“Hey.” Reaching out, he folded his fingers over where hers fidgeted in her lap. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Okay?”
Her gaze dropped toward where he touched her. “It felt as if I did.”
“Abi, look at me.” He waited until her face lifted again. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise you.”
She seemed to study him for a long few minutes, as if seeking out the lie in his words, then she released a sigh, her shoulders sagging with what looked like relief.
He retracted his hand, trying to ignore how cold even that small separation from her left him. “Now, shall we discuss today’s session?”
Finally allowing a small smile to peek through, she nodded.
“Good. Then, we’ll begin where we usually begin. How do you feel your practical went today, Abi?”
She seemed unsure again as she poked a small finger into the air like it had no sense of direction. “I think we just covered how I think it went. Maybe it’s best to discuss how you think it went.”
Chase couldn’t stop the laugh that broke free on his exhale. “Okay, good point. So …” He spread his fingers wide as he lifted his palms toward her. “We’ll go through the aims of today—what we hoped to achieve for you. One: Being naked in close proximity to a man. We covered that, would you agree?” Waiting for her nod, he continued, “Two: Being in that same proximity whilst the man was naked, also. Again, we can check that off the list. However, the real question here is, how comfortable were you, being in that situation. Any concerns? Anything about it that made you feel threatened?” At the shaking of her head, he asked, “How about this: On a scale of one to ten, with ten being very comfortable, and one being very uncomfortable, how did you feel during your session today, in relation to a naked man being so close to you whilst naked yourself?”
“Eight.” She answered without hesitation, though she gave a slight pause before shrugging and adding, “Up until the point where I felt like I’d done something wrong in there, anyway.”
Something that’d been entirely his fault. “Abi, I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” he said, his frown moving back in. “It was never my intention to, I can assure you of that.”
“Okay,” she said, but he couldn’t quite decide on the intent of the word.
He nodded, either way. “So, let’s go back to what we spoke of during the session. About how being close to a naked man made you feel. You said aware—do you have anything to add to that?”
“Nothing to add, not really. Aware was exactly how being close to you that way made me feel.”
Close to you. Not close to a man. For a moment, Chase allowed him to question if her word choice had been intentional—until he mentally shook his head clear of those thoughts. He already had enough complications going on up there as it was.
“And now?” he asked, focusing back on the there and then. “How do you feel after the fact—now that you’ve had time to reflect on your practical session and how you felt during that?”
She held his gaze for the longest of moments, those blue pools of hers seeming to penetrate straight through to his very soul, then she drew in a quiet breath that could almost have passed for a gasp. “Cold,” she finally answered. “I just … feel cold.”
Chase’s eyes tightened as he studied her, as he tried defining that answer. Had she felt cold because she’d left the shower? Felt cold because of his behaviour fucking everything up?
Or had the shower made her feel the exact way he did?
Being beside her, so close, so beautifully naked, had made him feel the warmest he’d been in years, and since the moment he’d stepped from the stall, away from her, he’d been filled with a void even an inferno would struggle to heat—did she sense that? Feel that?
Clearing his throat, he relocated his brain long enough to ask, “Cold, how?”
Again with the staring, eye probing, brain penetration trick. Her shoulders lifted, then sagged with the second, long sigh she gave. “Can we talk about next week now, please?” She glanced away as she asked.
Chase wanted to tell her no. Wanted to demand she explain herself. Order her to describe what she meant by cold. He didn’t, though—because what right did he have after being a Class-A wank-up in the shower?
Besides, he’d never forced anything on a client yet. It’d make him a totally selfish bastard to start doing so with Abi.
Realising his hands had clenched, where they hung between his knees, he forced his fingers to un-flex. “Next week, I thought we could do some demonstrations of how a couple can find pleasure together, without actually having intercourse.”
That gaze of hers swung right back round. “We?” she asked, a slight squint affecting the outer corner of just one eye.
“Yes. Is that okay?” Part of him needed her to tell him no, despite an even bigger part of him hoping she’d say yes.
Her hesitant nod came before her verbal, “Yes.”
He took in her expression. The small flash of fear quickly smothered by the colouring of her cheeks and a hint of a shine spreading over her irises.
“What would it entail?” she asked, when he hadn’t continued. “What kind of … demonstrations?”
He swallowed before starting, “There are many other ways to pleasure each other. some considered foreplay. And others, such as oral sex. Sometimes, a couple can reach climax without either of them touching the other, or themselves …” Though, he doubted Abi would be anywhere near ready to explore something like that—not until she knew her body better, anyway.
Would she even get to know her body better, though, once she stepped from his offices? It wasn’t like he’d ever be the one to tutor her through the steps of full intercourse. The bastard who’d be getting her would probably shove in his dick and take what he wanted, without a single fucking care for whether Abi enjoyed it, or not.
He jumped at a soft touch to his hand and glanced down toward where slender fingers hooked over the fist he’d made.
“You seem tense today, Mr Walker,” she said quietly. Gently. As if she considered him in need of being approached with care.
