My sexual Addiction

I knew he wouldn’t be the last.

He wasn’t even the second that week.

But when the janitor opened the door to the Dean’s private office and saw me kneeling in front of his assistant, lips wrapped around a man's dick whose name I couldn’t remember, I finally realized this one would cost me.

The man zipped his pants like nothing happened.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand like I’d just finished eating lunch.

The janitor dropped his keys, face pale, then muttered something in Spanish and backed out. A second later, I heard his footsteps sprinting down the hall way. Fast. Like he was scared of what he just saw.

I stood up slowly, pulling my skirt down even though it was already too short to begin with. I could still taste him in my throat. It didn’t even make me feel dirty.

Not anymore.

“Was it good for you?” I asked him—Assistant Guy—with a smirk.

He blinked, clearly not used to a woman speaking like that after something like... that.

I didn’t care.

He looked at me like I was broken.

I guess I was.

But broken things still worked. I still worked.

That’s the thing no one tells you—when you’re addicted to sex, it doesn’t always look like moaning and lipstick stains. Sometimes it looks like boredom. Like numbness. Like chasing something just to feel a flicker of heat under your skin.

And I was always cold.

I walked out of the Dean’s office like it was nothing. Head high. Eyes forward.

I didn’t even make it to the stairs before campus security caught up with me.

Thirty minutes later, I was in the Dean’s actual office this time, sitting in a cold chair across from a man who looked like he’d aged ten years since the first time we met freshman year.

He didn’t look mad. Just tired.

Like he didn’t know what to do with me anymore.

“Amelia,” he said, exhaling deeply. “This is the third... no, fourth time we’ve had a sexual conduct complaint involving you.”

“Fifth,” I corrected.

His eyes flicked up.

“I’m not proud of it,” I added. “I’m just not gonna lie to you.”

He leaned back in his chair, staring at me. I stared back.

“Why?” he asked.

That was the thing everyone wanted to know. Why?

Why did I do it?

Why couldn’t I stop?

I opened my mouth to say something sarcastic, maybe to deflect. But for once, the words didn’t come.

Because the truth?

I didn’t know.

I just knew that I couldn’t sit still in my own skin unless someone was touching me.

I couldn’t feel alive unless I was fucked.

“You’ve been officially suspended from all classes until further notice,” he said. “You’re not expelled—yet—but the board is requiring a psychological evaluation. Weekly therapy. Sexual addiction counseling.”

I laughed. “Is that a thing? Real therapy for sex addicts?”

He didn’t answer.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go. Talk about my daddy issues or whatever makes you feel better.”

He handed me a paper with an address.

“You start tomorrow. 5 PM. Don’t be late.”

I didn’t plan to take it seriously.

I didn’t plan to take him seriously either.

That was before I met him.

The building was quiet. No receptionist. Just a black leather couch in the waiting room, a ticking wall clock, and a faint smell of leather and something woodsy—cedar, maybe.

I was five minutes early. That was a first.

I sat down, crossed my legs, and checked my lip gloss.

The door opened exactly at five.

And when I looked up, I felt something shift in my chest.

He wasn’t what I expected.

No gray-haired counselor with glasses and a voice like warm tea. No awkward grad student fresh out of school.

No.

He was tall. Dark-haired. Built like he lifted for release, not aesthetics. Sharp jawline. Dark button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves. Veins visible on his forearms.

And his eyes—gray, calm, unreadable—landed on me like they’d already undressed me.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

Just said, “Amelia Cross?”

I swallowed.

“Yeah.”

He stepped aside. “Come in.”

His voice was calm. Deep. Like he didn’t get surprised often.

I followed him in, suddenly hyper-aware of how tight my clothes were.

The room was clean. Minimal. One desk. Two chairs. A shelf of books. A lamp.

He sat across from me. Legs spread. One ankle resting on the opposite knee. Relaxed. Dominant. Completely unfazed.

“I’m Dr. Lane Carter,” he said. “Licensed trauma counselor. You’ll be seeing me once a week until your review board decides otherwise.”

I nodded slowly. He didn’t offer a handshake.

He flipped open a file. “You’ve been reported for multiple sexual encounters on university grounds.”

I smirked. “That’s one way to put it.”

He glanced up. “You think it’s funny?”

“No,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “I think it’s true.”

We stared at each other.

He was the first man in months who didn’t look at my body first.

And it irritated me.

Turned me on.

Confused me.

I licked my bottom lip slowly, watching his eyes for a reaction.

Nothing.

That was new.

“So,” I said, crossing one leg over the other. “How do you plan to fix me, Doctor?”

“I don’t,” he said calmly. “I’m not here to fix you, Amelia. I’m here to help you understand what you’re running from when you unzip your skirt.”

I stared at him.

That sentence... it hit harder than anything ever had.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a comeback.

He leaned back, writing something on a notepad.

But all I could think was—

God help me... I might be tripping for this man.