Sex Therapy: Episode 1 (Sex Therapy #1) Read online

  “However,” he said, turning away from them and giving them space. “I want you to not act on these impulses.”

  Ready for it, he swung round until he could see the confusion on their faces. Not giving them chance to argue, or question, he continued, “I want you both to spend the following week knowing the desires of your partner, yet not giving in to them. If it gets too much, then by all means, go ahead and pleasure yourself. But … only pleasure yourself when alone.”

  “And what the bloody hell’s that going to achieve?” Mr Miller asked, frowning.

  Chase smiled—because he’d asked the very question he’d wanted him to. “If, Mr Miller, you follow my advice, by the time I see you again next week, you will have spent an entire week knowing how the other feels, and you will have spent an entire week thinking about your wife carrying out everything she’s shared with you. So, when you come for your next appointment, you will be prepared. You will be ready.” You will be fucking willing, he didn’t add. “Do you think you can do that?”

  “We’ll try,” Mrs Miller said.

  Chase couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as the couple walked from the room, as her husband pulled her body closer to his and slipped his hand across her waist.

  One week? They’d be lucky if they lasted the hour.

  ****

  Black letters spelled Private across the gold-toned nameplate of the door Chase stood before. A door to which only he held the key—one he kept locked away in a drawer of his desk.

  Closing his eyes, he thought of what lay beyond the door, and his cock instantly hardened. He thought of what he wanted to do beyond the door, and his balls twitched in approval. In his mind, he calculated how much time he had before his next client would arrive. If he had enough moments spare even just to enter. Maybe enough seconds to begin what he would finish later.

  On the verge of truly considering fetching the key, the tap-tapping of shoes warned him of an approach. Spinning away, he rounded the corner back into the staff quarters, just as Raelyn came waltzing in.

  “Your six o’clock is here. I tried buzzing, but you didn’t pick up.”

  “Because I’m not at my desk,” he said with a wink. “Besides, they’re early.”

  Her shoulders twitched into a shrug. “Maybe they’re eager.”

  Across the room in the staff lockers, a series of intermittent hums sounded out. His phone. He strode across and, after tapping in the code, swung open the door to the one he’d allocated himself. Positioned on top of everything else in there, his mobile glowed up the entire interior, and a quick glance at the screen told him who was on the other end.

  “You can take them through to my office,” he told Raelyn. “I’ll be there in a moment.” Barely offering her any attention with the request, he swiped his thumb over the screen, bringing the phone to his ear as her heels tapped their way out and along the corridor. “Ma?” he answered.

  “’Bout time you answered this phone. What’s the point of ‘avin’ it, if you never answer? Do you know ‘ow many times I called?”

  He drew the phone from his ear and quickly checked his notifications before answering, “Seven?”

  “Don’t be smart with me, young man.” She quieted. Probably to steady her breath, judging by the quiet puffs he could hear. Around ten seconds later, her voice calmer, she asked, “’Ow are you, Son?”

  “I’m good.”

  “I miss you. ‘Ow’s work?”

  Work. He almost laughed. When he’d first opened the clinic, he’d told his mother his dream was to provide a specialised therapy, and thanks to the subtlety of his explanation, she’d drummed it into her own head that he was some kind of qualified doctor, and that he spent his hours every day making everyone mentally well again.

  Who the hell was he to correct a mirage she was happy with?

  “Work’s going well. It’s good.”

  “I really miss you. Did you get yesterday’s casserole?”

  “It was delicious.” His words were an assumption. He hadn’t gotten home until late the night before, after meeting up with an old colleague and continued friend. They’d both landed at a local Italian to eat and talk and drink. The casserole had been the last thing on his mind by the time he made it back and fell into bed. “Your best yet,” he added, because he knew she liked the praise.

  “Yes, well, I sent over a lasagne for tonight. I was goin’a do curry, but you always complain ‘bout those …”

  He always complained because his mother had a habit of creating curries full of heat and little else, and his breath always stank of fire and fucking brimstone afterwards. Not a good way to conduct up close and personal consults.

