“Don’t forget to hide that bowl of keys well,” I remind my friend Bernard as he takes another set of car keys from the couple who has just arrived at my downtown Seattle condo. “As addiction therapists, it would be very unfortunate if someone left here and killed themselves or someone else in a drunk driving accident.”

Bernard shakes his head as he adjusts the leotard under his pink tutu. “I’m well aware of the responsibility we hold, Leah. But can you please, just for one night, loosen up a little? Maybe even have a few drinks? Who knows, you may find you sleep better tonight after letting loose.”

I shake my head and smile. “Says the beautiful black man in the ballerina costume. I will definitely take your advice into consideration, Dr. Jones.”

“You know I love you, don’t you?” he says, planting a kiss on my forehead.

“I know.”

I leave Bernard to handle his car key collection duties, and I join our other best friend and therapist, Linda Cromwell, as she chats up my old college friends, Max and Maya Carter. Linda is dressed up in a black blazer and a white button up underneath with the collar popped and one of those freakishly large bowties they used to wear in the 1800s. The thin mustache she’s drawn over her lip is already smudged. Bernard and Linda lost a bet to me, so he had to dress up as a ballerina — like me — and Linda had to dress up as Edward Dégas, the artist famous for painting ballerinas.

“Is Bernard slacking off on his car key duties?” Linda asks before guzzling the rest of the red wine in her glass.

“He’s being a great sport about it,” I replied, turning to Max and Maya. “So, what are you two dressed up as?”

Max and Maya look at each other, exchanging a look only two people who know each other as well as they do would understand. “We’re French kisses,” Max declares with a huge grin, then he leans in for a passionate kiss with Maya.

I gasp as I finally understand their black berets, striped black and white shirts, and face paint resembling that worn by Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley from the band Kiss. “Oh, my God! I can’t believe I didn’t get that. It’s so obvious. You guys are brilliant, as always. Truly, I envy you two.”

I leave Linda to chat with Max and Maya as I head over to mingle with my ex-boyfriend and his new pregnant wife. “You two are positively glowing,” I remark, speaking louder than usual to be heard over the blues music playing from my smart speaker.

Benjamin leans and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m just happy to be out of the house these days,” he replies as his wife Vivian and I bump cheeks. “It’s like pulling teeth trying to get Viv out of the house these days.”

Vivian rubs her pregnant belly, which is tightly swathed in a green leotard that makes up the stem portion of her flower costume. “You’d be more stationary if you were carrying around an extra eighteen pounds everywhere you went.”

Benjamin’s bumblebee costume and Vivian’s flower costume are not quite as subtle as Max and Maya’s, but Ben was never good with subtlety. This is the man who, after I broke up with him, proceeded to show up at every mutual friendly gathering we attended with a new woman on his arm for six months. I finally had to tell him his attempts to make me jealous were not working, but I would be happy to refer him to a therapist who could help him overcome this compulsive behavior. He’s a good guy, so he apologized and met Vivian a couple months later. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me to see him so sickeningly happy now.

“Feel free to have a lie down in my bedroom if you need to,” I urge Vivian. “I think I’m going to go grab another glass of wine and get some fresh air on the balcony. You two enjoy yourselves. It’s really good to see you.”

I pour myself another glass of white wine from the dozen or so bottles on the Carrera marble kitchen island, then I head through the living room and out the French doors onto the balcony. The cool October wind coming in off the Puget Sound instantly raises goose bumps over my arms. I quickly guzzle the entire glass of wine and set it down on a table between the two deck chairs. Just then, a bald gentleman I recognize as an acquaintance of Bernard joins me on the balcony.

“It’s a beautiful night out, don’t you think?” the man says leaning against the steel railing next to me, so close his elbow brushes mine.

I try not to show my slight annoyance at the invasion of my personal space. “It is.”

He turns toward me. “Is this your party? It’s a little low-key for my taste, but I guess that’s what you get when a bunch of therapists get together, huh?” he says with a laugh, which only serves to force his bad breath in my direction.

I turn to head back inside. “I should probably get back in there so I can entertain those boring therapists.”

But as I begin to walk away he grabs my wrist.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to call you guys boring. Come on, chat a while,” the guy pleads aggressively.

The French doors open again and this time a man I don’t recognize emerges. He’s wearing a costume that looks like Wesley from The Princess Bride. Behind the black eye-mask, the man’s blue eyes flit from my wrist to my face then back to the bald guy, and an unmistakable flicker of anger ripples off of him.

His eyes lock on mine again. “Darling, are you cold? Would you like me to get your sweater?” The man asks obviously giving me and out of this awkward situation.

The bald loser rolls his eyes as he lets go of my wrist. “You could have said you weren’t single.”

Wesley grabs the man’s arm roughly as he attempts to walk back inside. “Disrespect her one more time and I’ll make sure you’re single for the rest of your life. Understand?”

The loser, who is almost half a foot shorter than Wesley, nods hastily and almost whimpers as he’s shoved toward the French doors, where he scrambles inside.

