Urgency. That’s what I feel. I need to convince this independent young woman to stop her search—at least the manner in which she is doing it. I feel as though she is drowning, and it’s solely up to me to throw her a lifeline.

“Dr. Grant.” Miss Knight’s voice echoes in my brain.

“I’ll be right there.” It’s unnecessary for her to announce Eden. I’ve been waiting, counting down the minutes, calculating my next move. As I open the door, I watch her gracefully move toward me. She’s everything I shouldn’t want, but a volcanic desire explodes, it’s lava spilling over the edges. I had no control as it fell down the mountain in a rapid fiery gas, burning everything in it’s path, including me.

“Dr. Grant.” Her not-so-innocent look takes in my body, causing guilt to crash down on me as my professional discipline takes a beating. I watch her every move. The sway of her hips, the fucking heels she’s wearing. As I’m trying to pull myself together, she looks back at me, aware that I haven’t moved an inch. Then she smiles, and I realize that I never stood a chance.

“Eden, how are you today?” Taking my seat, I open her file and take an extra minute or two to gather my wits.

“I’m fine.”

Any man knows that when a woman says I’m fine, it’s definitely code for not fine.

“Tell me what’s bothering you.” Closing the file, I show her she has my full attention, but she always does, and she knows it.

“I broke it off with Denver, for good.” She smiles back at me. “The off again on-again roller coaster relationship just isn’t worth it.”

     I thought he was already gone, but the overconfident look doesn’t fool me.

She narrows her violet eyes, awaiting my response.

“How did he handle it?”

My pure delight is entirely uncalled for.

“How would you?” she asks, as if she senses my real answer.

“I’m assuming he was hurt, possibly angry.”

“He was, but he was a weight crushing me. I used to say yes to everything because I didn’t want to disappoint people in my life. I wanted everyone to like me. Now…”

She stalls, and I watch the tilt of her head, waiting for her next words, which never come.

“And now?” I prompt.

“I’m afraid I don’t give a damn what people think.”

Witnessing her fiery confidence is cause for alarm and appealing, simultaneously.

“That could be a positive or a negative thing, depending on the situation. If it causes you to become more emotionally distant, for example, it may be detrimental when connecting to people. If it’s used as a shield to protect you from someone who wants to control you, then it will serve you well.”

“It helps me cope with what I’ll be doing tonight.”

I silently welcome the opportunity to plead my case.

“About tonight. I think it’s possible that you may rely on that trait too heavily to get through the evening. That leads me to believe that your actions are detrimental in this particular case.”

“Of course you would think that. We stagger through life looking for the right answers, and sometimes the method in which we do so will be scrutinized. Is that what you’re doing right now, Dr. Grant? Scrutinizing me?”

“That’s hardly the case, Eden. I’m here to help you make healthy decisions. Is it a surprise that I find your method harmful, when it means you’re putting yourself at risk, night after night?”

“So this isn’t some sort of intervention?”

“If it was, would it work?”

“Highly unlikely, doctor. You know why I do what I do. It’s a means to an end. Nothing more.”

“You’re wrong, Eden. Despite the difficulties in healing, grief is a complex process clouding your judgment. What you’re doing will cause long-term complications.”

I feel as if I’m losing the battle here. She is crossing the line, and anything I say will just be perceived as judgment. My goal, however, is to create authentic connections.

“I understand your concern, doctor, but I can separate myself from what I’ll be doing tonight because I’ll be fighting for the truth. The secrets of my past control my present.”

“That’s what worries me, Eden.”

I dismiss my internal struggle to control my most secret fantasies. Acting on these attractions, however inappropriate, is something entirely different, and I haven’t crossed any lines—yet.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says softly, giving the moment a strange sweetness, or so I tell myself, but to share that with her would be out of bounds.

“I’d love nothing more than not to worry. It’s more important to me to help you through every facet of your grief. The grief that clings to you. I believe it’s directly related to the extreme behavior you’re exhibiting to find your missing parents.”

I know all too well about the fragments of the past that we wish we could forget. I’ve buried mine, but it’s never left me.

“Maybe you’re right, doctor, but I’m stronger than you realize.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes glistening as they reach mine. “I’m continuing my search. Nothing you say or do will stop me.” 

Then there’s only one thing to do.

I pull into the parking lot of the club. It’s located in a rundown neighborhood, and the flashing red neon sign screaming FOREPLAY is hard to miss. I’m taken back by the expensive cars, but then I realize that I’m here in my lavish sports car. I question once again if this is a good idea or not. Getting her fired is the plan. Having her quit on her own was my first choice, but so far that option has imploded. There’s only two acceptable choices left, and I’m going with my only choice.

