Capricorn, page 9
Why does any man get to say I’ve got her?
“Put me down,” I demand, struggling against Oliver’s chest.
He lowers me to my feet as Astrid exits the elevator. The tension between him and Liam holds until the doors slide shut between them. Motors whir in a hush of motion that carries the car to higher floors, leaving the three of us alone.
Oliver unlocks the front door, and I pull his jacket tighter around me as I step into the sitting room. He dismisses Astrid and trails after me, snowmelt dripping from his hair onto his drab black suit.
I’m soaked too, my teeth chattering as I sink into the sofa closest to the fireplace and lean into the cushions, too emotionally drained to do anything else.
Flames crackle, but the warmth doesn’t reach me.
“It’s time for another therapy session with Sully,” he says, pacing in front of me, his gait unhurried. “I’ll have something arranged.”
“Do what you must. I don’t care anymore.”
He frowns. “That’s a problem, then.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he lets the silence stretch long enough to aggravate me.
I cross my arms. “What’s a problem?”
“You, not caring. That won’t make for a happy marriage.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I thought you didn’t want to marry me.”
“That’s beside the point. Marriage or not, I don’t like this apathetic state of yours.”
“You speak of happy marriages, but I’m the one who needs help? Is Dr. Price aware you suffer from delusions of grandeur?”
He smirks. “No delusions here. I’d probably make a terrible husband anyway.”
“I don’t need therapy,” I bite out. “Especially not from Dr. Price.” The name lands with scorn.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“Why do you care?”
He settles next to me, and a sigh of resignation slips out.
“You remind me of Talitha.” He tilts his head, locking his eyes with mine. “She didn’t just pass, Novalee. She killed herself.”
I gape at him, his words illuminating every moment I’ve spent in his presence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
As I study the paintings, the realization settles in. They’re a merging of the two people we loved and lost.
“Will you tell me about her?” I ask, bringing my attention back to him.
His gaze drops to the floor. “She was submissive…like you.” Dormant grief laces his voice, softening each syllable. “Made for me in every way.”
I recall Mr. Bordeaux and his relationship with Loren, or Pax and the woman he calls slave.
“What do you mean by submissive?” I lean on the arm of the couch. “I’m not like that.”
“It’s an umbrella term for many dynamics. Talitha gave me control of her life and body because she needed the freedom it gave her.”
“How is that freedom?”
“Giving me the reins took the pressure off her. She thrived. Hell, we both did.”
“I understand that’s what worked for you and her, but I want…something different.”
I want Sebastian.
As if we’re tuned to the same wavelength, I swear he hears the unspoken words.
“You might not want or need it in the same way she did, but I see it in you. You have the same type of submissive spirit as my Talitha.”
He pauses, staring into the flames, a faint smile curving his mouth. He seems lost to the memory while the firelight dances across his features.
“She was smart and gifted, with the most breathtaking voice I’ve ever heard. She dreamed of performing at La Scala in Italy someday. She would’ve made it there, too, if not for…”
With a heavy breath, he lowers his face into his hands, fingers raking through his drying hair. He stays like that for a long moment, inhaling and exhaling, words failing him, then his rough voice breaks free again.
“She was bipolar, unresponsive to meds, haunted by things that happened before I met her.” For a beat, his gaze finds mine. “I would’ve done anything for her, but you can’t love someone out of their pain, no matter how hard you try.”
His anguish wraps around me as if it’s my own. Disquiet spreads over us like a blanket, and we’re both transported to the past, our gazes fixed on the flames, ensnared in the same trance.
Until he moves.
It’s a slight shift, his warm and solid thigh brushing mine, but it’s enough to crash land me back on this couch with him, planting me in the present.
Because that bit of contact explodes in the space between us, inching him closer, my name a raspy sigh on his lips. That tone is all gravel and need, a longing for something more weighing down his lids.
It’s powerful.
Primal.
Undeniable.
Just like when he watches me every night as I writhe against my hand.
“They’re gone, Novalee, but we’re here.” He tangles his fingers into my damp strands, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
In fact, I’m sure of it as his attention dips to my mouth. For some incomprehensible reason, I don’t know if I’d try to stop him.
