Your Eyes Undress Me

There’s something about the way he watches me.

Not like he’s checking me out. That would be too easy.

No—he dissects me.

Layer by layer. Thought by thought. He doesn’t look at my lips when I talk or my legs when I cross them. He looks through me, like he’s trying to see the reason my body twitches before I lie or why my voice always sounds a little too confident when I’m about to fall apart.

It’s exhausting.

And, for reasons I don’t like admitting, I crave it.

I crave him.

Which is ironic, considering this whole thing was supposed to cure me of cravings.

“You’re early,” Dr. Carter said as I stepped into the office, the clock barely ticking past 4:54.

I shrugged, throwing myself onto the couch like I owned it. “I figured you’d want time to mentally prepare for my bullshit.”

“No preparation needed.” He sat down across from me, perfectly composed. “I like honesty. Even when it smells like gasoline.”

That earned him a smirk. “So I’m flammable now?”

“You’re combustible,” he said. “The difference is in the control.”

Jesus Christ.

The way he talks—it should be illegal. Smooth, sharp, and always so damn calm. Like he could take your clothes off just by describing how they should fall.

I shifted, suddenly aware of how my hoodie hugged my chest today. No makeup, no cute outfits—just me. Stripped-down. And still... burning.

“Do you always flirt like this with your clients?” I asked, teasing.

“I don’t flirt.”

I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes. “Are you sure? Because the way you look at me says otherwise.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t deny it either.

Instead, he reached for his notepad and wrote something down.

I hated that.

“Do I get to see what you write?” I asked.

“No.”

“Not even a hint?”

He paused, then said without looking up, “I wrote. ‘Patient deflects discomfort with seduction. Attempts to regain control through sexual tension.’”

I sucked in a slow breath.

“Well,” I muttered. “That’s not sexy at all.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

My legs uncrossed and re-crossed, slower this time, not for show but because I needed to move. To feel something.

Anything.

“Do you think I’m disgusting?” I asked suddenly.

That caught him off guard. Barely. But I saw it—the shift in his eyes, like I’d finally said something real.

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not.” He leaned forward. “But I do think you’ve convinced yourself you are, and now you’re addicted to proving it.”

I laughed, but it came out hollow. “So I’m just playing the role now?”

“You’re acting like someone who’s only worth the pleasure she can give.”

I stared at him, jaw tight.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, “when was the last time you had sex and actually felt something after?”

Silence.

Just that damn ticking clock again.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I usually leave before the after.”

He nodded slowly. “And how often do you stay with yourself?”

I blinked. “What?”

“When the room is empty. When the lights are off. When no one’s there to validate your existence with hands or moans or breath—what do you do?”

I laughed again, but this time it was ugly. Raw.

“I smoke. Or scroll. Or... shower.”

“And in the silence?”

I met his eyes. “I avoid it.”

He didn’t write that down.

He just sat there, letting the truth stain the space between us like spilled wine.

The session dragged and flew at the same time—twisting me open slowly, one question at a time. Not through lectures. Not through pity. Just through the unbearable stillness of someone actually listening.

And when I left, I felt like my skin didn’t fit right anymore. Like I’d shed something, but not fully. Not enough.

That night, I masturbated so hard, with the light off and cried when I cum .

Not because it felt good.

Because I finally realized how much I needed to feel wanted by someone who wouldn’t leave.

The next session, I showed up in ripped jeans and a white tank top. Hair wild. No armor.

He glanced at me, then back at his notes. No reaction.

Good.

I think.

“Did you touch yourself after our last session?” he asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather.

My mouth opened. Closed.

Heat crawled up my neck.

“Wow. We’re jumping right in today, huh?”

“Answer the question.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I did.”

He nodded. “Why?”

“Because I was thinking about what you said.”

“Which part?”

“That I use sex to disapear.”

He tilted his head. “And did it help?”

“No,” I admitted. “It made me feel more alone.”

“That’s progress.”

I rolled my eyes. “It feels like hell.”

“Sometimes healing does.”

I stared at the books behind his head. I wanted to throw them. Or read every one.

“I don’t know how to be normal,” I whispered.

“You’re not here to be normal,” he said. “You’re here to be free.”

Something broke inside me. Not loudly. Quietly. Like a whisper in my ribs that said maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t doomed.

“Do you think I’ll ever be okay?” I asked, voice small.

He looked at me.

And said, “Only if you stop measuring your worth by who wants you naked.”

The tears hit before I could stop them.

Silent.

Burning.

He handed me a tissue.

No pity.

No softness.

Just presence.

And that was worse.

Because I realized then that I didn’t want to fuck him.

Not really.

I wanted him to hold me and not ask for anything back.

And that scared the shit out of me.

As I walked toward the door, something made me pause.

I turned, breath caught halfway in my throat.

“Do you want me?” I asked, voice almost a whisper.

He stared at me.

Long.

Hard.

And finally said, “That’s not the question you should be asking.