I m*********d three times between our first and second session.
Once in the shower the morning after, water cascading over me while I imagined it was his hands. Once in my bed at 2 AM when I couldn't sleep, my vibrator pressed against my c**t while I pictured him watching. And once in my car in the parking lot of his building, twenty minutes before our appointment, because I needed to take the edge off or I was going to do something stupid.
Like climb into his lap the second I walked through that door.
I'd spent the entire week thinking about him. About the way he'd looked at me—or tried not to look at me. About that tan line where his wedding ring used to be. About his voice saying my name, careful and measured, like he was testing the weight of it.
Sloane.
I'd driven past his office
