Page 84 of Her Wicked Knights
I don't know how to answer that honestly, so I laugh. "Maybe nothing. No one's been able to help me yet."
"Therapists are like lovers," Dr. Whittier says so coolly that I wonder if he's forgotten I just walked in on him with a lover. "You have to find the right fit."
"And you think you could be?" I laugh again. "I'm... fucked up. I'm not sure anyone can help me."
"I think we'll be a great fit, Marley. I'd be happy to help you, but there's one thing I need from you first."
I brace myself, sure that this is the part where he tells me his hourly rate. But it could be worse. What if he doesn't need cash? What if he wants me to pay in other ways... like getting on my knees and giving him an encore of the performance his secretary gave?
Though my stomach twists at the idea, and it feels like someone turned off the AC, I can't deny the way I clench inside at that thought. And that? That's part of why I'm here. Because my thoughts are so fucking weird, it feels like they're not my own. Why does the thought of sexual coercion make me want him to cross the same line I was just so worried about overstepping?
"What is it?" I breathe, too anxious to speak any louder for fear of what his answer will be.
He answers easily, a small little smile on his face that doesn't hint at the next word to come out of his mouth. "Submission."
So, I had him pegged all along.
This man wants me to pay for therapy by... what? letting him fuck me? Letting him tie me up and use me? I don't know much about BDSM, but I know that I'm not a submissive... I'm not into all that.
"I fear we're not the match you think we are, Doctor." I swallow the shame creeping up my throat.
He stares at me for a moment, like he's trying to decide whether he agrees. And then his mouth falls open to an O and he dips his head to try and contain his laughter.
"Apologies, Marley. I think you misunderstood."
I wait for him to stop laughing and face me. When he does, his eyes are glittering, enchanting.
"Perhaps that was the wrong word. I didn't mean to imply that our relationship would transcend anything beyond an oral fellowship."
When I narrow my eyes on him, he laughs again. "Fuck, Marley."
I don't think your therapist is supposed to say fuck, but I also haven't had any of them tell em to call them by their first name, either.
"You've got me in knots, and I can't speak right." logan shakes his head. "Neither of those were meant to come across that way. I just mean, if you want to work together, I can help you. But I need you to be honest... open... vulnerable. It's a hard thing to be, particularly when you've come to me based on a negative experience that's shaped you. But it's the only way this will work. Can you do that for me?"
Honest. Open. Vulnerable.
It makes sense. Therapy would be a waste of both of our time if I wasn't willing to do the work. Others have told me as much, but when the work involves taking whatever pill they gave me and dealing with the fallout alone, it's hard to do.
But something about Logan assures me his approach is different.
Something about Logan is familiar, and I take that as a sign that it's meant to be.
"I can do that." I nod.
"Promise?" He teases, a smirk on his face that has his dimple popping out of one cheek.
"Yes." I nod. "I'll be honest and open and vulnerable."
Submissive.
He's a powerful man; it won't be hard to give him control while I'm in his office. In fact, that almost sounds like a wonderful reprieve, to not have to be in control all the time. If being honest and vulnerable is the price to pay for lightening the load, I'll pay it gladly.
"It won't always be pretty." He warns, and I nod, because I know that. The truth isn't always pretty.
"Okay." He nods, too. "Then let's start now."
I expect him to prompt me to tell him about my childhood, my relationship with my father and how my mother made me feel. I expect him to ask me about my siblings or friends or hobbies. Instead, he throws me right into the fire.
