Playboy Billionaire

by Mia Ford

  “Drew Hunter?” The receptionist called my name, pulling me from the abyss of my own mind.

  I shook my head and cleared my throat. “Yes?”

  “Dr. Emerson is ready to see you now,” she said. “Come on back.”

  She opened the door for me and ushered me into a room with soft lighting and an even softer couch. There were throw pillows, so I situated myself between those awkwardly, not wanting to mess anything up. A box of tissues sat on a table beside the couch.

  “She'll be right in,” the receptionist said. “Just make yourself at home and get comfortable while you wait.”

  Get comfortable. At a shrink's office. Hardly possible. Even at one set up as cozy and comfortable as this was. Yeah, sure, I was supposed to come in and open up and explore my feelings and shit, but that was hard to do when you'd been taught and conditioned to push your feelings away for your entire life.

  There was a soft knock at the door, and a moment later, it opened. I stood up to greet my therapist, and when I did, our eyes met and my jaw hit the floor.

  “It's you,” I said, feeling ashamed that I never got her first name. “It's – it's you.”

  She seemed as shocked as I did, as she held onto the door for dear life. Almost like she wanted to leave again. I couldn't blame her. The instinct to bolt straight out the door and never looking back was running through me.

  “Y - you're a doctor?” was all I could think to say. “My doctor?”

  In my head, I was trying to recall everything we'd talked about the night before. I ran through as much as I could remember, trying to figure out if I'd said anything too revealing or personal. Never once had it ever entered my mind that this hot piece of ass from last night was doctor material so I wasn't overly careful with my words. But then again, it wasn't like we did much talking anyway.

  “Yes, I am actually,” she said. “And you must be Drew – Drew Hunter, I see.”

  She looked down at my file, reading it to herself. But her eyes lingered on the pages a little longer than necessary and I got the impression she was just trying to avoid looking into my eyes. Flashes of what we'd done last night scrolled through my mind and I had to admit, I felt myself growing a little warmer and getting a little stiff in the pants.

  “It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand, her eyes still not quite meeting my own. I watched her hand trembling, even as she tried to smile and play it off. “I'm Dr. Emerson.”

  “Please, call me Drew,” I said. “I mean, after what we did last night and –”

  “Drew it is then!” she said with a little too much enthusiasm before taking a seat across from me.

  She crossed her legs, and yes, I noticed her sexy legs in her pencil skirt – legs that I'd had my face buried between not all that long ago. She was dressed professionally today, her hair pulled back and even had some glasses on her face. But it was her. It was the girl from last night. Neither her clothes, her hair, or her glasses could hide that fact from me.

  And she was my fucking therapist. I didn't know if I was lucky or cursed.

  AMELIA

  Drew. His name was Drew. I had to admit, he looked very much like a Drew too. As I met his gaze, my eyes fell on his lips – lips that were so thick, so luscious, so soft, and oh so delicious. I licked my lips as I remembered kissing those lips last night – only hours ago, actually.

  No, stop it, Amelia, I told myself. You can't do this. Pretend like nothing happened. That's the best course of action. Act like it never happened. Just carry on and do your job.

  “So this is your first time in therapy, Drew?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a sly smile. “I guess there's a first time for everything, huh, Dr. Emerson?”

  If he expected me to tell him to call me Amelia, he was going to be waiting a long time. As awkward as it was for the man I'd just fucked to call me doctor, it would be even more awkward – and much too casual for my liking – if he called me by my first name.

  “I've looked over your file. The Navy was kind enough to send it over, and it seems that you've been suffering from what appears to be PTSD. I understand that you're looking for a formal diagnosis, as well as to get treatment for your condition. Is that, about right?”

  “I'm fine,” he said, brushing it off. “I'm not dealing with anything anybody else isn't. I don't think what I'm going through is different than anybody else goes through when they've seen combat.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, pushing my glasses up higher on my nose as I tried to look at Drew through my professional, medical lens opposed to the one of a warm-blooded female. “If you're fine, why are you here?”

  He shrugged. “My Captain insisted upon it. I told him I could go back to work anytime now, but they seem to think I need to talk to a shrink – err, I mean a therapist. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  The notes from Drew's Captain told an entirely different story altogether. Dissociation, depression, panic attacks – all symptoms that had manifested during combat. I knew men like Drew – I worked with them every single day. He wasn't going to talk to me about anything he'd gone through over there.

  Even if we hadn't hooked up, I could tell it would be hard for him to truly open up. But since we had a sexual relationship, there was no way this Navy SEAL was going to allow himself appear weak or vulnerable in front of me. Especially after his bravado when we'd first met in the bar last night. It was hard enough to break through that tough exterior as it was, but now, given our history – limited thought it was – I felt like it very well could be impossible.

  “Well, Mr. Hunter –”

  “Drew, please. I insist.”

  I cringed. I normally don't mind calling my clients by their first name, if it made them more comfortable. But this wasn't normal in the slightest and I had to tread carefully. Very, very carefully.