Concern greeted him when he lifted his gaze. “Yes, I’m fine.” He didn’t sound so convinced, though. Clearing his throat, he ordered his shoulders, his hands, his everything to relax, noting the almost cautious retreat of Abi’s hand as he did so. “Where were we …”
“You were telling me how couples can—”
“Please each other without intercourse. Do you have any questions so far?” he asked, slowly regaining his composure.
“Which of those you mentioned would we …?”
“I think we should look at how oral sex works.”
“Oral sex?” She said it so deadpan, it sounded more statement than question.
He nodded, added a, “Yes,” for clarity.
“We’ll be having oral sex?”
Chase breathed out a laugh at her saucer eyes, and he had to wonder if she even fully understood what the act was. For some reason, seeing Abi more off-kilter than himself helped settle the disturbances to his usual façade. “Not performing—don’t panic. I promise you, you’ve nothing to worry about. Next week, we’ll just be studying how it works. How a couple can make it work for them as individuals, or through personal preference.”
God help him, he’d never make it through the session if they took it any further than that.
Abi released a long breath. “Okay.”
“And your homework between now and then …”
Her gaze snapped back to his.
“I want you to be sure you understand what, exactly, oral sex is before you return for your next session. Okay?”
She gave a shaky nod. “I can do that.”
“Good.” He pushed to his feet, feeling more in control, despite the heaviness he sensed still weighing down his shoulders. “I’ll see you to the desk, then, and Rae, or Sam, will get you booked in for next week.”
***
Chase had spent a good fifteen minutes mentally banging hi
s head against a hard surface once Abi had left his office. Despite his regained composure, he still couldn’t quite shake off the cloak of darkness each time the realisation that she’d be gone soon—to some other guy—buzzed through his head.
And the cloak weighed a fucking tonne.
In an effort to ignore it, he’d gone through the motions of completing his notes on Abi’s session, which hadn’t exactly helped, and seeing Sam and Rae off for the day, though their piercing watchfulness hadn’t exactly helped with his charade, either.
By the time he neared home, his head had hit a tizzy of flitting from seeing Abi with someone else’s hands on her, and seeing Abi in the shower, exactly as she’d been earlier, staring up at him, staring down at him, that small fire he’d seen burning bright in her eyes.
With a sharp shake of his head, he rounded through a gap in the wall lining the Thames. A handful of steps had been built into the riverbank, and he descended them to a floating gangplank that led to his digs.
Equally floating, from the bank side of the premises his home resembled a wooden slatted box, stained a dark oak, with a singular door and a couple of windows he kept private with shuttered blinds.
A narrow strip of decking ran the breadth of the structure, and Chase stepped onto there, feeling the gentle current of the water as soon as he had. With keys he grabbed from his pocket, he worked through the triple set of locks and pushed open the door.
As soon as he stepped inside and shut out the world, the ache that’d built in his shoulders eased a little, as the white glossy walls greeted him in the narrow hallway. After slinging his jacket over a rack on his right, and kicking his shoes off beneath that, he climbed a short set of stairs that brought him out into the corner of the main living space and flicked on the low-lighting around the walls.
With its open plan layout, anyone visiting could see straight into the lounge, the trio of sofas in a U of seating around a grey-washed coffee table, and along the polished flooring to the kitchen, the duet of parallel work units, the chromed appliances and glossy counters. Windows spanned the entire length opposite, covering both sections, smooth-gliding glass doors central and leading onto a broad deck that peered over the Thames.
Chase headed for his kitchen and the bottle of Glenmorangie beckoning from the counter. He poured a healthy shot into a tumbler he grabbed from a cupboard and bottomed it with ice from the freezer.
The first sip was always the best sip, the slow burn along his insides like a temporary antidote to the chill that could attack from within.
Setting his glass down, he tugged open the door to the fridge. On the middle shelf sat a foil covered dish, and he pulled that out, set it on the side and, after removing a sticky note from its top, worked it free of its makeshift lid. As soon as he had, rich meatiness sprang free to scent his kitchen, and he smiled. Despite his mood. Despite the shitty and despondent line of his shoulders. Because Chase fucking loved Ragu.
His gaze skimmed across to the sticky note he’d pressed to the counter.
Eat it with the crusty bread I left in the cupboard. His ma’s handwriting.
Smiling again, Chase bunged the dish in the microwave and set the timer for three minutes, before grabbing up his drink and heading for the glass doors. He slid them only wide enough to squeeze through, so as not to invite the mozzies in for a feast, and crossed the balcony deck to the railings that overlooked the dark water below.
Thanks to the time of evening, the lights lining the river and those shining out from moored crafts skewed a clear vision of the view, but he knew from experience that, on a clear day, when the sun reflected against the water’s surface, it could be both beautiful and calming. Sometimes sociable, too. The warm days always brought out the fair-weather boaters, and they had a habit of waving to every other boater they passed. For some reason, they seemed to place Chase into that category, like his living on the river auto-allowed him access to their club. Often, boats had drawn up alongside his home, those on board saying hi while secretly trying to carry out their true mission of peering inside, like his crib was some big secret they needed to discover.
