by Anna Edwards
Sometimes we don’t realize men can be as fragile as women. One of the worst things for a man is to feel as if he can’t satisfy a woman. Sex is something ingrained in all of us, and it’s our nature. It’s our basal need.
Delving into Adrian’s mind has been a difficult one. Writing this short story has left me wanting to explore these characters even more than I have, so this is a taste of a full-length novel I’ll release afterward.
As romance readers and writers, we all look to the fantasy of perfection we find in books, but we’re not perfect. We’re all a little flawed, just a little broken, in one way or another.
So, I hope you enjoy Inhibited and love Adrian even in his darkest moments.
Chapter One
Adrian
Broken.
I'm fucking broken, and there's nothing I can do to fix it. Even though she used to tell me it’s okay, I know there’s no way I can even begin to feel like a man if I couldn’t give her the most natural thing on earth. It’s been two months since she walked out, and as much as I wanted to be with her, I couldn’t so I never fought for her.
She’s perfect, in every way, and I’m just a fuck up.
Guilt sits in my gut like a lead weight, attempting to pull me under the tide. It strikes me when I least expect it, and now that I’m walking into the office of a goddamn psychiatrist, I know I have to either make this work, or I’ll never be able to believe I’m a real man. Someone who can offer a woman the most natural thing on earth.
“Good morning,” the receptionist greets me with a smile.
“Morning,” I grunt out my response. What’s good about it? Nothing. “I’m here to see Doctor Higgins,” I tell her.
She taps on the computer, then nods. “Yes, she’ll be right with you, Mister Stryker. Please take a seat.”
I do.
My stomach is heavy with anxiety, my chest tightening with every passing moment, and I want to walk out. I should get up and leave. Seconds tick by, and it’s like I can hear them in my mind.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“Mister Stryker.” A sweet tone comes from the doorway to my left, causing me to glance up and find the doctor smiling at me. She’s gorgeous. Long, brown hair hanging down her back in messy waves. Her plump lips are shimmery as they curl into a shy smile. The black-rimmed glasses on her face frame her wide, blue eyes.
“Yes,” I finally find my words.
“Come inside; let’s get started.”
I follow her into the office to find it light and airy, comfortable as if it’s her living room and I’m walking into her home. She gestures to an armchair positioned beside the window.
I shrug off my jacket and chuck it on the couch beside me, before perching myself on the edge, not wanting to get comfortable. If it weren’t because of Lexi’s insulting comments about my masculinity, I wouldn’t be here. Therapy is for pussies. At least, that’s what I’ve always thought. It isn’t meant to be good for me. Is it? The doctor seats herself opposite me, with her legs crossed at the ankle as if she’s having tea with the queen.
“So, how can I help you today?” she questions without looking at the patient file sitting on the table between us. Surely, she knows why I’m here. But I’m not sure she can help me.
“I don’t know.”
It’s an honest answer, and it’s the only one I can give her right now because this is all new to me. I should know my limitations. I should tell her why I’m broken, but that’s too personal. But then again, it’s why I’m here. To delve into the private parts of me and admit them to a stranger so she can help me.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”
“I . . .” My mouth closes. I can’t admit it. The words I know I should utter are stuck in my throat. Embarrassment burns through me. It taunts me at every turn. And I know if I can’t even tell the doctor what the problem is, then how is she meant to help me? Am I beyond help? “My ex-girlfriend suggested I see you.”
“And you didn’t want to see me?”
“It’s not that.” I shake my head, realizing it sounds rude to tell her I think therapy is bullshit, but it’s not only that, I feel like less of a man coming in here telling her how fucked up I am.
“Then what is it?” She seems genuinely curious, and I wonder if this is how she is with all her patients. As a sex therapist, she must hear some fucked up, sordid stories. “If you don’t tell me, we can’t work through whatever is bothering you,” she tells me.
“I’ve tried exercises, stupid fucking exercises to fix it, but . . . I can’t please a woman. I can’t fuck her. Sex is impossible. It’s difficult not to get pulled into dark thoughts when I’m with a woman.” My fingers are trembling. My leg shakes as I bounce on the ball of my foot. It’s a nervous tick, something to focus on other than what I’ve just divulged. My throat is tight, I can’t swallow, and my lungs struggle to pull in air.
I watch her for any sign of amusement, but there’s none. She’s probably heard all this before from patients, but she doesn’t move for a moment, and I wonder if she heard me. I can’t say it again; there’s no way I can utter those words again.
She tips her head to the side as she regards me with curiosity before asking, “And what is it that stops you?”
My tongue is heavy in my mouth. I can’t form words to explain. How do I explain? It’s not easy to live with this, to be less of a man than my friends, than any other male I know. The embarrassment is fierce as it stings me right in the gut. “I can’t stay hard. I feel pleasure, but . . .”
She leans forward before responding, “But you feel guilt, perhaps?”
My gaze shoots up to hers, meeting those blue eyes that hold my attention more than I want them to. I shouldn’t want to look at her as much as I am right now, but there’s something about the doctor that makes my dick twitch.
“It’s not guilt.” I shake my head.
