Therapist and Patient: A Forbidden Professional Romance

I told my therapist about a man with careful hands. What I didn't tell him — the hands were his.

I've been Dr. Nathan Cole's patient for six months. I know the way he holds his pen between his index and middle finger. The half-register his voice drops after 4:30. The exact tilt of his head when I accidentally say something true.

I've catalogued him the way I catalogue paintings at the gallery where I work — obsessively, precisely, like studying a masterpiece I'm not allowed to touch.

Then I described a dream. Intentional hands. Every point of contact a sentence written on my skin.

His pen grip tightened. One second.

I counted.

The session was supposed to end at 4:50. It ended at 4:58. He never runs over. Not once in six months. Not for anyone.

He tried to refer me to another therapist. I said no.

The next session, he didn't sit across from me. He sat beside me. On the couch. And his hands stopped being careful.

He's risking his license. His career. Eight years of proving that intimacy can have rules.

I'm risking the only person who's ever looked at the brushstrokes instead of the painting.

Neither of us is stopping.

A forbidden therapist-patient romance for readers who like their boundaries broken and their intimacy earned. Explicit. HEA. Intended for mature readers (18+).