Nights With Him(53)

“Are you a mind reader?”

She smiled. “I am, actually. It was part of my coursework. I’m certified not only in intimate relationship psychology but also in mind reading. As well as tarot. Shall I read your cards?”

“Oh, please do. Though I’d honestly feel a tad better if you relied on an 8-Ball. Are you certified in that too?”

She mimed shaking an 8-Ball. “What would you like to ask it?”

He stroked his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. But when he spoke, the question was borderline serious. “Would Michelle still have been attracted to me if we first met at her office?”

Her lips parted as if she were taken aback by the question. Then she peered at the pretend glass window in the makeshift 8-Ball. “Without a doubt,” she said, and he watched her. The way she swallowed as if nervous. How her eyes stayed fixed on him. The clarity with which she spoke.

He ran his fingers across her wrist. “Would you have fought it?”

She let go of the pretend toy. “It is certain,” she said, giving another 8-Ball answer, but one that seemed truly serious.

“Then I’m glad we met the night before. I don’t know what I would have done sitting across from you in your office, trying to talk to you as my shrink when I want to do bad things to you,” he said, toying with the hem on her skirt.

“But you’re talking to me now as my lover, and I presume you’ll still do bad things to me later.”

“I will absolutely do them,” he said, then shifted gears because he liked getting to know her better. “Did you always want to be a shrink?”

“It was my fallback option.”

“What was your first choice?”

“I thought I wanted to be a Broadway star.”

“Yeah? What happened there?”

“Only three things got in the way of that dream. One—I can’t sing. Two—I can’t dance. Three—I can’t act,” she said and he cracked up, shaking from the laughter that rang through his body.

“That was really fucking funny,” he said through a wide smile, and he could hardly believe that this woman could make him think, make him laugh, and make him hard. She was a triple threat, and the more time he spent with her, the more time he wanted to spend with her.

“Why, thank you. I’ve been working on that for a while now. Decided to test it out on you.”

“So, let’s answer the question now. Have you always known you wanted to be a psychologist?”

Her lips curved up as if she were thinking of the answer. “I don’t think I had it on my list in high school. But I always liked helping. I think I always enjoyed being someone my friends could turn to for advice, even with simple things when I was younger like what to wear on the first day of school, and then when I was older on things like what to say to their parents when they got in trouble, or what should they do about this teacher, or that boy, or this problem.”

“You were a natural,” he said.

She shrugged, as if blowing off the compliment. “Maybe. But it wasn’t until my parents died, and I had a tough time of it for a while in college that I started to try therapy myself for a few months, to deal with all the residual sadness. It made a difference for me so I realized it was the perfect marriage for me professionally.”

“I bet you’re good at,” he said, stroking her collarbone absently. Her skin was so soft, and he loved touching her, loved the feel of her beneath his fingertips.

“You missed your chance. That ship has sailed for you, sir.”

“I can’t say I regret it. Because I like this arrangement we have going on.”

“Me too. Is the sex therapy working for you, Jack? Helping you heal that wounded heart?” she asked, tracing a heart shape on his chest. He tensed momentarily at the suggestion of why he was a damaged man. He almost wanted her to know the truth. That he wasn’t hurting; he was besieged by guilt. But they weren’t dredging up the past now. They were focused on the present.

“It’s working immensely,” he said, and that was true—he felt lighter, freer with her. “And you? Are we getting that guy out of the rearview mirror?”

She leaned closer, pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. “How could I think of anyone else while I’m sitting on your lap like this?”

“I like you on my lap,” he said, glancing down at her and the way her gorgeous body molded to his. How her ass felt on his thighs. How her back rested gently against his arms. How her legs felt draped on him.

“Funny, but you don’t really seem like a lap person,” she said, playing with the collar on his shirt, then his tie, running her fingers along it.