“Is there a moment you realize it’s wrong to want pleasure? To feel the release?” Her voice lowers to an almost sultry tone, unless it’s my imagination. Is it? I watch her for a long while before I can think of my response. Her face is lit with curiosity, and I want to see just how far she’ll take this.
“When I have a woman spread open, waiting for me to enter her, I can’t.” My gaze leaves hers to trail around the office, anything to not meet her gaze. I take in all the paintings, modern and contemporary art. There’s a large window overlooking the city on one side, and her desk with a wall of bookshelves opposite. It’s a serene space, calming, but it doesn’t help me. I’ve just told her the one thing I hate confessing, and she’s probably going to pity me. I’ve seen that look in the eyes of women before. They feel sorry for me. It’s all bullshit.
One painting catches my eye. The dark, somber colors — gray, black, and brown — all remind me of my life. There’s a tumultuous feeling emanating through me, and only violence will satiate it.
“And what goes through your mind at that moment? Just before you’re about to have sex.” She shifts in her seat, and I wonder briefly if she’s wet.
“I think about how bad it is,” I tell her honestly.
This time, she sits forward, the top half of her body leaning over, and I catch a glimpse of her cleavage, which peeks at me through the material. “Bad? What’s bad about it?”
How do I tell her about my fucked-up childhood?
How do I explain how I feel when I know I’m finding pleasure when I shouldn’t be?
“Since I was younger, I believed . . . I was taught to believe sex is sinful. It’s filthy and shameful,” I admit as I close my eyes and recall the faces of my parents as they sneered down at me for wanting a girl, for kissing someone. The son of a pastor, a child who grew up going to church every Sunday, was made to feel like the Devil lived inside of him. And all the years I’d been piling the guilt on top of that. Year after year, each time I was with a woman, the only time I could truly fuck her was if I was high or drunk, and even then, it was a challenge.
“You grew up with this confirmation from people you trusted. It’s understandable that you’re now of the mindset that you’re in the wrong.” She nods slowly, a small smile curling her fat lips, and all I want to do is bite them. I want to hear her whimper and moan.
“Do you watch porn?”
Her question shocks me. It’s the last thing I expected her to ask me, but I nod.
“And when you’re alone, masturbating . . . do you come?” she questions, her eyes wide, locked on mine. My cock twitches at the thought of telling her. Even as I try to fight it, I can’t stop the need shooting through me. I want this woman.
“I do. But . . . I have to be watching certain videos,” I tell her. Glancing away, I look out the window, taking in the cars on the highway and the office buildings across the way. Everything outside this office goes on as if nothing is happening. As if my world hasn’t come to a standstill.
“Tell me about your preferences,” she encourages me with a gentle tone.
Images flit through my mind. Those things that turn me on, those videos that get me off. I want to tell her, but I stay silent. She’d be shocked, appalled by my need for the pain, the rough force with which my hand would move over my shaft, and how I need to focus on the violent rage within me just to get off.
“I’ve heard, seen, experienced a lot of things,” she tells me. “My patients are all going through difficulty, whether it’s intimacy or sex or even love.”
“This isn’t about love or intimacy. I’m not a nice man in any sense of the word,” I tell her. “I fuck my hand to the point of pain just to get off.”
“Pain and pleasure are opposite sides of a very fine line, and that can be blurred. There’s nothing wrong with it,” she insists with another smile, which only makes me want to fuck her face. I want to shove my dick deep down her throat just to hear her choke.
Shaking my head, I shove off the chair and head to the window. If I sit here looking at her, I’ll do something. I’ll make her kneel and take me in her mouth. That’s not allowed. Is it? No. I shouldn’t want this so much.
“I had a patient a year ago,” she tells me. “He couldn’t come, at all. He would get to the edge and just stop. It was painful in a way no man or human should ever experience. He found his place with a female Dominant.” I can hear the smile in her tone; she’s happy for him. I’m happy for him. But this isn’t about submitting, or about being whipped and spanked. “He enjoyed the pain, which he then found pleasure in.”
“I’m not the same.”
“I never said you were,” she counters, and soon, she’s beside me, looking at my reflection in her window. She wants to tell me something, to admit something, but she doesn’t. I can see her expression filled with wonder and answers, and I so badly want her to fix me. “You’re inhibited, Adrian, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You’re a man who has needs, but because of your past, you’ve been trained to believe what you desire is wrong.”
I turn my body toward hers, to fully face her and take in the soft curves of her body. How her cleavage is visible from where I’m standing. I pin my gaze on hers, as we’re inches apart. I could lean in and kiss her. I could grip her hips, tug her against me, and let her feel my cock. I want to. God, how I would love to pin her against this window and fuck her until she’s shaking.
“Perhaps, but would you want a man who can’t fuck you unless there’s pain involved?” My question doesn’t shock her, it doesn’t even cause her to flinch, but it does make her body tremble. I notice it the moment it happens. I like it. Watching her shiver and tremble just for me is intoxicating.
“Like I said, Adrian, there’s nothing wrong with pain,” she tells me defiantly, jutting her chin out as if she’s confident I don’t scare her, but I do. I know I do.
