9. Talia

Chapter 9

Talia

K ieran slouches on the sofa in my office, making it appear child-sized. His arms are spread over the back, long legs splayed. The suit jacket and tie he came in wearing hang on a hook by the door. A white button-down is open at the collar and rolled up his forearms. He finally had his hair trimmed, and he shaved this morning.

He looks content, powerful, and smug.

“Does this mean you’ve forgiven me for last week?” he asks with an endearingly crooked grin.

His entire demeanor is different today, but the most drastic change is in his eyes. Vivid and lively, they virtually glow. From a professional standpoint, his attitude is a massive step in the right direction. No one wants a client who resents every session. But I’m also not naive enough to think my prowess as a therapist is the cause.

I shouldn’t have engaged with him Saturday night. Used his first name. Let his charm get under my skin. I gave him an inch and now he’s taking a mile—or thinks he is.

“The seating arrangement today had nothing to do with you, Mr. Hayes.”

His smile widens at my formality and the reminder that he’s not my only client. “You had time to change.”

I rearranged my damn schedule to make the time. No more skirts—no skirts ever again with this man. I’m wearing wide-leg trousers and flats. Full coverage blouse. Black, black, all black. My hair is in a severe bun, my lips bare except for Chapstick.

“You’re in a good mood today,” I remark with a smile—a slight one, my lips staying sealed. I haven’t missed his fixation with my teeth.

He shrugs. “I guess I am.”

“Still exercising daily?”

He nods. “Judo and laps in the pool every morning. My sensei sends his thanks, by the way. He loves kicking my ass almost as much as he loves ringing my doorbell at four a.m. Crazy fucker.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And how’s work?”

“Back to the grind, as they say.” His tone is light, but his eyes flicker away from me. A second later, he crosses his legs at the ankle.

Fault line.

There are two roads ahead of me, both with risks. I can lean into the work angle, try to find out what set him off in our last session. What happened five weeks ago. Or I can aim somewhere else. If I dig from a different angle, I might reach treasure faster.

Decision made, I internally brace for conflict. “And how was the rest of your date Saturday night?”

His eyes snap to me, sparkling and dark. The moment he touched my back rises between us: his breath catching, my graceless escape. To keep from reacting—or God forbid, blushing—I think about Alan’s fumbling, failed attempt to kiss me at my front door.

“Whatever do you mean, Doc?”

Here we go.

“Did you take her home?”

He disguises a flash of surprise with laughter. “Are we really going there?”

I nod serenely. “We are.”

He sobers, sitting up and crossing his arms. Direct hit. Conscious or not, he senses what’s coming. I wait for him to either attack or attempt to redirect. But he doesn’t do either.

“No,” he says shortly. “Gail and Alistair drove her home.”

“What was her name?”

“Fla—no, Claudia.” He winces. “In my defense, it was a last-minute blind date.”

“Are blind dates typical for you?”

His eyes narrow. “Are they typical for you? Because we both know Toasty was one.”

“We’re not talking about me.”

His teeth grind, the movement of muscle along his jaw pronounced. I almost wish he’d kept the beard. Part of me wishes, too, that his guard were still up. That I couldn’t read him as easily as I now can.

“I wouldn’t say they’re typical, no.”

“How do you normally find dates?”

“An app,” he says through his teeth. “You know, Tinder for billionaires.”

I tilt my head. “Can you tell me about your dating habits the last few years? How many dates per week?”

“Two or three,” he says flatly. “Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

“In that time, have you ever dated the same woman longer than a week?”

Blue flames spark and begin to burn. “Several. In fact, there are three women I’ve been seeing for over a year.”

“But you’re not seeing them exclusively. Are they aware you’re dating other women in addition to them?

The flames erupt. “They know the score, all right? We’re adults.”

I take a breath, then throw an axe right at his fault line. “Did you struggle with monogamy during your marriage?”

His eyes freeze over and he goes preternaturally still. “No. And that’s all I’m going to say. We’re not talking about Liz.”

My heart throbs at the pain he’s trying so hard to hide. I don’t have to pretend sympathy; it seeps from my pores.

“Kieran,” I say gently.

Ice cracks, a tiny silver of flame burning through. “What?” he asks roughly.

“I’m not going to counsel you about opening yourself back up to a meaningful relationship.” Yet, I add privately. “Your grief journey is your own. What I’m concerned about is the fact you might be using casual sex to avoid the journey altogether.”

“Who says it’s casual? Maybe I have no interest in a conventional romantic partnership. I’m sure you can relate.”

I ignore the jab. “Okay, then have you seen any of your regular partners in the last six weeks?”

I already know the answer; I can recognize a man in dire need of sexual release. And not the type that comes from his own hand.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he grinds out.

I sit back and cross my legs. “Were you attracted to Claudia?”

