Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
But that’s the thing. This is real life, and my life has just taken a left turn so sharp that I’m dizzy and disoriented. Yet I want to see what’s there. Pastor O’Toole resembles a gorgeous Norse god, and I’d love to see what he can do with his massive tool.
Is that wrong?
Of course it is.
But still, if I’m ever going to experiment, then the time is now.
8
A DIRTY COUNSELING SESSION
Lachlan
You can tell a lot about people by how they enter a room. Stella Moreland slips through the office door first—slips, because that’s the only word for the way her hips move in that wrap dress, a blue so deep it could drown you. The fabric tugs at the swell of her chest, folding in a V that narrows to the fine bone at her sternum. I make a conscious effort not to stare, but every inch of her is a study in what happens when genetics and desire negotiate a stalemate. There’s a brief, arrested moment as her eyes find mine across the desk—cobalt under the office light, lashes heavy, the edge of challenge visible even through her uncertainty. She’s nervous, but not ashamed. Her hands smooth her skirt. The dress is a weapon, and she knows how to use it.
Her step-uncle follows close behind, one hand at the small of her back. He is not the kind of man who enters anywhere quietly; he fills the frame, shoulders squared, the calculated violence of expensive tailoring on full display. His hair is immaculate. There’s the hint of a five o’clock shadow even though it’s only just after ten. His grip on her is proprietary, not rough but not gentle either. He smiles at me, slow and humorless, the kind of smile men wear when they know a secret and can’t be bothered to keep it.
I stand to greet them, both hands visible on the desk, and modulate my voice to neutral. “Stella. Hunter. Good to see you again. Please, come in.”
They do, taking the twin leather chairs across from me, close together. The space between their bodies is measured in millimeters, but the air is already crowded with unspoken things. The stained glass above the window throws a line of color across the wood paneling—amber with a pulse of blue—landing, almost theatrically, on Stella’s collarbone. The incense burner, a cheap brass thing, leaks a slow spiral of Nag Champa toward the ceiling.
I reach for the legal pad, the motion slow and deliberate. “How have you been since our last session?” I ask, voice gentle but with a purposeful clinical cadence. “Any developments you’d like to discuss?”
Stella glances at Hunter, a flicker so fast most would miss it. He inclines his head, giving her permission, but she waits. I get the sense she wants me to press, or maybe she just wants to see if I’ll ask the right question.
Hunter answers first. “We’ve been exploring,” he says. There’s an edge of amusement, as if he finds the whole scenario deeply entertaining. “Trying to figure out what comes next, if anything.”
I allow a neutral smile. “And did the exploring help?”
Stella’s lips part, but the words stick. She shifts, ankles crossed under the chair, and I can see the pulse at the hollow of her throat. “It’s different, now. Harder to pretend it’s not real.”
There’s a pause—pregnant, as therapists say. I let it breathe. “You mean, the attraction?” I ask, pencil hovering.
Her cheeks pinken, a slow rush of color that reaches her ears. “Yes,” she says, a whisper. “And more.”
I nod, jot a note. The act is theater, but it matters. “You’re not the only people who’ve struggled with this,” I say, meaning every word. “Taboo isn’t about the law, not always. Sometimes it’s the shape of your own shame.”
Hunter leans back, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Neither of us is ashamed,” he growls, and even I can tell he’s lying. “But we’d like to know how to proceed. Stella’s father—my stepbrother—will return soon enough. We want to be prepared.”
I rest the pencil on the pad, steeple my fingers. “Are you asking for permission, or absolution?”
Hunter’s mouth curves. “Maybe both.”
This is what I like about them: no bullshit, no endless hedging. There’s a hunger here, bright and honest and unafraid of its own implications.
I shift the topic with a soft, practiced glide. “Did you act on your feelings since we last spoke?” I keep the tone clinical, but there’s no mistaking the charge behind the question.
Another flick of Stella’s eyes. This time, she answers. “Yes.”
Hunter adds, “Last night.” Then, after a beat, “And this morning.”
My cock stirs under the desk, unwanted but inevitable. I school my face to impassivity, but my pulse is climbing. “That’s definitely something,” I say, as if this happens all the time. “How did it feel?”
There’s a tension in the air—triangular, triangulated. Stella’s gaze drops to her lap. “It felt…” She hesitates, then looks straight at me, as if daring me to look away. “Like everything I’d ever wanted.”