I step closer to her, knowing I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself. I grip her shoulders, pinning her against the window. My body is holding her steady as her blue eyes turn a shade of cerulean that reminds me of the ocean. Clear, bright, and vivid.
“Do you like pain, doctor?” I question, lowering my voice so it’s merely a whisper which feathers over her ear. Another shiver from her makes my cock throb. Even though my dick is hardening at the thought of fucking her, I know the moment she’s open for me, I’ll fail. Broken. Unable to please a woman, unable to do what men were born to do. Have sex, mate, whatever you want to call it. But just seeing her tremble is enough. I can use my imagination.
Chapter Two
Scarlett
Do I like pain?
Yes.
Does he know how broken I am?
No.
Nobody knows I help others because I can’t help myself. Aren’t doctors meant to be the ones who are sane? He walked into my office, all six-foot-five of pure muscle. Ink adorns every inch of his arms down to his knuckles. His eyes are dark, almost black as he regards me.
A chiseled jaw ticks with frustration, and I notice how his Adonis-like features look rugged, as if he’d been carved from stone. Perhaps he has. Maybe he’s not real — a figment of my overactive imagination.
The piercing in his lip glints in the sunlight, and the way his body is pressed against mine makes every part of me quiver with desire. I wish he’d show me just how much pain he could incite on me.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I rasp, immediately admonishing myself for the way I sound. Wanton. But I can’t help it. It’s been so long since a man has taken charge, and him holding me like this, it’s turned me molten.
Being in this position with a patient is wrong. My logic is there, it’s screaming at me, but when his lips brush along the shell of my ear, my brain short circuits. My nipples pebble against my bra, my panties are drenched through, and I wonder if he can smell my arousal. Like a predator sniffing out his prey.
“Do you think you can fix me, doctor?” he questions, reminding me of our place in this office. My office.
“Step away from me, Adrian,” I murmur, but there’s no conviction in my tone. I don’t push him away, and I don’t even make a move to sidestep him. I stay glued between him and the window.
“Do you want me to shove my hand up your skirt, doc?” He smiles — it’s dark and dangerous. There’s a vow in his words; he would do it. Swallowing, I stare him down without uttering a word. To be honest, I want to say yes. I want to tell him to do it. “Would I find your pretty conservative panties wet? How about you take them off and watch me jerk my cock into them?”
“Would that get you off?” I challenge. I don’t know why I do it, why I say it, because this could go either way. Fear, pain, and pleasure, they all swirl together, causing my body to react to him.
“Yes.” It’s an honest reply. He needs to be in control.
Realization hits me square in the face at that moment. I realize what he wants. For him to even begin to mend himself, he needs to admit he’s inhibited by what happened in his childhood. Then, the next step would be to make him see if he can be the one in control; he can do this. He can find pleasure.
“Do it.” My voice is husky when I utter the two words. His eyes widen in shock since he wasn’t expecting me to say them. He wasn’t expecting me to challenge him like this. It’s wrong on so many levels, but I can’t find it in my heart to stop him. I want this man. Since the moment I laid eyes on him when he walked into my office, I’ve wondered what he would feel like.
In all my years of being a professional, I’ve never done this. I’ve never broken my promise to uphold my name, my Ph.D., but for him, for Adrian Stryker, I am. A man I don’t know. A broken man, torn between his past and his present.
“Do it, Adrian. Touch me.”
His hand drops between us. Hiking my skirt up to my hips, his fingers find the wet material between my thighs. A groan — low and feral — rumbles through his chest, vibrating into mine.
“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, and because it’s so soft, if he weren’t inches from me, I wouldn’t have heard him. His dark gaze bores into mine. “Yo
u’re drenched, doctor.”
“Call me Scarlett,” I tell him. His fingers press against my panty-clad pussy, causing me to whimper as pleasure rockets through my body, zipping through my veins. My hand finds his bulge, the thickness only seeming to make me wetter for him. I want to be filled. I’m needy and shaking as he shoves my panties to the side and plunges two thick, inked fingers into my pussy.
My other hand grips his shoulder, holding myself up as my knees weaken from his ministrations. His thumb circles my clit as his digits pump into me, in and out, slow and methodical.
I don’t cease movement as I stroke him through his jeans. The throb is evident in my palm. We’re going to get each other off, and I can’t stop it. There’s no way I can refuse my need for this man. I can’t explain it, and I can’t deny it, so I let it happen.
He crooks his fingers inside me, as his other hand grips my throat, choking me until my eyes roll back in my head and my release skitters down my spine and I feel my walls pulse around his fingers.
“Fucking come for me, bitch,” he grits out through clenched teeth, and I feel his pulse behind the zipper of his jeans, and I realize he’s found release. My body doesn’t stop shaking, but he holds me up by my neck and between my legs.
I don’t remember the moments that pass, but soon, I’m shivering, and I realize he’s stepped backward. He’s watching me from a few feet away.
“What the hell was that?” As if he’s back in the office and no longer being controlled by his dark needs. He stares at me in shock.
“It’s what you need. Your desire is linked to control. If you’re not in control, you go back to that place in your past that’s made you feel the guilt. But when you’re focused on the woman’s pleasure, not your own, you’re able to find your release.”