Isn’t wanting two men enough? Why am I feeling these things for Oliver Whitney?
But there’s something about him that tugs at my heartstrings, even when I wish it didn’t.
Am I that mentally unstable? Or is this a rebound?
I gnaw on my bottom lip, my heartbeat stumbling. “It’s your decision whether to touch me…but I’m asking you not to.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” His hand slides free of my tangled locks. “You’ve convinced yourself that by giving in, you’ll betray Sebastian’s memory.”
“That’s not true, I don’t—”
He takes me by the chin, locking me into place, making retreat impossible. “You’re allowed to want someone else. Believe it or not, it helps.”
“And you want to be that person.” There’s no question in my tone. Everything about this man screams I want you.
“Yes. If not me, then who?” He leans into me, his spicy scent invading my senses. “I know you miss him, but who else can make you feel like this?”
I lift my chin, forcing him to let go.
“Tell me, Novalee, because I know your blood’s rushing right now, causing an itch you’re dying to scratch.”
“What if it’s an itch I’ve already scratched?”
His brows furrow. “Liam?”
Silence is all he gets.
“I take it something happened before you transferred into my house?”
“Well, it sure hasn’t happened since.” Not even by my own hand. Truth is I’m not sure why I keep holding back, except…
It’s exhilarating, the way Oliver watches me every night. I’m becoming addicted to the attention, to the ache low in my core that lingers long after he’s gone.
And then there’s the anticipation. The possibility that one night he might actually step inside my bedroom.
It’s a secret hope I can barely admit to myself.
“I can’t do this with you.” I jump up from the couch and fold my arms across my chest.
But he’s right behind me.
Out of sight.
Not touching, just hovering.
“I think you can.” His exhale hits my nape, sending delicious shivers down my limbs. “And I think you want to, so I’m going to haunt your doorway every night until you do.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’ve had many women since Talitha.” Slowly, he pulls his coat off my shoulders. “But none made me ache the way you do.” Leaning down, he kisses the hollow of my neck, a whisper of lips on skin, though that brief touch shoots straight to my pussy.
I suck in a breath, vocal cords stuck in a vise.
“Would you like to know what I do every night after watching you?” He tosses the damp jacket onto the sofa, and I wish I could hide under it.
“No.”
“Definitely the right answer. The details would make you wet.”
He presses into me from behind, and the hard length of his cock fits snug against the swell of my ass.
“This is what you do to me. Having you in this house every waking moment, not being able to touch you…it’s driving me crazy. I can’t focus on work, and that makes me desperate.”
His tone says something else.
He’s not only desperate.
He’s dangerous.
So why am I not frightened? My inability to act, to move, to put an end to this right now is the most dangerous thing of all.
After a hard gulp, I find my voice. “Then maybe you should send me back to Liam. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your work.”
“Work can fuck right off. And so can Liam.” His hand curls around my hip, squeezing twice before letting me go. “You’re not ready now, but you will be.”
I turn to face him. “No, I won’t.”
“We’ll see.” His familiar and confident smirk transforms him back into the version of Oliver I know.
Someone aloof and in control.
Not desperate or dangerous.
And I hate that I’m disappointed by how easily he buried that raw, vulnerable part of himself.
15
I’m back in Dr. Price’s office, sitting on the edge of his pretentious settee. The velvet beneath me carries a chill, more from the atmosphere than the fabric itself. It’s the kind of cold that seeps into the bones. Even the fireplace burning in the corner does nothing to warm this place.
The shrink doesn’t speak right away.
Of course he doesn’t.
No, his pen talks for him, poised above the notepad resting on his lap. Like last time, he’s sitting across from me, and there’s a choreographed quality in the way he presents himself. Relaxed yet military-straight, every move meticulous. It’s almost theatrical.
Keeping my hands in my lap, I return his unwavering stare. The quiet between us builds, each moment chipping away at my resolve. The longer I sit here, saying nothing, the more my stubbornness frays. I’m going to lose this battle of wills, because I can’t stand to be in this room a minute more.
“Oliver thought I should come.”
Dr. Price nods. “I noticed you left the memorial the other day. What made you take off like that?”
My mind drifts to the sound of Sebastian’s name in his father’s mouth, to the man’s venomous lies, dressed in grief’s clothing.