  “I told you, Ma. There’s nothing wrong with your curries—they’re delicious. They just don’t agree with me.” He rubbed a hand across his brows. Because he knew he’d have to cut the call short, and he knew his mother wouldn’t like it. “Listen, I really have to go …”

  “You always ‘ave to go. I just ‘ave to go do this, Ma. I just ‘ave to be somewhere else, Ma …”

  “But I’ll come by the weekend …” He paused, making sure she’d finished complaining and had heard him. When she didn’t argue, he promised, “I’ll come by Saturday morning, and we’ll do breakfast together.”

  “We’ll ‘ave sausages,” she said, all complaint gone from her voice. Planning food seemed to be the biggest part of her life, sometimes. “And I’ll get some bacon in … and the ‘ens at number twenty-two have just laid a new batch of eggs …”

  “Sounds great, Ma. I’ll see you Saturday. Love you.”

  Ending the call before she could get out of control, he went to tuck the mobile back into its spot, but paused before unfolding his fingers around the device. It wouldn’t hurt his new client to wait two minutes more. After all, they’d shown up early—Chase was on time.

  Bringing his phone back beneath his chin, he flicked through to the security cam app he’d installed. As soon as he tapped the screen, a real-time image flickered to life—of the corner of a room lit only by a dimmed uplighter, beneath which a small cot had been set. Mostly an image of what lay atop of the cot.

  With her hands behind her, her feet tucked up to her butt, all of them bound to one another, a woman lay still. With a swipe of his finger and thumb, Chase zoomed in on the still figure, checked her chest for breathing—slow and steady—and her flesh for any puckering that’d mean the room’s temperature would need adjusting. With everything as it should be, he let his gaze land on her face, smiling to himself at the parting of her lips.

  He had plans for those later.

  Tapping a small icon in the corner of the screened image, he brought the phone closer to his mouth. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Onscreen, the woman’s head snapped up toward the intercom by sense alone. Because she couldn’t see. The mask she wore prevented that. “I’m comfortable, Sir,” she replied.

  “Good.” After closing down the app, Chase screen-locked the mobile and secured it back inside his locker.

  A quick check in the mirrors showed a cluster of errant hair making a break from conformity, and he worked his fingers through the strands, patting them back into place, before scanning his suit for marks. Every inch of the fabric was as pristine as it should be—except for the bulge of excitement poking against his trousers.

  Sticking a hand down into his boxers, he made some quick adjustments, and reminded his cock, and his brain, that his fun would come. He just had to be patient.

  After enough seconds for his body to get the message and settle down, he turned toward the door in the farthest corner of the staff quarters.

  As he did so, he realised he probably should’ve asked Raelyn for a reminder of who his six o’clock was. He could just about recall Sam mentioning it was a new client, but nothing else. New clients were the most exciting, for Chase. Those initial visits where he tried to get their measure.

  What did they need?

  How far would he be able to
push them—what were their boundaries?

  Would they even come back for round two, or would they shit themselves and leave only dust in their frenzied wake?

  Pushing through the door, he stepped directly into his office. As he closed himself in, his gaze swept toward the head of hair he could see above the back of the chaise. Strawberry blonde, the tones appearing to be both golden and red at the same time, draped over shoulders too slender to belong to a male.

  A female, then.

  Her lack of movement told him she hadn’t heard his entrance.

  So, a nervous female. Only nerves could make a client close in on themselves to the extent they’d miss another presence in the room.

  Not wanting to startle her as he took the first steps toward his desk, he cleared his throat loud enough to be heard.

  The client twitched in her seat. Her chin jerked up. A moment later, she twisted her head toward the sound, and the eyes that met his were such a clear blue, they appeared almost transparent enough to dive right into and lose himself forever.

  Chase’s hip bashed the corner of his desk, hard enough that his torso half buckled. Just catching himself before he could turn into a complete arse, he swung to the right, ordered his suddenly spazzy body to his own chair, and sank his butt down.