I realize that I’m willingly crossing a fine ethical line. I won’t be able to undo it once I’ve crossed the threshold. My professional training would consider this situation a textbook example of counter transference, when a therapist develops feelings for a client. And the cold truth is that I could lose everything. My license could be taken away, and my reputation destroyed. Yet my legs still carry me straight through the front door of the club, where I’m met by a very large man. The bouncer hovers over me with malice.

“One-hundred-dollar cover,” he says, pointing to the sign on the door.

I guess that keeps the riffraff out.

“Driver’s license.”

He snaps a picture with his phone and nods for me to go in.

What the hell? I walk into a pitch-black hallway, my eyes slowly adjusting as the colored lights come into focus.

The club is busy, and I make my way to the bar. Men are salivating over the woman barely clothed on the stage. They’re vultures, all of them. Sharks circling in the water after their prey. I try to brush it off as if to convince myself that I am any better.

I make it to the bar and grab a stool. I’m unsure of my course of action, I’ve stepped in unchartered waters. How do I get to talk to one of the private dancers, exclusively Eden.

“I’ll have a beer,” I say to the bartender, who greets me with utmost interest. Her breasts are clearly on display exposing her white lace bra. Shame rises and I attempt to squash it down. I’ve only been to one of these places in my life, a bachelor party where I was young and mostly drunk the entire time.

“Two-drink minimum,” she says.

I nod in understanding. As I take a long pull from the bottle, I turn to face the stage. I’m curious about each woman’s story, and how it leads them to a place where they take their clothes off for strangers. Their bodies are on display like pieces of meat, but then again, I can’t stop watching, either. I’m just as much a man as all the others.

As I turn to order my second drink, I lean toward the bartender. Her breasts are spilling out, as if she is presenting them to me. I’m only human, and the view is spectacular, as far as tits go.

“I want to see one of your girls.”

She raises an eyebrow, proving I’m off my game, but I don’t know what name Eden goes by here. Certainly not her own.

“She’s tall, with long brown wavy hair, and beautiful violet eyes.”

I see her nod in acknowledgement.

“Violet is her name.”

“I’d like to meet with her.”

She takes out a large book and opens it behind the bar. Then she turns to me. “She has an hour open at nine, and it’s five hundred dollars. Payment is due prior to entry.” She sits my cold beer down. “Plus tip, but you can give that to her after your appointment.”

Hell, five hundred dollars! I reach for my wallet and place the money on the counter. I add an extra fifty for the bartender.

She smiles and winks. “Thank you, sir.”

I have to wait forty-five long minutes, fighting my jealously the entire time, knowing that another man is with her in that fucking room right now. He’s watching her and wanting her. Worshipping her and possessing her.

I slam the second beer down and order a third to numb my thoughts.

I must keep my mind focused on the ultimate goal. I’m starting to feel the effects of the beer as I contemplate my motives. How honest am I being with myself? Why am I actually here?

Before I can finish my thought, a large man in a suit greets me and tells me to follow him. I’m ushered into a room, and he says, “read the rules,” pointing to the wall. I begin to read the faded words on the discolored paper, the tape old and yellow. But the rules were clear. There’s no touching allowed, except to insert bills, and the dancer can end the session at any time. No questions asked.

I see the man standing on the other side of the door, where a small long glass window appears, allowing him to monitor what goes on inside. Well, I have mixed feelings on that. She’s somewhat protected, but that rule could easily be used against me once she finds out I’m here to take her home.

I take it all in. The circular shaped room, the booth-style seating that encompasses the entire room, excluding the door. It’s red, leather, and cold. The music is hard, but not too loud. The lighting pulses. Pinks and purples are thrown on the wall. A small circular stage sits in the middle with a pole firmly in place.

I sit, waiting, and the fear of the unknown grips me.

Until finally, the door opens.

“They told me it was you, Dr. Grant. I didn’t think you were the club type.”

I can barely breathe, let alone respond. Her makeup is overdone, those violet eyes of hers framed by smoky dark liner. Her full lips are painted pink, matching the bra and panty set she’s barely wearing.

She immediately puts me under her spell.

“I’m not,” I stumble. “I’m here to…”

“Watch?”

Fuck.

“No, not watch, this can’t happen.” I point to the pole.

“Why are you here, doctor?” She steps closer to me with each word. “There’s nothing wrong with watching, is there?”

“I’m not here to do this…with you.” I circle my finger from her, to me, to the entire room. “I’m here to take you home, out of this place.”

I feel completely off my game.

“I’m not leaving. I’ll lose my job, and I’m too close to new information to leave now.” Her eyes meet those of the man at the door.

“This is my life. You decided to come here. What did you expect? I’ll be forced to give you the full experience.”