“I left because of Mr. Stone.”
He writes something on his notepad, no doubt another mark added to whatever narrative he’s constructing about me. “You found his speech triggering?”
“Triggering?” My brow lifts. “Try infuriating. The man had the audacity to fake tears, going on about legacy and pride as if he didn’t spend every day of Sebastian’s life tearing him down. He’s a fraud of a father.”
“Grief can change a person’s perspective. Perhaps the loss forced him to reassess how he treated his son?”
I gape at him, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”
“Simply playing Devil’s Advocate. Grief can change people, as you’re well aware.”
“That man is incapable of change. The show he put on might’ve been his best performance yet.”
“You believe he was being dishonest?”
“I believe he’s evil.” I ease back against the cushions. “Like a lot of the men pulling the strings here.”
At my backhanded insult, Dr. Price doesn’t even twitch. Ever the man of composure, he jots something down, his pen scribbling hushed judgment across the page.
“How are your days?” he asks, flipping to a new page. “What do they look like?”
I let out a soft, joyless laugh. “A lot of nothing. I stare at the ceiling, watch the ocean, count the snowflakes. Sometimes I eat.”
“Sometimes?” His silver-grey eyes narrow, the point of his pen tapping a restless beat against the notebook.
“Most of the time,” I say, not sure if it’s more truth or lie.
“And your nights?”
“I sleep.”
“And before that?” A faint twitch pulls at his mouth, too restrained to be a smile. “Have you tried my control method?”
Last night blazes through my mind in vivid color, and warmth blooms on my cheeks. Oliver stood in my doorway, same as all the other nights.
No sound or shift.
Just him, holding tight to his infuriating status quo.
And me, swallowing down my moans.
Desperate to contain the inferno, I’d shoved the blanket aside before taking my nipples between my fingers, pinching hard to tame the heat. But the second I touched myself there…
Oliver moved.
With a bite of his lower lip, he took a purposeful step into the room, leaned against the wall, and I’d wondered…
Would this be the night he finally did something?
After what felt like a full minute of silent warfare, he adjusted the bulge in his pants, crossed his arms over his sleep shirt, and settled in like a man prepared to wait forever.
Dr. Price clears his throat, dragging me back to the sterile present, but it’s too late.
He already has a good idea of what I’m thinking.
“Have you orgasmed yet?” he asks, too casual, as if we’re discussing the completion of a project.
“I’d rather not talk about that.”
“Why not? Masturbation is a natural and healthy part of life.”
“It’s also private.”
“I’ll take a simple yes or no, then.”
“Why are you so fixated on this?”
“My approach isn’t conventional, but I’d like to know if it’s working.”
His demeanor is too clinical and composed, and every atom in my body warns me to tread these dangerous waters with caution. Still, the truth breaks loose, unchecked.
“I haven’t been able to.”
“But you’ve tried?”
“I guess I’ve been holding back.” I squirm in my seat, hating the way his questions strip me bare. But once the metaphorical clothes come off, there’s no putting them back on.
“What’s stopping you, Novalee?”
“Oliver.” I swallow my pride and my shame, then forge ahead. “He’s been watching me every night.”
Dr. Price sets his notebook and pen down. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“It did…at first.”
“And now?” He folds his hands in his lap, and the energy between us hisses like a viper. “How does it make you feel?”
“Trapped.”
“How so?”
I gaze out the window at the falling snow, dazed by the wintry light of day. “I feel like I’m stuck in purgatory. He hasn’t said a word, and except for last night, he hasn’t moved from my doorway.”
“What was different about last night?”
“I did…something.”
“Please, tell me more.”
“I got his attention,” I admit, flashing back to the large bulge in Oliver’s pajama pants.
“Was that your goal?”
I return to Dr. Price and his dark pewter eyes. A flare of interest transforms his features, vanishing the instant our gazes collide.
Once again, I’ve been playing into his hands this whole time.
“As I told you already, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Understood, but I would like to know one thing.” He leans in, drawing out the pause until it hums with expectation. “You haven’t been able to let go in front of Oliver, but have you crossed that threshold at all since Sebastian’s death?”