My heart races with relief as my muscles relax. “Thank you. I don’t think he would have tried to hurt me, but that was exceedingly awkward. I appreciate you stepping in.” I reach my hand out to him. “I’m Leah. This is my apartment. Who are you here with?”

He takes my hand and gives it a soft shake. “I’m here with Max,” the man replies.

“Max?”

I repeat the name as if this will help me make an association between this stranger and my longtime friend, but it doesn’t help saying the name aloud. I don’t recognize this man, but something about his voice sounds familiar and also foreign. He sounds almost as if he has an accent, a barely noticeable twang, which I can’t quite place. It almost sounds Australian or South African, but it’s so subtle I fear I may just be hearing things.

He doesn’t take my cue for clarification on his connection to Max. “Are you just out here to get some fresh air or did you need to clear your head?” he asks, and once again I hear that very slight accent on the word clear.

“I don’t know many Australians in Seattle. Seems like the least Australian place in America, wouldn’t you agree?”

He chuckles. “I actually lived in New Zealand for six years, so I sometimes find myself reverting to Kiwi pronunciations. Had to do that sometimes while I lived there, so the farmers I worked with could understand me better.”

An uneasy feeling creeps over me as I suddenly realize this man sounds a bit like Mr. C. Of course, I’ve never actually seen my anonymous patient, but the tone of his voice sounds so familiar. And this guy is clearly very good looking and has a commanding presence. I suspect Mr. C is also a force to be reckoned with, considering how easy it is for him to bed a different woman every night.

The moonlight dances on his skin and sparkles in his piercing blue eyes as he walks toward me. “How long have you lived in Seattle?” he asks as we both turn toward the gorgeous city lights.

This time, I don’t mind when the man’s elbow brushes against mine as we lean against the steel railing. This man smells utterly intoxicating, a masculine mix of sharp pine and spicy pheromones. I have to keep myself from turning my face toward him to inhale the heady musk.

“I was born and raised in Seattle,” I reply. “You?”

“So was I,” he replies, turning toward me the same way the bald guy had, but this time I welcome the attention.

The man has presence. Just standing here next to me, with his eyes locked on mine, I feel as if I’m being magnetized toward him, like a planet caught in his orbit.

“You look beautiful in that ballerina costume. That is what it is, right?” he asks.

My breath catches in my throat as he reaches forward and gently tugs on the fluttered toile sleeve. “I sort of cheated on the costume. I converted an old evening dress into a classy ballerina outfit with a little toile and ribbons. I think it came out okay.”

His gaze breaks over me, invading me. “I think it came out a lot better than okay,” he remarks, glancing at my arms as I rubbed them a little to warm my skin. “Did you want to go inside and grab a sweater or coat?”

I find it hard to breathe in this man’s presence. All I want is for him to wrap those strong arms around me and warm me up with his body heat. This is so ridiculous. I don’t even know this man.

At least, I think I don’t know this man. Oh, God, please tell me I don’t know this man.

Against everything my brain is telling me to do, I take a step toward him so my chest is just a few inches from his. I’m close enough to feel the waves of heat coming off him every time he exhales. I close my eyes and takes slow deep breaths as I wait for the prudent part of my brain to kick in.

But before that can happen, his hands land on my upper arms, warm and soft and so soothing as he rubs my skin to transfer his warmth to me.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my forehead. “Come here, Leah.”

My brain is begging me to recognize the soft growl on the first syllable of my name as spoken from this man’s lips. But my body refuses to cooperate. Besides, I’ve never heard Mr. C speak a single word with an accent. True, it can be difficult to hear such a subtle accent over the questionable quality of a Skype call. But I have faith I would recognize a patient of mine out in the real world.

“How long has it been since you’ve been touched like this?” he says as he brushes the backs of his fingers over my cheek.

I don’t answer his question, hoping my lack of response will encourage him to continue, and it does.

His hand travels down the side of my face to the side of my neck and over my shoulder as he leans in to whisper in my ear, “How long has it been since you’ve been kissed like this?”

His mouth lands on my neck and the sensation is electrifying, sending a jolt of pleasure straight down my spine and titillating every nerve in my body. My breathing quickens as the tip of his tongue traces a cool, wet line up the side of my neck to my earlobe.

“How long has it been since your beauty has been truly appreciated?”

His hot breath in my ear since a chill coursing through me. I grab onto the front of his black button up shirt for support as his hand lands on my waist.

“Beauty so disarming should be celebrated at every opportunity,” he murmurs as his lips brushed the side of my face on the way to my mouth.

His kiss is at once soft and hard, tender and greedy, gentle and hungry. His tongue tastes like spearmint and I realize he probably hasn’t had anything to drink tonight. As an addiction therapist, to know he is probably in no way inebriated, makes his actions even more attractive.

His hand moves down the front of my belly and I can hardly breathe with anticipation as he cups my mound and massages me through the fabric of my ballerina skirt.

“Oh, my God,” I breathe, as he strokes my aching pussy.

I clasp my hands around his thick, solid neck as his hand gathers up my skirt and slides down the front of my stockings. I gasp as his finger pushes inside my wet opening. His teeth nip at my bottom lip as he fucks me with two fingers.

