too mortified to move, frozen in place as I feel my cheeks heating. It takes half a second too long to get my body to move, and I raise my hand to shield them as I turn.
"I'm so sorry." I move toward the exit like my ass is on fire, but his voice stops me.
"Wait!"
I do, but I don't turn back to look at him. I can't. I feel slippery, exposed even though I'm not the one with my pants down.
I hear a thump and then he groans and there's no mistaking that he's coming. He's fucking coming right behind me. there's no way he can treat me after this. I don't think I'll ever be able to look this man in the eye again after this, let alone tell him the reason I came here is because I let some guy I barely knew fingerfuck me in a haunted house which allowed for my best friend to be murdered.
I don't know why I wait. Because he told me to? Because I'm a good girl who always does what she's told? Because I know that I'm running out of chances to turn things around, that I'm running out of patience with myself. I can't go home and risk my sister's life, but I can't stay away and continue to suffer alone. I've been alone for the first time in my entire life this past year and a half, and it's been horrible. I've put on a brave face for Hadley's face times, but I still haven't told her where I am, because I can't risk her coming to see me and realizing that I'm fucking falling apart. She'd drag me back home kicking and screaming, and then they'd kill her, too. And if they take her, I'll lose the last remnants of sanity I've been clinging so hard to.
"Thank you, Lorna." Dr. Whittier says.
A moment later, the woman I assume is Lora steps beside me, gently edging me out of the way as she lets herself out. She doesn't try to catch my eye, doesn't give me a filthy glare, doesn't apologize for not shutting the damn door. She just lets herself out quietly, her fingers tracing her lips to try and clear away her smudged lipstick.
"Please," Dr. Whittier says, "take a seat."
Take a seat? And pretend I didn't witness the most unprofessional thing in the world? I don't care what he does in his own office of who he does it with, but I can't sit on his couch and see him as qualified to fix me after witnessingthat? Can I?
"I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have walked in."
"No need to apologize. You clearly needed something. How can I help you?"
You can't.
"I don't know that we can..." I still haven't turned to face him. I'm talking to a wall, to his framed degrees from Stanford.
"Ah." Dr. Whittier chuckles, and the sound is close enough to make me turn to seek him out. He's standing just a few feet away with his hands in the pockets of his now-zipped-up slacks. And fuck if he isn't attractive. It's no wonder his secretary was happy to get on her knees for him- he's got a power about his persona that's almost uncomfortable. And at the same time, something about him is magnetic. "That's why you're here, huh?"
"What?" I don't think I said anything. "What's why I'm here?"
"Complex feelings around sexuality... probably rooted in a trauma of sorts. But I'm guessing that's just the tip of the iceberg."
I feel judged, which I'm pretty sure is not what your therapist is supposed to do. But he's not wrong. In fact, his snap assessment of me based on two seconds of eye contact is scary accurate.
I cross my arms, but don't bother trying to deny him, which he must take as a small win, because he grins and gestures toward the couch.
"You came here for my help. Let me help you."
Part of me knows I shouldn't. We've already crossed a line, albeit accidentally, and this seems like a breach of ethics on both his part and mine. And yet, he took one look at me and sank to an uncomfortable truth, something I haven't been able to explain to my past doctors and counselors.
I was lucky. Whatever happened in that haunted house, it could have been worse. I don't know the extent of what happened to Audrey after I last saw her, but I know that she was unclothed, and her body was shredded. I know that I thought I was next, that they were going to hurt me and kill me the same way they killed her. I know that after going my whole life without so much as kissing anyone other than Jake and that random guy at the bar Audrey took me to, I hooked up with Mark and then was left tied up, exposed for some random stranger to happenupon me and call the police. It's weird how I feel. I'm grateful that it wasn't worse, but I also feel like it should have been worse. I shouldn't have survived; it makes no sense.
"I'm Logan." Doctor Whittier says. "I find that getting to know my patients on a personal level is more effective. If we approach this like friends, it helps you feel more at ease."
I'd say that's also a breach of protocol, but we're well past that, and I'm desperate, so I nod and follow his invitation, crossing to the couch awkwardly. "I'm Marley."
"Hi, Marley," he smiles, following me to sit in the chair opposite the couch. "What can I help you with?"