“Sure was. She’s a fine thing.”

“Then why didn’t you take her home?”

He leans forward, eyes like chips of ice. “You want to know, Stirling? You sure?”

“If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t ask.”

The words come out confident despite a sudden sensation that I’ve lost traction and am sliding right into the open mouth of a wolf.

Blue flames obliterate ice. “Because for some insane reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about your neck and what it would feel like to squeeze it while I fucked your throat.”

The air vacates my lungs in a whoosh. Heat burns my centerline in a searing wave. It takes everything I have—absolutely everything—not to physically jerk in place.

“You’re blushing again.”

“I’m not dead.”

I throw his words back at him without thinking. As soon as they release, I freeze in consternation. I’ve lost control of the dynamic and myself. It’s never happened before in this office. In any private space. With any man in my adult life.

Kieran’s smile is slight and satisfied as he slouches back again, arms extended, knees falling open in an arrogant extension. The amount of willpower I exert to keep from glancing down his body is tremendous.

“You’re aroused, Stirling. I can see the wild pulse in your neck.” His rough, lyrical voice makes another pulse—the one between my thighs—pound harder.

I force a nonchalant shrug. “I could just as easily be repulsed. You were looking for a reaction, Mr. Hayes, and you got it. Congratulations.”

“Oh, it’s Mr. Hayes again, is it?”

I suck in a breath and release it slowly. “Yes. While what you said was highly inappropriate, I’m glad you shared.”

His teeth scrape across his lower lip. “I can’t wait to hear why.”

“Two reasons. One, you lashed out defensively because the topic was making you uncomfortable, which tells me it’s an important one to revisit.”

“Cute. Reason two?”

“The fact you’ve fantasized about me sexually is troubling. If we can’t resolve it, I’ll have to refer you to another therapist. I have someone in mind who I think would be a good fit.”

Sorry in advance, Leo.

“No.”

I blink. “No?”

“I’m not seeing another therapist. It’s you or no one.”

Worry unfolds under my breastbone. “It would be a mistake to end therapy.”

His gaze meanders leisurely down my body before he scoffs. “Come on, Doc. I guarantee I’m not the first to think about you. Besides, we both know I don’t actually want you. I prefer bedmates about a foot shorter and without claws.”

“Enjoy your stay, Birdie. And maybe lay off the whiskey until your claws grow in.”

The memory punches me and I flinch—a reflex I can’t control or mask. My only choice is to ignore it right along with Kieran’s suddenly acute focus.

I yank the shreds of my control to me.

“That’s a worthwhile observation.” My voice is too weak; clearing my throat lightly, I continue, “Given the nature of your fantasy—that of you exerting power over me—I’m willing to consider it was a subconscious defense against the threat I pose.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps. More control flows sweetly into my hands. I don’t bother waiting for him to reply.

“I’ve clearly touched some core wounds, and your emotional defenses identified me as an enemy. Combined with your recent stretch of celibacy and hetero-normative traits…” I shrug. “Makes sense.”

Kieran shakes his head slowly; eventually, his lips twitch. “You’re a trip.”

“Does that mean you agree?” I ask levelly.

He stares a few moments, then sighs and scrubs his hands down his face. “Fuck, I don’t know. I guess.” Head down, he mumbles something under his breath.

“What was that?”

Blue eyes flash up. Open. Raw. Tortured.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to get out and never come back.”

I tilt my head, bemused by the sudden shift. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I…” He can barely get the words out, his head bowing as if under mighty weight. “I told you I thought about forcing myself on you. I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

My heart softens as years of experience in the kink community and as a sex therapist roll through me in a tender wave. He doesn’t deserve to feel guilt over a harmless fantasy. Using it as a weapon against me? That was a dick move. But I can’t let him beat himself up over the fantasy itself.

Knowing the root of his shame is in the idea of my lack of consent, I ask, “Was I enjoying it?”

His head whips up, eyes wide. “What?”

“In your fantasy, did you see my face? ”

Ruddiness stains his cheekbones. Long fingers clench on his knees as his gaze veers to my throat. I’m powerless over a reflexive swallow. He sucks in a breath, blackness spreading through blue as his pupils dilate.

I stiffen against an answering rush of heat and yank the mantel of the Professor around my shoulders. I don’t even care if I pay for it later.

“Focus, Mr. Hayes.”

He twitches, gaze dropping. “Yeah, Doc. I saw your face.”

“Was I giving cues of a struggle?”

His shifts restlessly, a foot coming up to the opposite knee. I keep my gaze firmly on his face.

“No,” he finally says.

“Then you weren’t forcing me,” I tell him. “I’m willing to move past it if you are.”

He nods, still not looking at me. “Yeah, good.” He blows out a breath. “Can we call it a day?”

“Yes.”

He jumps off the couch and is out the door before I can muster the energy to stand.