  Though he felt slightly more in control with the small distance and a desk between them, that slipped a little as soon as he looked back to those eyes.

  Fucking beautiful.

  She frowned. “Excuse me?”

  He hadn’t said the words out loud. He knew he hadn’t. Yet, as soon as she spoke, he knew his lips had formed them. His throat had uttered them, even if too low for her to have made out.

  Clearing his throat again, he sent a quick glance toward his desktop, where one of the girls had left a note with the client’s details on. “Abigail O’Shay?” he asked, his gaze lifting once more.

  “My friends call me Abi,” she said simply.

  Unsure if it was a statement or invitation, he asked, “What would you like me to call you?” and silently cursed himself for the suggestive undertone in his voice.

  She frowned again, her almost questioning reply of, “Abi,” sounding like it should have been obvious.

  “Abi …” His gaze performed a rapid assessment. Corduroy jeans hugged her thighs, topped by a boho blouse that she’d tied almost to her throat. Her clear, pale complexion spoke of a healthy lifestyle while complementing her hair, and those eyes of hers, so fucking captivating, stared wide and about as unsure as he’d ever seen from someone in that chair. Few words, beyond unnecessary compliments, sprung forth as description of his newest client. Innocent. Wholesome. Virginal. He leaned back in his seat. “Do you understand what it is we do here?”

  Twisting her fingers in her lap, she nodded.

  “And how do you think we can help you?”

  Her lips parted, but then seemed to freeze. Her whole body seemed to freeze. Like a creature acknowledging imminent and unavoidable danger.

  Of course, his fucking brain focussed on the ‘O’ of her mouth and how it might look stretched even wider, all fucking accommodating, and before he could talk himself down, he’d shot up from his seat.

  She watched him as he grabbed a more portable chair from over by the bookcase, her head as much as her gaze following him when he carried it across the room and set it down a few feet in front of her. Sinking his butt onto it, he rested his forearms across his knees, putting him at eye-level with the girl.

  “Let’s start again,” he said, and at her quiet, “Okay,” he held out his hand. “Chase Walker.”

  She took the offering, her skinny, wholesome fucking fingers making a feeble attempt to enclose his own. “Abi O’Shay. It’s nice to meet you, Mr Walker.”

  Up close, he could see the tiny flecks of hazel speckling the blue of her eyes, surrounded by arched lashes of reddish gold. The small mole on the ridge of her left cheekbone. Freckles that tried to hide themselves without a decent bout of sunshine to give them the confidence to step forth.

  “Maybe we could start with you sharing a bit about yourself,” he said. “You put on your paperwork that you’re twenty-two. Is that correct?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I turned twenty-two a few months back in June.”

  Twenty-two placed her only a few years younger than himself. Not that it mattered. Not that it should matter.

  “I, uh … I work at a bakery,” she added with a small shrug.

  “One that sells their goods to the public, or one that mass produces for everywhere else?” The question was completely irrelevant to anything they’d do at the clinic, but mundane questions with easy answers, rather than him diving straight in and poking around their sex life, often helped put a nervous client at ease.

  “To the public,” she said, her shoulders relaxing a fraction of an inch. “I work front of store.”

  She sounded proud of the fact. Like she’d had to climb her way up the ranks to be able to serve people. Like she enjoyed it, even.

  “Hobbies?” he asked.

  “I go to church on the weekends.”

  Who the hell listed church as a hobby? “Anything else? Something you do just for your own gratification, maybe?” Chase knew exactly what he liked to do for his own gratification, but he doubted using it as an example would help with getting her to open up.

  “I bake,” she offered with a shrug.

  So, she baked for a living. Baked for fun. The girl seriously needed to expand her horizons.

  Though, the rapid flash of an image in his head, of Abi O’Shay in nothing but a waist-high apron, her nipples serving a delicious dose of strawberry frosting, suddenly made the activity seem a whole lot more appealing.