His words punch the air from my lungs, and I sit frozen for a beat, torn between the urge to withdraw and the pull of exhausted honesty.
He waits, his pointer finger ticking the seconds away as he dares me to hand over another piece of myself.
“Twice,” I say, my voice so small I don’t recognize it.
“Were you alone?”
“I was with Liam.” The admission burns my tongue, hot with shame.
“When?”
“The night I almost jumped.”
“Why do you think you were able to let go with Liam?”
“Because he’s safe?” I shrug. “Because I didn’t have a choice? We both got swept up, after I almost…” My voice trails off, strangled with too many regrets.
The admission hangs in the air, tainting the space with raw vulnerability.
Surprisingly, Dr. Price doesn’t pounce on it. He lets the silence snowball until I break it with another reluctant truth.
“It’s always been easy with Liam.”
“The real question isn’t why you’re able to climax with Liam.”
“It’s not?”
“No. What you should be asking is, why isn’t it happening now?” He gives the thought room to breathe, watching me squirm. “You want to know what I think?”
I hesitate, then nod, betrayed by curiosity.
“I think you’re scared to surrender because it means opening yourself to someone new. After losing Sebastian, you’re terrified of letting anyone else in.”
I narrow my eyes. “But wasn’t the point of this nightly ritual to demonstrate control?”
“Which you’ve done.” His tone softens, part coax and part command. “Now it’s time to release yourself from the prison you’ve built.”
“In front of Oliver?” I cross my legs. “Is that what you’re implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. If having an audience brings you pleasure, then you should explore it. You’ve earned it.” He straightens the gold band of his watch, as if on cue. “I’m afraid our time is up.”
I blink, disoriented. “We’re done already?”
“For today, yes. You’re making more progress than you realize.” He rises, prompting me to do the same.
“Continue your nightly routine,” he adds, heading to the door. “During the day, I want you to immerse yourself in your work again.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
Not with Sebastian’s studio right down the hall.
“At least give it a try.” He opens the door, and the brass handle catches the firelight. “Find joy in something each day, no matter how small. Start a new project, or visit a friend.”
A rare smile touches his lips—a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the doctor.
“Put me down,” I demand, struggling against Oliver’s chest.
He lowers me to my feet as Astrid exits the elevator. The tension between him and Liam holds until the doors slide shut between them. Motors whir in a hush of motion that carries the car to higher floors, leaving the three of us alone.
Oliver unlocks the front door, and I pull his jacket tighter around me as I step into the sitting room. He dismisses Astrid and trails after me, snowmelt dripping from his hair onto his drab black suit.
I’m soaked too, my teeth chattering as I sink into the sofa closest to the fireplace and lean into the cushions, too emotionally drained to do anything else.
Flames crackle, but the warmth doesn’t reach me.
“It’s time for another therapy session with Sully,” he says, pacing in front of me, his gait unhurried. “I’ll have something arranged.”
“Do what you must. I don’t care anymore.”
He frowns. “That’s a problem, then.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he lets the silence stretch long enough to aggravate me.
I cross my arms. “What’s a problem?”
“You, not caring. That won’t make for a happy marriage.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I thought you didn’t want to marry me.”
“That’s beside the point. Marriage or not, I don’t like this apathetic state of yours.”
“You speak of happy marriages, but I’m the one who needs help? Is Dr. Price aware you suffer from delusions of grandeur?”
He smirks. “No delusions here. I’d probably make a terrible husband anyway.”
“I don’t need therapy,” I bite out. “Especially not from Dr. Price.” The name lands with scorn.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“Why do you care?”
He settles next to me, and a sigh of resignation slips out.
“You remind me of Talitha.” He tilts his head, locking his eyes with mine. “She didn’t just pass, Novalee. She killed herself.”
I gape at him, his words illuminating every moment I’ve spent in his presence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
As I study the paintings, the realization settles in. They’re a merging of the two people we loved and lost.
“Will you tell me about her?” I ask, bringing my attention back to him.
His gaze drops to the floor. “She was submissive…like you.” Dormant grief laces his voice, softening each syllable. “Made for me in every way.”
I recall Mr. Bordeaux and his relationship with Loren, or Pax and the woman he calls slave.
