4. puzzle pieces

4

PUZZLE PIECES

DAY 6

Across the room, Dr. Chastain stands with his back to me. He removes his suit jacket and hangs it on his desk chair. His movements, as always, are elegant and precise.

Standing just outside the glow from several lamps, I watch him loosen his tie, then unbutton his cuffs and roll the fabric up his forearms. The skin revealed is muscled and bronze, dusted lightly with dark hair.

With the long fingers of one hand resting on the desk, he lifts his head and turns until his profile is visible. Stern mouth that, in brief moments of repose, softens to sinful fullness. A nose almost too long for his face, but that perfectly complements the sharp lines of his jaw.

The muscles of his back bunch as he shifts again, just enough to glance in my direction. "If you're done with your examination, I'd like to speak with you."

That he knows I was ogling him doesn't embarrass me. He's fully aware I think he's hot; I told him so in our first session. His only response was a scowl and a stern command to sit.

Dr. Chastain sighs. "Amelia."

Pleased to have elicited a response—a sigh from him is the equivalent of another man's scream—I smile and flop into his usual seat during our private sessions. Throwing my bare, tanned legs over the arm of the oversized leather chair, I examine my fingernails.

"Was it the comment about being a horrible person?" I ask idly. "I was just trying to dig up some sympathy from my fellow inmates."

The rustle of his pants brings my eyes up. Chastain leans against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. Perfect black hair gleams in the light from a nearby lamp.

I really, really want to scratch my fingers through those thick strands and pull them into disarray. I also want to shave him bald. Maybe get rid of his eyebrows, too, which are currently drawn together in a frown.

"Why do you think you're here, Amelia?"

I groan. "Must you call me that? It's so predictable, trying to make me think about my mother by using that name. I expect more from you."

He shifts again, hips lifting slightly before settling back against the desk. I manage to stop myself before my eyes veer to his crotch.

It's disturbing, the effect he has on me. The last man who flooded me with need by merely existing was… Shit, it's been a long time. Maybe Kyle, the hockey player from Canada.

"What are you thinking about? "

Angry for a reason I can't digest, I tell him the truth, "The hottest fuck of my life."

Dr. Chastain's expression doesn't change. Calm. Contained. "Did you have a relationship with him beyond sex?"

"Nope." And because I'm annoyed, I add, "And we didn't have sex. We fucked. "

There .

Finally, a physical response. His lips have thinned. Behind his glasses, his blue eyes remain sparkling ice. "Have you ever fucked someone you love, Amelia?"

I widen my eyes dramatically. "You just said a dirty word, Dr. Chastain! Shame on you."

No smile. Nothing.

I concede defeat, admitting, "My high school boyfriend, maybe."

"Donovan Vicks?"

I squeeze my eyes closed. "Jameson is getting castrated when I get out of here."

Chastain ignores my muttered vow. "You were together during your junior and senior years, correct?"

My skin starts to itch again. "Yes," I grind out.

I listen to his footsteps coming closer but don't open my eyes. My nose catches a subtle waft of his light, expensive cologne and the muskier scent beneath. Desire dances from my breasts to my belly.

"Why do you think you're a horrible person? A user of others?"

I open my eyes, finding him where I expected—in the chair across from me. His tie is gone, and the patch of golden skin at the base of his throat teases me. Begs me to lick it.

"I'm sick," I whisper, trying to make him understand something I don't really understand myself. "When I see people, I don't see… people. I see puzzles to solve. Weaknesses to exploit. Answers to find. I like watching people break." I shake my head. "No, I love watching people break."

"What you love is making them feel," he says, that deep voice fluttering between my legs.

I tense. "What? No."

His head tilts, pale eyes floating over my features, leaving frostbite behind. "You shock and hurt people because their responses tell you they care. More than anything, you want people to care."

My eyes burn. My throat aches like I just smoked a cigarette to the filter. I laugh—it's more of a croak. "Whatever you say, Doc. You've got me all figured out."

Chastain pulls off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with two fingers. "What you do—the pranks, the manipulating, the lying—you're in search of human experience. And believe me, you would thrive just as easily on happiness and gratitude as you do on hurt and surprise."

I have no pithy response. His words scratch and rip into my gut, tossing soul debris left and right.

I want to curl into a ball and sob. I want to leap off my chair and scream, You don't know me! and throw a lamp at his head. Or slap him, then kiss him.

But I do nothing, fighting impulse tooth and nail. I breathe through the itch in my bones, the maelstrom inside me. And I stare at him.

He finally blinks, younger looking without his glasses, the blue of his eyes more stunning against thick, inky lashes and olive skin.

"Tell me what you want to do to me, Amelia. What punishment have I earned for making you feel?"

I can't. Won't. And I don't know why. Maybe because although I don't like him, I respect him. Envy him a little—his control and maturity. Or I don't want to disappoint Jameson by getting kicked out of here.

Or maybe, some part of me realizes this is the last house on the block. This is either where I end, or where I begin.

"No."

"Why not?" he asks, more curious than I've ever heard him.

I look out a window and try to appreciate the sunset's daily artwork. "Because I don't want to hurt you."

"Lie," he says, so calmly that I bristle. "Do you think telling me would give me power over you? That I would then abuse that power?"

I blink, stunned at his admission—his mistaken impression that he has any power over me at all. My heels drop to the floor and laughter bubbles in my throat.

"Are you serious right now? You think that because you have a bunch of facts about my life you have power over me? That you can jerk me around like a puppet? I don't dance for anyone, Doc!"

One dark eyebrow cocks upward. "I was speaking in terms of doctor/patient confidentiality, Amelia. What kind of power were you referring to?"

Dear God, get me out of this nightmare.

I rub my face roughly with my hands, then drag my fingers through my hair to the crown of my head. Whatever expression I'm wearing must be alarming because for the first time in our more than six hours of conversation, Chastain reacts.

With swift grace, he kneels on the floor before my chair. The heat of his chest radiates onto my legs. For a pregnant moment, his hands hover over my knees, then fall to his sides.

"Are you all right?" he asks, eyes scanning my features.

Unnerved by his proximity, I sneer. "If I were all right, do you think I'd be in a treatment facility for fucked-up adult children?"

He lowers back onto his heels, the fabric of his slacks pulling tight against the muscles of his thighs. "What I think is you're an intelligent, capable woman, and I have faith that our work will be… what did you call it earlier? Ah, yes. Transformational. "

It's the gleam of humor in his eyes that undoes me. I laugh. The itch in my bones subsides.

Blue eyes still dancing, he rises smoothly to his feet. "That's all for this evening, Amelia. I'll see you tomorrow."

He turns away, and I'm dismissed.