All Chapters of Craving Forbidden Pleasures : Chapter 291 - Chapter 300

Evelyn had never dressed for therapy before.Last week she’d shown up in jeans and a loose sweater, barely presentable. This time, though, she caught herself lingering in front of the mirror. The soft blouse she chose was almost too sheer, and the skirt a touch too fitted for comfort. She told herself it didn’t matter—no one cared what she wore to therapy. And yet when she applied a sweep of lipstick before leaving, her hands shook with a shameful thrill she couldn’t name.It wasn’t for her. It wasn’t even for healing.It was for him.When she entered his office, Dr. Cole looked up from his notes, and for a heartbeat she swore she saw it—a flicker of appreciation in his eyes before his professional mask settled back in place.“You came back,” he said, as though it were an achievement.“Yes,” she murmured.“Good. Sit.”Again, it wasn’t an invitation. It was an order. And again, she obeyed.This time, instead of sitting across from her, he moved his chair closer. Their knees almost brus

Evelyn hadn’t stopped thinking about him.The shower ritual had consumed her nights—steam wrapping her body, hands gliding over trembling skin as she whispered his name like a prayer. Shame curled hot in her belly, but so did something else, something that felt dangerously close to hunger.By the time her next session arrived, she was raw with anticipation.“Evelyn,” Dr. Cole greeted as she entered, his eyes raking over her with deliberate calm. He noticed everything—the way her blouse clung to her skin, the nervous wetness of her lips, the tremor in her hands.“You’ve been practicing,” he said.She flushed. “Yes, Dr. Cole.”His gaze sharpened, satisfaction flickering across his features. “Good girl. Sit.”She lowered herself into the chair, pulse already racing.“Tell me,” he began, “how did the exercise feel?”Her cheeks burned. “Strange. At first. But then… different. Like my body wasn’t only mine anymore.”His lips curved faintly. “And how did that feel?”She swallowed. “Safe. Wan

He guided her hand upward until it rested against her own throat. “You hold the boundary,” he told her. “Not me.”Her fingers trembled over her skin, learning the shape of her breath.“Do you trust yourself?”She hesitated, then nodded. “I think so.”“Good. Then trust me.”He stepped close enough that she could sense the heat from his body. Their breaths tangled in the air, rising and falling together. It wasn’t a kiss, not yet, but it carried the same charge—the promise of collision held in restraint.“Breathe,” he said again, quieter now, as if the command was also a plea.She obeyed. The rhythm built between them, fragile and steady. With each breath she felt a thread tighten from her heart to his, invisible and irrevocable.The edges of the world blurred. There was only warmth, breath, and the faint scent of cedar. When he finally withdrew his hands, she swayed, as if the room itself had moved.“Open your eyes.”She did. His expression was unreadable—something fierce he

The silence between them thickened until it became touch itself—every exhale brushing against skin, every heartbeat answering the other. She could feel how close he was without looking. The space buzzed, charged. “Breathe,” he whispered. “Just breathe.” She did, but the air no longer obeyed the rules. Each inhale drew him closer. Each exhale erased a little more distance. When his hand finally rose toward her face, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t move at all. The edge of his finger traced the line of her jaw, stopping just short of her lips. The restraint was almost unbearable. “Tell me to stop,” he said. Her mind screamed the word; her voice didn’t. The part of her that remembered fear was suddenly quiet. The part that remembered wanting spoke louder. He exhaled once—sharply, as if fighting himself—and then the spell broke. He withdrew his hand, stood, turned away. The sound of his breath filled the room, rough around the edges. “That,” he said, “was the line.” She couldn’

She didn’t expect a reply so late, but it came within minutes. Healing requires honesty, Evelyn. Craving is the body’s way of avoiding truth. We’ll talk at your next session.There was no warmth in it, yet the sight of his name on her screen made her pulse quicken. She almost answered, almost asked What truth?, but she stopped herself.Instead, she sat in silence, the glow of her phone lighting her face, until the words blurred.The next day, she caught herself scrolling through his professional website, reading his biography as though it might offer clues. His credentials, his published articles, the list of speaking engagements—all precise, distant, immaculate. Yet between the lines, she imagined the man behind them: the tone of his voice, the shadow of his smile, the way his presence filled a room.It was not love. She knew that. Love asked, offered, gave. This was need—a consuming gravity that turned her into orbit.That night she tried one of his grounding exercises on her own.