  Even his cock liked the picture, the way it stirred in his shorts.

  Fuck. Chase needed to shake it down, real fast.

  Clearing his throat, he asked, “Boyfriend?” Girlfriend? Hell, maybe she had both.

  Which was a pretty idiotic thought—because she wouldn’t be sitting on his chaise, looking all fresh and sweet, if she was advanced enough in her sexuality to be performing threesomes.

  Not to mention the fresh image didn’t help with quieting his cock.

  “Fiancé,” she said quietly.

  His gaze instantly dropped to the hands she wove together in her lap. He hadn’t missed it—she didn’t wear a ring. Out of choice? Or was her fiancé too tight to buy one? Or too poor?

  What the hell did he care?

  “So, how long have you and your fiancé been together?” he asked, his gaze lifting back to hers.

  “A few months.”

  A few months? And they’d already discussed marriage?

  “He goes to my church,” she added, as if she’d read the questions in his expression. Like she thought that explained it all.

  It didn’t. “You’re marrying him just because he goes to your church?” Chase tried his hardest to measure his tone, but couldn’t be sure he succeeded.

  “No. Goodness, no.” She breathed out a quiet laugh, and her eyes lightened until they resembled the surface of the sea beneath the sun’s rays. Something Chase tried not to notice. “He’s a good man,” she added.

  “Do you love him?” Fuck, he wanted to bite down on the question as soon as he’d uttered it. At the same time, he felt the urge to watch for her reaction to it, which he found in the slight tightening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible pull back of her head.

  “He’s a good man,” she repeated. “My parents approve …”

  As she trailed off, she averted her gaze, and Chase had to wonder. Had to fucking wonder how much of the engagement was even her bloody idea. Usually, what his clients did outside of their sessions was none of his business. He made sure it was none of his business. So, why did what she’d told him so far bother the fucking crap out of him?

  “Why, exactly, did you come here today, Abi?”

  “My friend told me to come,” she said.

  He blinked. “Your fr
iend told you to come?”

  “Yes. Rebecca Shannigan?”

  Definitely not the name he’d expected her to utter. Chase had helped Rebecca Shannigan almost a year before. She’d come to him as a horny fucking nympho who’d met someone she actually liked and no longer just wanted to fuck everything with a pulse that was willing and able. Trouble was, she had no idea how not to fuck. Her new partner had confessed to being little different, and Chase had spent every week for almost five months teaching the two of them to discover the emotional side of sex. The pleasure of the intimacy when a couple made love instead of fucked. It had taken time, but they’d slowly come to appreciate that as much, if not more, than the high of a quick bang with little interaction. The two of them had left his practice with the promise to return if they slipped from their new regime, and as he hadn’t seen either of them since, he had to assume the sessions had worked.

  When Rebecca had first come to him, though, she’d been a mess who’d dressed like a hooker with attitude, and fucked like fucking was crack and she was an addict. Studying the woman in front him, the prim way she sat with her knees pressed together, the almost shy way she dipped her head after speaking, as if she felt the need to hide, no way on earth would he have placed the two of them in the same room together, let alone pegged them as friends.

  Chase never said a word, though, or even acknowledged recognition of the name.

  “She said you’re the best there is,” she continued. “She promised you’d be able to help me.”

  His stupid fucking cock jumped about again at the mere thought of what that help could comprise of. Masking his features and willing the gentle swelling away, he asked, “What kind of help do you think we offer here, Abi?”

  A pink tinge blushed her cheeks, spreading up from where her throat met her blouse line like wildfire with an abundance of fuel in its path.

  “Okay, I’ll rephrase the question,” he said. “What is it that you think CW Consults can do for you? What kind of help are you asking for?”

  She held his gaze for only a moment before dipping her head. The movement caused a narrow curtain of hair to slide forward, and Chase had the urge to tuck it back. He couldn’t help but wonder what, or who, had stolen her confidence, because a face like hers shouldn’t be hidden. It deserved to be shown. To be seen.