Therapy Isn’t Supposed to Feel Like Foreplay

There was something wrong with the way he looked at me.

Not lustful. Not judgmental. Not even curious.

Just… steady.

Like he’d already got me open and was just waiting for me to admit it.

I sat back in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. That didn’t happen often.

Most of the time, I wore discomfort like lingerie—tight, revealing, and a little daring. I liked being stared at. I liked making men shift in their seats, feel hot under the collar, trip over their words.

But Dr. Lane Carter didn’t shift. Didn’t fumble. Didn’t even blink at my crossed legs or the curve of my shirt.

It pissed me off.

“I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed like I’m some damaged little girl,” I said flatly.

“You are being psychoanalyzed,” he replied, calm as ever. “And you’re not a little girl. You're a woman who uses sex to hide her insecurities.”

I laughed under my breath. “You say that like you’ve read my diary.”

“No. I read your file.”

“Was it juicy?”

“Disturbing, actually.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You trying to insult me now, Doctor?”

He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands. “I’m trying to get you to drop the act.”

“What act?”

“The one where you pretend none of this bothers you.”

I tilted my head, smiling, even as something in my chest tightened. “Who says it does?”

He didn't answer that. Just stared. That same frustrating, disarming stare.

Like he was trying to see the version of me that didn’t use her mouth to silence the chaos inside.

“I get it,” I said after a moment. “You think you’re going to fix me by staring into my soul and using big words.”

“No,” he said again. “I’m going to listen. And if you ever decide to speak honestly, I’ll help you understand why you can’t stop giving yourself to people who don’t deserve you.”

His voice was steady, low, but every word hit like a nail through bone.

I didn’t flinch. But I wanted to.

“People like you?” I asked, arching a brow.

He met my gaze without hesitation. “I’m not here to touch you, Amelia. I’m here to help you.”

I swallowed.

Hard.

Because no one had ever said that to me before.

Not see me. Not fix me.

Help me.

I didn’t know what to do with that. So I did what I always did—I shifted my tone. Smirked. Gave him a little tilt of the head that usually made men go soft in the brain and hard in the pants.

“You say that now,” I murmured, “but eventually you’ll get curious.”

“About what?”

“How I taste.”

He didn’t even blink.

“Amelia,” he said, voice sharp now, cutting through the heat in the room like a blade. “You’re not here to seduce me.”

I leaned back, shrugging. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to survive the heat of the moment.”

“That’s your survival?” he asked. “Turning therapy into foreplay?”

I smiled sweetly. “If the shoe fits.”

There was a pause. Thick. Tense.

“You’ve had how many partners in the last year?” he asked suddenly.

I shrugged. “I stopped counting after thirty.”

“Men or women?”

“Mostly men. But a few women, yeah.”

“And did any of them make you feel… satisfied?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

Because the answer was too ugly to say out loud.

Instead, I looked away. “Satisfied enough.”

He nodded, like he expected that.

“Let me rephrase,” he said. “Did any of them make you feel seen?”

That made my throat go tight.

“Does that matter?”

“It does if you want to stop.”

I blinked. “Who said I want to stop?”

“No one,” he replied, writing something down in his notebook. “But I think a part of you is tired.”

I said nothing.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

My body wasn’t tired. It craved more, always more—touch, heat, fuck, surrender. But my mind? My heart?

Yeah. That part was exhausted.

He closed the file. “We’re done for today.”

I blinked. “That’s it?”

“It’s a start.”

He stood, walked to the door, and opened it for me like this wasn’t the weirdest hour of my life.

As I passed him, his voice followed me.

“Next time, wear something comfortable. You don’t need to dress up for me.”

I paused.

Slowly turned.

“Who says this was for you?”

He just gave a small nod, not smug. Not amused.

Just... knowing.

And it infuriated me.

I barely slept that night.

His voice looped in my head, soft and cutting.

“You use sex to fill up your insecurities.”

I hated how much that line clung to my skin.

Worse, I hated how he didn’t want me.

Most men—hell, most therapists—would’ve taken one look at me and lost professionalism within ten minutes. They wouldn’t say it. But I’d see it in their eyes.

That flicker of temptation.

That hunger.

But not him.

He looked at me like he was dissecting me from the inside out.

And I didn’t know whether I wanted to kiss him or claw his throat open.

The next session, I showed up in sweats. Hair pulled back. No makeup.

His reaction?

Nothing. Not a flicker.

“Good,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Now we can talk.”

I hated that I kind of liked hearing that.

“You’re very sure of yourself, Doctor Carter.”

“I’m sure of patterns. And yours are obvious.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. You test people. You seduce them, then reject them once they want you. Or you use them to prove a point. that you’re too far gone to be worth saving.”

I opened my mouth, something cruel on my tongue—but nothing came out.

“Did I strike a nerve?” he asked, still calm.

I stared at him.

And for the first time in any session, I felt my eyes sting.

But I didn’t cry.

I never cried.

“I think you’re dangerous,” I whispered instead.

He nodded slowly. “And I think you’re afraid of being wanted for the wrong reasons.”

I leaned forward, voice shaking with a heat I couldn’t explain. “You don’t get it, do you? I need it. I need the high. The touch. The rush. I need to be filled until I forget I exist.”

“And when it’s over?” he asked. “When they leave—how long does it take before you feel empty again?”

I clenched my jaw.

Because we both knew the answer.

“Less than a minute.”

He nodded. “That’s not desire. That’s pain in disguise.”

I stood suddenly. Couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t sit still while he stripped me down with words.

But before I could leave, his voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Amelia.”

I turned.

And he said it—quiet. Direct. Dangerous.

“What would you do if I did want you?”