He’d gone through varying phases of tolerance over the nosiness, from loving the attention, to hating their prying eyes, to indifference. Anyone so heavily concerned with the lifestyle of another was obviously trying to escape whatever needed sorting in their own lives, if only temporarily, and he’d never been one to encourage that—in others, anyway.
Swallowing down another sip of whisky, he let his head hang for a moment. Through the railings, he could see the gentle shift of the water, the tiny ripples catching what little light reached them. He focused on them, used their dance as distraction, to calm his mind that refused to shut off, to ease muscles that seemed intent on staying tense.
The ping of the microwave rang from the kitchen. With a heavy sigh, he pushed back from the railing, poured a healthy slug of whisky down his throat, wincing as the blast of heat roiled through him, and shut himself back indoors.
The kitchen’s breakfast bar butted up to the floor-to-ceiling window, and he pulled his meal from the microwave, the wrapped bread from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer, and headed across to a stool to eat. His ma had pre-buttered the thick crusty slices, and Chase piled spoonsful of Ragu on top, opening his mouth to accommodate each mountainous mouthful. His ma’s cooking got him every time. He’d leave the office not even feeling hungry. He’d reach home and find what she’d left him and turn into a man starved and deprived.
More than once, as he wiped bread around the juices of his bowl, his gaze lifted to the glass window before him. The lighting within the space prevented him seeing much of outside, but he couldn’t shake the sense that he was being observed.
Obviously, his open plan home and broad windows made him a prime invitation for being spied on, especially as dusk dropped and anyone out there had a better view than he did on the inside, but the sense of watchfulness right then had the back of his neck prickling and his eyes making overt attempts to catch what had him so on edge.
With his face lowered toward his bowl, he used the last of the bread to polish the sides, while his eyes studied as much beyond the glass as they could from beneath his brows. When, after a full minute of scrutiny, he found nothing visibly out there, he carried his empties across and deposited them in the dishwasher.
For minutes after, he leaned against the counter, the remnants of the whisky in his palm, his gaze travelling across the open plan space in front of him. Any other night, and he’d have sank into one of his sofas for a few hours, taken the bottle and glass with him, maybe turned on the flatscreen affixed to the far wall. He loved his job, but it often left him mentally exhausted, and he needed his easy ritual of winding down. Switching off and appreciating solitude after a day of having to talk to and listen to others, hours of having to observe and focus on everyone but himself.
Except, right then, his body didn’t seem willing to shut down. Each time he so much as considered couching his arse, every piece of his brain scrambled up like static spaghetti and held him back and twitching in place.
Reaching for the bottle, he served himself another shot of alcohol. Maybe he just needed a little help. Maybe he just needed to liquefy those limbs of his.
Maybe he just needed to not give so much of a shit about whatever it was had him jittery as hell.
Resting his head back against the wall unit, he poured a large glug of whiskey into his mouth and swallowed, a low growl humming through him at the slow, downward burn. As soon as that’d hit south, he repeated with the second half of his drink, until he’d drained the glass and his body felt a little lighter—though, he didn’t give any less of a shit than he already had, and that pissed him off.
He’d spent the past few years creating a life he could feel contented living, and he’d succeeded—he’d reached a point of happiness that had him bounding out of bed each morning and raring to go.
So, why did he feel so fucking discontented of late?
Why couldn’t he shake the sense that it was all about to go horribly wrong?
Releasing a low groan, he rubbed a hand down his face and reached for the bottle a third time. Carrying that and his glass, he made for the gap at the rear end of the counters, where the only other staircase led to the sleeping quarters, and not bothering to switch on a light, he descended into the shadows.
Partially hugged by the surrounding water, downstairs always seemed to have a surreal quality to any sound produced down there, though Chase suspected it was more his imagination than science causing the effect. A white wall greeted him ahead of the bottom step, the base of its porthole just tickled by the Thames water outside, and Chase rounded the newel post to the long corridor of below. Three white doors led off, two on the left, one right ahead. He passed the first, the guest bedroom, and pushed down on the handle to the second.
Ignoring the shower stall in the corner of the bathroom, he cut straight for the tub sitting central, stuck in the plug, and set the water pumping. Leaving that to run, he ducked back out and into the room at the end of the hall—his bedroom.
Decked in pale tones and made to look like a ship’s cabin, it was Chase’s favourite room in the house. He’d always wanted to go boating as a kid. Sailing, yachting, fishing—he didn’t give a shit which, just so long as it was out on the water, unrestricted by walls and the rules that came with city life—but he’d never got to do any of them. His ma had always hated the water, and thanks to his father being an ever-absent figure in his life, he hadn’t really had anyone else to take him. Then adulthood had crept in, and sex and high-rolling had taken up the majority of his time. The closest he’d got to fulfilling his childhood fantasies had been attending parties on moored yachts, where the biggest cause of the vessel’s sway was all the shagging on board.
Maybe that’d been why he’d chosen to live where he did. Sure, he could’ve just gone and done what he’d dreamed of for so long. He had the means. He had the contacts. But what’d be the point without someone significant to share it with? And Jones, nor Ade, didn’t fall into that role, regardless of how close they all were.
The Therapist (6) (Chase Walker) Page 4