“What do you mean by submissive?” I lean on the arm of the couch. “I’m not like that.”
“It’s an umbrella term for many dynamics. Talitha gave me control of her life and body because she needed the freedom it gave her.”
“How is that freedom?”
“Giving me the reins took the pressure off her. She thrived. Hell, we both did.”
“I understand that’s what worked for you and her, but I want…something different.”
I want Sebastian.
As if we’re tuned to the same wavelength, I swear he hears the unspoken words.
“You might not want or need it in the same way she did, but I see it in you. You have the same type of submissive spirit as my Talitha.”
He pauses, staring into the flames, a faint smile curving his mouth. He seems lost to the memory while the firelight dances across his features.
“She was smart and gifted, with the most breathtaking voice I’ve ever heard. She dreamed of performing at La Scala in Italy someday. She would’ve made it there, too, if not for…”
With a heavy breath, he lowers his face into his hands, fingers raking through his drying hair. He stays like that for a long moment, inhaling and exhaling, words failing him, then his rough voice breaks free again.
“She was bipolar, unresponsive to meds, haunted by things that happened before I met her.” For a beat, his gaze finds mine. “I would’ve done anything for her, but you can’t love someone out of their pain, no matter how hard you try.”
His anguish wraps around me as if it’s my own. Disquiet spreads over us like a blanket, and we’re both transported to the past, our gazes fixed on the flames, ensnared in the same trance.
Until he moves.
It’s a slight shift, his warm and solid thigh brushing mine, but it’s enough to crash land me back on this couch with him, planting me in the present.
Because that bit of contact explodes in the space between us, inching him closer, my name a raspy sigh on his lips. That tone is all gravel and need, a longing for something more weighing down his lids.
It’s powerful.
Primal.
Undeniable.
Just like when he watches me every night as I writhe against my hand.
“They’re gone, Novalee, but we’re here.” He tangles his fingers into my damp strands, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
In fact, I’m sure of it as his attention dips to my mouth. For some incomprehensible reason, I don’t know if I’d try to stop him.
Isn’t wanting two men enough? Why am I feeling these things for Oliver Whitney?
But there’s something about him that tugs at my heartstrings, even when I wish it didn’t.
Am I that mentally unstable? Or is this a rebound?
I gnaw on my bottom lip, my heartbeat stumbling. “It’s your decision whether to touch me…but I’m asking you not to.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” His hand slides free of my tangled locks. “You’ve convinced yourself that by giving in, you’ll betray Sebastian’s memory.”
“That’s not true, I don’t—”
He takes me by the chin, locking me into place, making retreat impossible. “You’re allowed to want someone else. Believe it or not, it helps.”
“And you want to be that person.” There’s no question in my tone. Everything about this man screams I want you.
“Yes. If not me, then who?” He leans into me, his spicy scent invading my senses. “I know you miss him, but who else can make you feel like this?”
I lift my chin, forcing him to let go.
“Tell me, Novalee, because I know your blood’s rushing right now, causing an itch you’re dying to scratch.”
“What if it’s an itch I’ve already scratched?”
His brows furrow. “Liam?”
Silence is all he gets.
“I take it something happened before you transferred into my house?”
“Well, it sure hasn’t happened since.” Not even by my own hand. Truth is I’m not sure why I keep holding back, except…
It’s exhilarating, the way Oliver watches me every night. I’m becoming addicted to the attention, to the ache low in my core that lingers long after he’s gone.
And then there’s the anticipation. The possibility that one night he might actually step inside my bedroom.
It’s a secret hope I can barely admit to myself.
“I can’t do this with you.” I jump up from the couch and fold my arms across my chest.
But he’s right behind me.
Out of sight.
Not touching, just hovering.
“I think you can.” His exhale hits my nape, sending delicious shivers down my limbs. “And I think you want to, so I’m going to haunt your doorway every night until you do.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’ve had many women since Talitha.” Slowly, he pulls his coat off my shoulders. “But none made me ache the way you do.” Leaning down, he kisses the hollow of my neck, a whisper of lips on skin, though that brief touch shoots straight to my pussy.
I suck in a breath, vocal cords stuck in a vise.
