It takes me three tries to open my apartment door. Three. And that’s not including the fact that I pushed the wrong floor in the elevator twice, much to the chagrin of the other passengers—an elderly couple who live three doors down from me.

However, once in my home, amid my familiar and perfectly ordered world, I still find myself flustered, unable to focus.

Locking the door behind me, I hang my purse on the hook by the door and drop my keys into the bowl on the small table beneath it. Then, I remove my kitten heels and place them neatly by the door.

I wonder what Jaxon’s face would look like if I wore my black stilettos to our next session. I can picture him in an instant, those piercing eyes watching my every move, his tongue licking those cruel lips as he takes me in from toe to top. For the hundredth time today, I feel a wave of heat flare through my body.

Would I be able to see how hard…?

Stop it.

Stop it this instant.

He. Is. Your. Patient.

Flustered and irritated, I bring my files and today’s case notes and drop them on the kitchen table. But I make no move to look at them. I need distance.

And I need to order my mind before I try to make sense of today’s session. I need to figure myself out first before I start trying to decipher the delicious enigma that is Jaxon Covington.

But as soon as the thought of him pops into my head, my mouth waters.

I have to shake myself to clear it.

I grit my teeth. Enough, Alison.

I take a deep, shuddering breath to steady myself, and I feel a bit better.

I’ve been obsessing. That’s all. I just have to do something to break the cycle.

I continue into my kitchen and begin pulling out the implements to make tea. I find the familiarity of the task soothing.

First, I take out the polished copper kettle and fill it with water then set it on the stove to heat. Then I open the cabinet where I keep the rest of my tea things and remove the heavy ceramic teapot, my favorite loose green tea, and a strainer. Finally, I grab my favorite mug—a diagram of the brain, created with all the words associated with it: the different parts, chemicals, and psychological disorders to be found within the mind.

By the time the water has boiled and I’ve left the tea to steep, my mind feels more settled. I feel centered and once more in control.

I take my cup and, pointedly ignoring the files on the kitchen table, move to the living room couch and pick up the Times crossword puzzle. With a contented sigh, I begin.

I normally give in to my obsessions. I’ve performed enough self-diagnosis to know they aren’t clinical, just a byproduct of a high functioning mind and an ability to hyper-focus. I’ve even found them incredibly useful when puzzling out a diagnosis.

People are a sum of their problems, and problems are puzzles, nothing more.

There’s always a way to figure them out. There’s always a solution. Always.

And, most of the time, when I let myself go, when I give in to the obsessive focus on the issue at hand, I usually find the solution quite quickly. I let my mind turn over and over, putting all the pieces of the person’s messy life on a cool, clinical table in my mind.

I detach and then I dissect. I analyze from every angle.

I take it all in and then I find the pattern. Because patterns of behavior lead to diagnosing the disease, and once the disease is determined, a method of treatment can be devised.

Most people are easy. Almost too easy. Where’s the fun in that?

Usually, within the first moments of a session, I have them psychoanalyzed, sorted, and solved. That is, until today…

I shake my head again and mentally chide myself. Not yet.

But it’s too late.

There he is again.

Jaxon.

I know that what I’m doing right now isn’t healthy; for once, my single-minded focus is more of a hindrance than it is help. I throw down the crossword and my pen in disgust, and then lean back on the couch, gently rubbing my temples.

What I need is a fresh start. A way to wash this day off of me and start over.

I get up off the couch and make my way to my bedroom, unbuttoning my blouse as I go.

I’ll take a nice warm bath, listen to some music, and let myself totally relax. I’ll slough off the day and then I’ll restart.

Yes. It’s a good plan.

And when I’m clean and fresh, I’ll be able to be myself again: cool and detached. A.I. Alison—a moniker from medical school for the way I could be fed data about a patient and quickly process and determine the solution.

I liked it. Computers aren’t messy. There are no emotions involved.

Emotions don’t solve problems. The scientific process does. Careful and reasoned analysis does.

And, more importantly, Alison Hughes does.

I draw a bubble bath, turn on my favorite relaxation music, and slip into the tub, my red hair piled high in a bun on top of my head.

This is good. This is perfect. This is just what I needed.

I relax and let my eyes drift closed.

And there he is. Watching me.

Gone is the prison uniform. Instead, he wears an immaculate custom suit that shows off his coiled strength and lanky build to perfection. Everything about him is easy and practiced appeal.

But when I look at his eyes, I see their cold blue burn.

For me.

And then I can’t help myself. I brush my hands over my breasts and feel my nipples harden at my touch. In my mind, I’m sitting on my desk, facing him, when he gets up and stalks towards me, easy charm and a lithe, feral grace.

There’s an animal prowling just below the surface. I know it. I welcome it.

With one hand teasing my nipple, I imagine him sucking it into his lush, wicked mouth. Then I slide my other hand lower, teasing as I go.

Gooseflesh trails my touch, sending me shivering despite the heat of the water.

My breath hitches.

In my fantasy, Jaxon’s hand follows my own. He snakes it up my skirt, and his eyebrows raise, eyes dancing with mischief, when he realizes I’m not wearing any underwear. But then I see him shudder when he feels my slick pussy—hot, wet, and throbbing for his touch.

I want him.

I spread my legs for him and for myself, my fingers rubbing soft circles over my aching swollen clit. And then he’s there between my thighs, teasing me with his tongue, mimicking the movement of my fingers. And I watch him from my perch, getting a thrill from this powerful, seductive creature paying homage to my body on his knees.

That I alone am able to soothe the savage beast.

I can hear myself whimper now as I finger-fuck myself, panting from my sharp arousal, wishing it was his hard cock.

As I feel myself tighten with the first waves of orgasm, my dream shifts.

Now I’m naked on my desk while Jaxon fills me. Every thrust is the most exquisite torture. He’s still partially dressed, but his jacket is gone, his shirt is askew, and he looks devilishly sexy.

But his hands—his hands are covered in blood.

In fact, he’s covered in blood. We both are. His warm, bloody hands leaving smudges of gore all over my porcelain skin…

And I love it.

I revel in it with him.

And as I feel myself start to come, I imagine myself pulling him down, devouring his mouth. And then I come—harder than I have ever come masturbating before—with the metallic taste of blood sweet on my tongue.

I snap back to myself after the fog of oxytocin and endorphins recede.

What have I done?

I answer myself without even thinking:

I’ve just masturbated to completion while fantasizing about a possibly psychotic patient covered in blood.

This won’t work.

I can’t possibly continue to treat Jaxon if I’m incapable of professional detachment.

I sink deeper into the tub, but I’m afraid no amount of water will wash away my shame.

Jaxon Covington can’t be my patient. And I see no other solution.

I have to figure a way out of this.