Defiant, she is angry with me, as if my punishment is about to be dished out in pure torture. She looks at the door again.

“It’s time to start.” There’s a slight challenge in her tone.

My self-control collapses as I watch her walk in the six-inch heels. She turns the music up, just enough to drown out my inner voice, which is screaming at me to run.

But I don’t run. Instead, I sit memorized and watch her in all her jaw-dropping glory.

Christ.

She grips the pole high with one hand and slowly circles, making eye contact whenever possible. That long wavy hair of hers flows sensuously behind her.

“Breathe, doctor,” she playfully says as she presses her spine against the bar and raises her arms above her head. She’s reaching as far as she can to grip the bar, which causes her tits to jut out as her back arches. Then she slowly slides down the pole. Her legs separate as she rides it. This one act alone causes every muscle in my body to contract. My erection needing the most attention.

Then she moves back up, slowly, as she drinks me in. She’s playing me like a puppet. Then she turns away, and her taut ass is simply perfect. The desire to touch her, or touch myself, is all-consuming.

She reaches behind her back and unhooks her innocent pink bra, exposing her flawless skin, but there’s nothing innocent about it. I’m burning with boneless limbs. I’ve been rendered stupid. I watch her hips rock against the pole from behind, begging for her to turn.

I need her to turn and face me.

“You know the rules?”

She remains hidden from my peering eyes, she looks over her shoulder to meet my gaze. She’s asking a question, and between visions of what my body longs to do to her, I answer.

“No touching.”

“Unless you want to place a bill into my panties.”

Fuck, I want that more than my next breath. I reach for my wallet and pull out a twenty as she nods toward her ass. With a shaky hand, I fold and insert the bill into her panties from behind. Stealing an electric touch.

“Sit.”

I obey. Every part of me would love to have control right now, and the things I would be doing to her.

Then she turns and her breast are exposed. Jesus.

They’re exquisite. Pure white, heavy, and round, her nipples are hard and darkened with arousal. I want my mouth on them, sucking and licking, but I am glued to this leather couch. I grip the seat until my knuckles turn white.

She traces a finger from her neck to her breast, circling each of them as my eyes trail her touch. Then she moves her finger down to her panties. I reach into my wallet and fold two more twenties, inserting them into her panties one at a time.

Her smile knowingly holds all the power.

I am so close to her, close enough to touch, but I’m not risking being dragged out of here by the large man outside the door.

I couldn’t rip my eyes away if I tried, so I step back and slowly sit, not confident my legs will carry me. Then the unthinkable happens. She inserts her thumbs into each side of her panties and slides them down her long smooth legs. There on the floor I watch them, wanting desperately to keep them, but my eyes slowly make their way up to her exposed body to her bare pussy. It’s wet and glistening, and her knees are spreading for me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She finds me watching her as our gaze collides. She’s stunning, from her sculptured figure to her tapered waist. She’s pure desire, pure sex.

I know that every man who has sat here before me has wanted to fuck her, because I do as well. Damn the conflict. Damn everything. I want more of her, so much more. I want to touch her. I want my mouth on her, my tongue. An enticing image of me buried deep in her has my cock screaming for release.

Such temptation. It’s like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. She’s tempting me with the forbidden fruit, and God, I desperately want a bite. Just a taste. I want it all—damn the consequences.

I nearly come, just staring at the vision in front of me beckoning me like a siren. I wonder how the men before me held on to their sanity, because I am quickly loosing mine.

I start to rub myself and stop. As much as I want her, this is not going to happen. Not this way.

She needs me in so many other ways. I close my eyes, reaching deep inside myself to find the strength to stop, just stop.

“Put these on.”

Grabbing the scraps of material, I chase the desire away. I see the torment in her eyes. “Take my jacket. I want you out of here.”

“I told you I can’t leave, and I don’t think you want me too.”

Our bodies are barely touching, but the electricity between us is sizzling.

“Get your things. Now.”

Finally finding my fucking control, and I stand, towering over her naked body.

“I’m taking you home, Eden. Get. Fucking. Dressed.”

She is such a complicated woman. I watch as she puts what little clothes she has back on. Then she grabs my jacket and covers up.

Weaving through the traffic, she remains silent, looking out her window and watching the world go by.

“It’s okay to be mad, but at some point we need to talk so we can fix this and help you find the answers you’re looking for, Eden.”

“That’s what I was doing.” Her eyes connect with mine.

“No, that was reckless and dangerous. You won’t be going back, but I want to help you.”

“How kind of you.” Fury reverberates in her tone. I can feel her anger slice through me, but it won’t stop me from protecting her.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home. My home.”