“Would you like to know what I do every night after watching you?” He tosses the damp jacket onto the sofa, and I wish I could hide under it.
“No.”
“Definitely the right answer. The details would make you wet.”
He presses into me from behind, and the hard length of his cock fits snug against the swell of my ass.
“This is what you do to me. Having you in this house every waking moment, not being able to touch you…it’s driving me crazy. I can’t focus on work, and that makes me desperate.”
His tone says something else.
He’s not only desperate.
He’s dangerous.
So why am I not frightened? My inability to act, to move, to put an end to this right now is the most dangerous thing of all.
After a hard gulp, I find my voice. “Then maybe you should send me back to Liam. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your work.”
“Work can fuck right off. And so can Liam.” His hand curls around my hip, squeezing twice before letting me go. “You’re not ready now, but you will be.”
I turn to face him. “No, I won’t.”
“We’ll see.” His familiar and confident smirk transforms him back into the version of Oliver I know.
Someone aloof and in control.
Not desperate or dangerous.
And I hate that I’m disappointed by how easily he buried that raw, vulnerable part of himself.
15
I’m back in Dr. Price’s office, sitting on the edge of his pretentious settee. The velvet beneath me carries a chill, more from the atmosphere than the fabric itself. It’s the kind of cold that seeps into the bones. Even the fireplace burning in the corner does nothing to warm this place.
The shrink doesn’t speak right away.
Of course he doesn’t.
No, his pen talks for him, poised above the notepad resting on his lap. Like last time, he’s sitting across from me, and there’s a choreographed quality in the way he presents himself. Relaxed yet military-straight, every move meticulous. It’s almost theatrical.
Keeping my hands in my lap, I return his unwavering stare. The quiet between us builds, each moment chipping away at my resolve. The longer I sit here, saying nothing, the more my stubbornness frays. I’m going to lose this battle of wills, because I can’t stand to be in this room a minute more.
“Oliver thought I should come.”
Dr. Price nods. “I noticed you left the memorial the other day. What made you take off like that?”
My mind drifts to the sound of Sebastian’s name in his father’s mouth, to the man’s venomous lies, dressed in grief’s clothing.
“I left because of Mr. Stone.”
He writes something on his notepad, no doubt another mark added to whatever narrative he’s constructing about me. “You found his speech triggering?”
“Triggering?” My brow lifts. “Try infuriating. The man had the audacity to fake tears, going on about legacy and pride as if he didn’t spend every day of Sebastian’s life tearing him down. He’s a fraud of a father.”
“Grief can change a person’s perspective. Perhaps the loss forced him to reassess how he treated his son?”
I gape at him, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”
“Simply playing Devil’s Advocate. Grief can change people, as you’re well aware.”
“That man is incapable of change. The show he put on might’ve been his best performance yet.”
“You believe he was being dishonest?”
“I believe he’s evil.” I ease back against the cushions. “Like a lot of the men pulling the strings here.”
At my backhanded insult, Dr. Price doesn’t even twitch. Ever the man of composure, he jots something down, his pen scribbling hushed judgment across the page.
“How are your days?” he asks, flipping to a new page. “What do they look like?”
I let out a soft, joyless laugh. “A lot of nothing. I stare at the ceiling, watch the ocean, count the snowflakes. Sometimes I eat.”
“Sometimes?” His silver-grey eyes narrow, the point of his pen tapping a restless beat against the notebook.
“Most of the time,” I say, not sure if it’s more truth or lie.
“And your nights?”
“I sleep.”
“And before that?” A faint twitch pulls at his mouth, too restrained to be a smile. “Have you tried my control method?”
Last night blazes through my mind in vivid color, and warmth blooms on my cheeks. Oliver stood in my doorway, same as all the other nights.
No sound or shift.
Just him, holding tight to his infuriating status quo.
And me, swallowing down my moans.
Desperate to contain the inferno, I’d shoved the blanket aside before taking my nipples between my fingers, pinching hard to tame the heat. But the second I touched myself there…
Oliver moved.
With a bite of his lower lip, he took a purposeful step into the room, leaned against the wall, and I’d wondered…
Would this be the night he finally did something?