  “Fine, Drew then, as you may or may not know, the reason you've been sent to me is because I'm a specialist on post-traumatic stress disorder in combat veterans. But we've run into a bit of a problem, and to be rather blunt with you, I fear it might affect our professional relationship. My colleague – Dr. Frank – doesn't have my level of experience with veterans, but I'm sure he'd be more than happy to –”

  “Are you transferring me?” he asked.

  He stared at me wide-eyed and slack-jawed – looking almost offended by the suggestion I was going to make.

  “I believe it would be in your best interest, Drew. I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I can help you. Not with our – history.”

  It pained me to admit that. I'd only been practicing for three years, but never in my life had I admitted I couldn't help someone. I'd never turn a client away who needed my expertise. It was something of an unwritten rule of mine. But I was torn and caught in a no-win situation. I was, as the old cliché went, caught between a rock and hard place.

  A delicious and sexy hard place, I thought to myself – and then immediately mentally kicked myself for it.

  “What if I refuse?” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “What if I want to stay with the expert and refuse to see your partner?”

  “Well, there are other experts in my field I could –”

  “No, you're not answering my question, Dr. Emerson,” he said. “What if I want to see you? What if I think you're the best fit for me and I refuse to see anyone else?”

  “And why would you do that, Drew?” I asked, leaning back in my chair and crossing my legs at the ankles.

  “Because I like you, Dr. Emerson. I like you already,” he replied. “I can already tell you've got my best interests at heart and can help me.”

  I opened my mouth to ask if this had anything to do with what happened last night, but I closed it, not wanting to bring that up. I feared that by opening those particular flood gates, by admitting that something had happened between us, it would make things even more difficult. Not to mention, the risk to my career – a career I'd worked really hard for – i
f this ever came to light, would be far too great.

  But he was there. Asking for my help. I could see in his eyes that he needed help – needed somebody with my level of experience. Dr. Frank was a good man and a good therapist, but I wasn't sure he'd be able to crack open a tough nut like Drew. I knew my own chances of success with him were small, but they were probably still better than Dr. Frank's.

  “Very well,” I said, feeling no small amount of trepidation. “We'll give it a shot, if you insist. But if things don't work out –”

  Drew's lips pulled back into a cocky smile as he finished my sentence for me. “Then, and only then, will I allow you to break things off.”

  “Well, I wasn't going to put it that way, but okay,” I said. “Then yes, I will continue to see you then.”

  My cheeks were burning, and I knew they were bright red. In my mind's eye, I kept seeing him on top of me, plunging his cock into me. My body reacted, recalling the way he'd felt inside of me. The way it had felt when I'd had him in my mouth. I felt a fire ignite between my thighs and felt myself getting wet despite my best efforts to avoid those thoughts in the first place.

  I had to continue to act like a professional, however. I had a job to do – a job I took very seriously and very personally. I was good at what I did and enjoyed it to boot. I wouldn't jeopardize it. So, I remained in my chair, was sure to sit up straight with my ankles crossed, and my arms crossed in front of my chest. Drew smiled at me, and in that smile, I could tell that his inner thoughts weren't exactly clean – he was likely recalling everything that had just flashed through my mind. As if acting of their own accord, my eyes drifted down to his crotch and I could see the outline of his thick, hard cock straining against his pants. That only made the fire between my thighs burn hotter and more intensely

  As difficult as it was, I pushed away the lascivious thoughts running through my mind. He was obviously thinking about last night. As was I. Of course, It was hard not to, especially considering how amazing it was. But whatever happened, it happened in the past.

  And it could not, would not, happen again.

  No way, no how.

  DREW

  “Can you at least tell me your name?” I asked.

  “I have. It's Dr. Emerson,” she responded nonchalantly.

  “No, I mean your first name,” I said. “I hate that I didn't ask last night –”

  “You don't need to know that, Drew,” she said, smiling in a friendly way that came off as insincere, but polite. “Let's keep things professional, okay? And we need to set up a ground rule here right at the outset – last night never happened. It's not to be brought up in this office again. You got me?”

  I smirked, but could tell that she was serious. “Aye aye, Captain.”

  “I'm serious, Drew,” she said.

  “I got you. But you already know my name,” I said, biting my lip. “It's not fair –”

  “Who said anything about being fair,” she said. “This is about helping you, not conforming to what your definition of fair is, Drew.”

  Damn. She was whip smart and on it with the replies today. Not like the woman last night who seemed taken in by my every word. Today she was shooting me down left and right. She didn't seem impressed with me or anything I had to say. And I had to admit, it stung a bit.

  She was a beautiful woman – and if possible, even more beautiful today than she had been in the club last night.

  “You know, I have a thing for smart women,” I said. “Maybe we should –”

  “Maybe we should talk about your panic attacks, since that's what your insurance is paying for,” she said, shutting me down again. “When was the last time you had one?”

  “When I woke up this morning and saw that you'd left me without even saying goodbye,” I said.