I don’t question my actions or the possible consequences. You can go to any behavioral science board in any state and find a list of therapists who have lost their license because they’ve lost their way or crossed the invisible line of ethics. They’ve somehow shown impaired judgment with a patient.

I don’t know where I fit into these categories. I only know what I feel.

“Why are you taking me there?”

Good question. So I can be near you.

“Because after tonight, I know what I should do. I’m going to help you come up with a better plan.”

And God-Damnit, because I couldn’t control myself.

She looks at me with confusion and uncertainty. I can’t blame her; it’s not as if my behavior back there was in any way professional. I’ve already proven that.

I pull into the underground garage, open her door, and usher her into the elevator. I press penthouse, feeling the gravitational force in this confined space. I count each floor, demanding it to rise faster. I feel her eyes move over me with curiosity.

I gesture for her to walk in once the elevator doors open, and I follow. She waltzes across the room, absorbing her new surroundings as if she can see straight into my soul, uncovering my darkest secrets.

“We all have problems or challenges we must face, Eden. I’m not immune to conflict, either.”

She’s pressed against the glass, looking out at the city lights, which go on for miles.

“And what is your Achilles’ heel, Doctor?”

How can I tell her that it’s her?

She turns to me when she’s met with silence. Her eyebrows rise, as if repeating the question.

“Control.” I decide to be somewhat honest about my desperate need to control everything and everyone around me—including her.

“Is that why I’m here?’

“I think you know why you’re here, Eden.”

Her expression remains blank, and I can’t read what she’s thinking.

“You want to help me,” she finally answers, and she’s partly right. I do want to help her, but there is also so much more. I don’t know what I should do to explain how I feel. How tonight made me feel. Wrong and right, black and white. There it is again, taking me down, temptation, harshly judging myself, as if I didn’t already.

“Yes, we are contacting one of my old friends.”

Technically it’s Alex’s friend.

“His background in Army, Special Ops and Special Tactics. He’s impressive. He only handles private matters now. I will arrange a meeting with him, and I’m confident he can provide answers.”

“That’s reassuring,” she says skeptically.

Yet I sense her sarcasm is based from doubt and lack of trust. Her guard is still up.

“If we go with this new plan, I need you to promise me that the club is over. Done. You won’t be going back.”

I try to conceal my possessive tendencies as best as I can.

“I promise, but only if we indeed get results, Dr. Grant.” 

Relieved by her words, I offer a weak smile as I notice she’s still wearing my jacket. Her pink bra is peeking out.

Hearing her call me doctor, it’s an aching reminder of my position. Who am I, and what have I done, and most importantly, what I’m willing to do.

“Hungry?” I try to erase that train of thought and replace it with one of normalcy.

“Starving. I’ve worked up an appetite tonight.” Her hand runs the length of my island as she walks toward me.

“Sexual attraction isn’t a sin, is it, doctor”

I can tell she’s unashamed of her blatant honesty.

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Who you’re referring to, Eden”

My answer puts a barrier up between us that I sure as hell don’t want there. I only want to slow the speeding train.

“You… Us,” she says, as my eyes bore into hers.

“I’m a man first, Eden. But you already know that, don’t you?”

My erection, painfully confined against my zipper, and now there is only a few feet between us, putting my senses on high alert.

“Oh, I noticed,” she says. “Admit it, doctor. You wanted me here.”

Am I willing to admit that? What will happen if I do?

I meet her violet eyes, playful and filled with mischief. They make me nervous. I’m practically squirming in place, ill at ease with the direction we’re going. It’s too soon. Fuck! Who’s the adult here? Who’s the professional? Who has the control?

Because it sure as hell isn’t me, and that needs to change.

“You want honesty, Eden? Really? Because I don’t think you’re ready for my particular brand of honesty.”

I feel the weight of my own words hit me like cold water thrown in my face.

“Try me,” she says, reveling when her breath touches my face.

Try me? What is she saying? Offering? All I know is that I’m drunk on lust when I’m around her. If she truly tempts me, I’ll fail.

I take a deep breath and put some distance between us, leaning on the island to steady myself.

“That will require me to cross a line that is clearly written in stone, Eden. You are my patient.” I attempt to take ownership of the situation, but I feel like a fraud.

She moves closer to me; too close.

I can feel her heat, her feminine scent. All designed to entice me.

“Then I’ll quit,” she whispers, as she reaches up to my ear on her tiptoes.

I spin quickly to meet her head-on. “No. Here’s what’s going to happen, Eden: We’re continuing our sessions. I made a commitment to your uncle, and to you. I owe it to Matt to help you through this, no matter the cost.”

She rests her hand on my chest.

I can feel it…

I’m about to break.