After what felt like a full minute of silent warfare, he adjusted the bulge in his pants, crossed his arms over his sleep shirt, and settled in like a man prepared to wait forever.
Dr. Price clears his throat, dragging me back to the sterile present, but it’s too late.
He already has a good idea of what I’m thinking.
“Have you orgasmed yet?” he asks, too casual, as if we’re discussing the completion of a project.
“I’d rather not talk about that.”
“Why not? Masturbation is a natural and healthy part of life.”
“It’s also private.”
“I’ll take a simple yes or no, then.”
“Why are you so fixated on this?”
“My approach isn’t conventional, but I’d like to know if it’s working.”
His demeanor is too clinical and composed, and every atom in my body warns me to tread these dangerous waters with caution. Still, the truth breaks loose, unchecked.
“I haven’t been able to.”
“But you’ve tried?”
“I guess I’ve been holding back.” I squirm in my seat, hating the way his questions strip me bare. But once the metaphorical clothes come off, there’s no putting them back on.
“What’s stopping you, Novalee?”
“Oliver.” I swallow my pride and my shame, then forge ahead. “He’s been watching me every night.”
Dr. Price sets his notebook and pen down. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“It did…at first.”
“And now?” He folds his hands in his lap, and the energy between us hisses like a viper. “How does it make you feel?”
“Trapped.”
“How so?”
I gaze out the window at the falling snow, dazed by the wintry light of day. “I feel like I’m stuck in purgatory. He hasn’t said a word, and except for last night, he hasn’t moved from my doorway.”
“What was different about last night?”
“I did…something.”
“Please, tell me more.”
“I got his attention,” I admit, flashing back to the large bulge in Oliver’s pajama pants.
“Was that your goal?”
I return to Dr. Price and his dark pewter eyes. A flare of interest transforms his features, vanishing the instant our gazes collide.
Once again, I’ve been playing into his hands this whole time.
“As I told you already, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Understood, but I would like to know one thing.” He leans in, drawing out the pause until it hums with expectation. “You haven’t been able to let go in front of Oliver, but have you crossed that threshold at all since Sebastian’s death?”
His words punch the air from my lungs, and I sit frozen for a beat, torn between the urge to withdraw and the pull of exhausted honesty.
He waits, his pointer finger ticking the seconds away as he dares me to hand over another piece of myself.
“Twice,” I say, my voice so small I don’t recognize it.
“Were you alone?”
“I was with Liam.” The admission burns my tongue, hot with shame.
“When?”
“The night I almost jumped.”
“Why do you think you were able to let go with Liam?”
“Because he’s safe?” I shrug. “Because I didn’t have a choice? We both got swept up, after I almost…” My voice trails off, strangled with too many regrets.
The admission hangs in the air, tainting the space with raw vulnerability.
Surprisingly, Dr. Price doesn’t pounce on it. He lets the silence snowball until I break it with another reluctant truth.
“It’s always been easy with Liam.”
“The real question isn’t why you’re able to climax with Liam.”
“It’s not?”
“No. What you should be asking is, why isn’t it happening now?” He gives the thought room to breathe, watching me squirm. “You want to know what I think?”
I hesitate, then nod, betrayed by curiosity.
“I think you’re scared to surrender because it means opening yourself to someone new. After losing Sebastian, you’re terrified of letting anyone else in.”
I narrow my eyes. “But wasn’t the point of this nightly ritual to demonstrate control?”
“Which you’ve done.” His tone softens, part coax and part command. “Now it’s time to release yourself from the prison you’ve built.”
“In front of Oliver?” I cross my legs. “Is that what you’re implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. If having an audience brings you pleasure, then you should explore it. You’ve earned it.” He straightens the gold band of his watch, as if on cue. “I’m afraid our time is up.”
I blink, disoriented. “We’re done already?”
“For today, yes. You’re making more progress than you realize.” He rises, prompting me to do the same.
“Continue your nightly routine,” he adds, heading to the door. “During the day, I want you to immerse yourself in your work again.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
Not with Sebastian’s studio right down the hall.
“At least give it a try.” He opens the door, and the brass handle catches the firelight. “Find joy in something each day, no matter how small. Start a new project, or visit a friend.”
A rare smile touches his lips—a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the doctor.