“That’s it, Leah. I knew you’d be soaking wet for me,” he growls. “That’s it, sweet girl. Give me all that tasty cum. Give me what I’ve been craving.” He rubs his thumb against my clit as he continues to fuck me with his fingers. “Come for me, beautiful. Let me hear that gorgeous moan.”

My thighs begin to tremble and my fingernails dig into the back of his neck as an orgasm rockets through me. “Oh, fuck… Oh, God… Fuck me,” I murmur.

He removes his hand from between my legs and slides two fingers in his mouth. “God fucking dammit. That is as beautiful as I thought it would be. Better than a vintage champagne. You are a masterpiece.” He kisses me deeply, and tasting myself on his tongue instantly gets me aroused again, but he quickly pulls away again. “Soon, I’ll set you free. But not tonight, little bird. Soon.”

And then he’s gone.

It’s been four days since the costume party and I’m falling asleep at my desk. I was up late reading a new book on internet addiction. Feeling groggy makes it easy to allow my thoughts to wander to fantasies about the man at my party, whom I’m now certain was Mr. C. I quickly set up my computer for today’s client, and I take a seat on the sofa as usual. But as I sit on the soft couch, staring at a blank legal pad, my fatigue overtakes me.

I dream I’m in my office, having sex on the couch with a masked man. As he pushes his way inside me, I cry out in ecstasy. But as I reach for his mask, he turns away.

Dr. Grayson.

I attempt to reach for his mask again, but I can’t seem to get my hand close enough to reach his face.

Dr. Grayson… Dr. Grayson.

He lifts my leg to penetrate me deeper and I gasp with pleasure.

It’s right there. His face is right there. Why can’t I reach it?

Dr. Grayson.

He smiles and it feels sinister, yet it only fills me with more lust. I want him to fuck me harder. Longer. Faster.

I need to see this man’s face.

“Dr. Grayson, are you listening?”

My eyelids flutter open and I realize I’ve been lucid dreaming while lying on the couch in my office. Sitting up, I hastily straighten my skirt, which has ridden up around my waist, exposing my panties, which are soaked through with my arousal. Finally, I look in the direction of the voice and see my laptop propped open on top of my desk, the way it always is when I’m about to receive a call from a client. On the screen, I’m startled by the image of a handsome man in a gray suit with chestnut-brown hair and piercing blue eyes.

“Oh, my God!” I leap up from the sofa, using the flat of my hand to smooth the wrinkles in my pencil skirt. “How did you—” I’m about to ask the man how he got my Skype contact information, when I suddenly recognize the midnight-blue sofa he’s sitting on. “Mr. C?” I say, my gaze drifting toward the brass bird cage in the corner.

“You seem flustered today, Leah. Your cheeks are flushed. Did you have your own sexual encounter you’d like to discuss?”

I catch my breath as I grab the legal pad and pen I dropped on the floor and take a seat. “Let’s talk about you,” I say, taking a seat and crossing my ankles. “Please tell me how your weekend went.”

“Well,” he begins with a chuckle. “I had a very interesting encounter at a party this weekend. I met a woman whose beauty is unparalleled. A mysterious woman with a mind as sharp as her impeccable taste in men. One might say she’s a bit of an enigma, but I prefer women who hold their cards close to their chest.”

I swallow hard. “She sounds interesting. Was this a date or was it a sexual encounter?”

He shakes his head. “I would be so lucky as to have a date with this woman. Unfortunately, I’m afraid this woman is off limits to me. Forbidden fruit, which I couldn’t resist tasting,” he says, drawing out the syllables in tasting. “Her skin was as soft as a summer peach. Her lips like pillows of candy I wanted to devour. But her pussy… My God. It was perfect. Every stroke of my fingers make her body twitch. She was more responsive than a Ferrari. Every muscle in her body sought my touch. And when she begged me to fuck her, it took every ounce of strength in me to leave her on that balcony, with that perfect pussy dripping wet. I wanted nothing more than to fuck her so hard, her screams would echo across the sound. But in that moment, your words came to me. You said I should consider showing my face to you as the next step to holding myself accountable. And I’m ready to do that now. For you, Leah. I’m revealing myself to you, so you can hold me accountable. I will deliver on my promise, little bird. I will fuck you raw. But only when you’re ready.”

“You…” I breathe, my voice failing me. “This is… This is highly inappropriate, Mr. C. I—

“Samuel.”

“Excuse me?”

“You may call me by my real name. Samuel Paxson.”

My heart thuds loudly in my skull at the mention of this name. Samuel Paxson, the CEO of Paxson Enterprises, is the fourth richest man in Seattle. In downtown Seattle proper alone, he owns dozens of properties in the hospitality sector, mostly boutique hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants. All over the world, he probably owns thousands of properties. Paxson Enterprises is set to surpass Hilton in global marketshare soon. I know this because I’ve had some suspicion Mr. C might be Samuel Paxson for a couple of weeks now. And I was right.

Samuel Paxson is my client. Samuel Paxson has a sex addiction.

I’m addicted to Samuel Paxson.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Paxson, but I have to go. I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” I insist, rushing over to the laptop to slam the lid shut before he can respond