  That was a lie, but it was smooth. I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with that one. Not that I ever imagined I'd be hitting on my therapist, but given that I was already traveling down that road, it seemed like the perfect line.

  Except, of course, Dr. Emerson didn't look at all amused by my antics. In fact, she was rubbing her temples and looking downright annoyed at me.

  “Drew, if we can't keep things professional, I'm not doing you any good,” she said. “And if I'm not going to be able to help you, I will have no choice but to –”

  This time, I cut her off. “Fine,” I said, looking down at my hands. I picked at the skin around my thumb as I tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be taken as a flirt or a joke. “I'm sorry. I'm just not comfortable talking about my feelings and shit, you know? It's a hell of a lot simpler – not to mention more fun – to flirt with you.”

  “Is it worse because of our history together?” she asked.

  “History?” I laughed. There wasn't much history, but I let it slide and answered her question truthfully. “Not really. I just don't like talking about myself.”

  “I figured that much,” she said, her eyes softening as she looked at me. “Most of the men who come in to see me don't like talking about their feelings, it feels foreign or wrong to them. Because they weren't raised that way. Most of them have been taught to stuff all of your emotions down into a box. It's not manly to talk about your feelings. It makes you feel weak. Inferior. Perhaps even like a sissy. And of course, the military doesn't do you any favors with the macho –”

  “Hey now,” I said, stopping her right there. “The military has done me a lot of favors. The military has been really good to me.”

  “Yes, of course. I didn't mean it like that and I sincerely apologize,” she said. “I just meant that you're not really encouraged to talk about your feelings, even when you witness so much death and destruction. Keeping all of that in and never finding a way to express it does you more harm than good, Drew. It eats away at your mind and your soul. It's just not healthy.”

  I shrugged.

  “I'm right about that, aren't I?” she asked.

  “I guess so.”

  There was a silence in the room – a heavy silence as if she expected me to say more. But I knew what she was trying to do, and it didn't work. The silence didn't scare me; I was used to it. I came to expect it now that I was home. And I wasn't the type who talked just to fill empty spaces in the conversation. I wasn't one of those who got scared by a gap in the conversation and needed to fill it with whatever inane bullshit popped into my head.

  “You guess so?” she asked, trying to nudge me into speaking. “I'm guessing this started at a young age. Why don't you tell me about your parents, Drew?”

  My parents. As soon as she mentioned them, my entire body tensed up. My fists were balled up in my lap and I had to look away. Had to look at anything but her.

  “I see that struck a nerve, and I'm sorry. There's just no notes in your file about your parents –”

  “Because they're dead,” I said, letting out a deep breath. “They died a few years back. It was a car accident.”

  Dr. Emerson's eyes grew wide. “I'm sorry, Drew. I had no idea.”

  And I could tell by the expression on her face that she meant it. She was sorry. She was sincere, didn't try to patronize or placate me. She came across as genuine, sincere, and compassionate – and I liked her a little more because of it.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to smile, but failed. “It's okay. You didn't know, and I'm not here to be coddled, now am I?”

  “No, you're not here for the coddling,” she said. “But I also don't want to make things worse for you. If I had known, I would have brought it up in a gentler way.”

  “Gentle? With me?” I snorted. “No one has ever felt the need to be gentle about anything with me. I mean, look at me – do I look like the type of man who needs you to be gentle?”

  Dr. Emerson smiled, a soft smile that felt warm and genuine. “No, but as I know from experience, looks can often be deceiving, Drew. Sometimes the biggest, most manly men are the ones who need the most help emotionally. They're the ones least likely to talk about w
hat's really bothering them. The least likely to seek out help even though their soul is rotting from the inside out.”

  I shook my head, trying hard not to laugh. This all sounded like new age, touchy feely bullshit to me, and I really didn't want anyone – including a woman I fucked the night before – to feel the need to be gentle around me. I wasn't some weak ass bitch and I didn't need to be treated with kid gloves.

  “I'm a Navy SEAL,” I said. “I've seen men and women die, right in front of me, and in some really outlandishly terrible ways. I'm just fine.”

  “Oh really?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “If that's the case, then why are you here?”

  ooo000ooo

  She had me there. As I left her office, I was as confused as ever as to why I was seeing a shrink. My dear old dad would be so fucking ashamed of me right now. Talking about my feelings and shit with a therapist – it just wasn't our way. Wasn't how we doing things. We sucked it up, dealt with our shit, and carried on. Dr. Emerson had been right about that. I wasn't raised to be open about my feelings, because I was a boy. A man. And I had a job to do – serve in the military, protect our country and eventually, one day, provide for a family. None of that would be easy and I never expected it to be.

  I stopped in the hallway and turned around. Walking back to her office, I opened the door and peeked inside.

  “So, you still won't tell me your first name?” I asked.

  “No.” She didn't even look up from her notes as she answered.

  “Then at least answer one question, please,” I said. “Why were you there last night? At the bar? And why did you go home with me?”

  She stopped writing, but still didn't look up, her eyes fixed on the notepad in front of her.

  “Why does that matter, Drew?” she asked.