The Season To Sin

But my lines of deduction are now very blurry. As a therapist, I would have the ability to look beneath that arrogance and see what he’s trying to hide—to guess at what makes him tick. As a woman, I see only the arrogance and it’s sexy as all hell. I don’t want to push at it. I don’t want to guess what’s beneath him.

Professionally, that makes me redundant.

I make a soft groaning noise and dip my head forward, catching it in my hands.

‘I’m heading off. You need anything before I go?’ Beatrice steps into my office. ‘Are you okay?’

I nod, masking my doubts with ease for her. It’s only Noah who seems to have unstitched my defences, to have robbed me of my stock-in-trade ability to conceal my feelings and thoughts.

‘I’m fine. Thank you, Bea.’

My smile feels wooden, but hers is natural, as though nothing is wrong. As though everything is fine. She leaves and a moment later I hear the clicking of the outer door.

It’s Friday and that means I’m alone—no need to rush home. Ivy is spending the night with her grandmother—Aaron’s mother, not mine. It’s part of our agreement, one I didn’t have to enter into but felt would be best for Ivy. Aaron might be an A-grade asswipe, but that doesn’t mean his mother is. And it doesn’t mean Ivy should lose all connection with that side of the family—just because I never want to see him again.

I can smell you on my hand. Tomorrow I want to taste you.

My stomach swoops and I fix my gaze to the screen, forcing myself to skim through my patient notes as though I’m not falling apart at the seams.

An hour later and I can’t ignore the fact I’m disappointed.

Because he’s my kryptonite. I barely know Noah, but there’s something so indefinable about him. His cockiness and the haunted vulnerabilities I have glimpsed flash for a second before they are once again concealed beneath the surface. Far beneath the surface, out of my prying hands’ way.

He makes me raw and exposed with just a look. Should I run a mile? Away from him? Or to him? Should I pursue this? Do I dare?

‘You know, you frown when you’re concentrating.’

Jesus Christ! My heart slams into my ribs and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge. Survival skills I had thought long since discarded leap to the fore, making my body tremble with its adrenal response, my eyes naturally darting to the door for an escape.

But it’s not Aaron.

It’s okay. I’m safe.

No, I’m not safe. I’m in more danger than I’d realised because Noah Moore is in the sanctuary of my office, staring at me like he has every right, and I am speechless.

‘What are you doing here?’ Slowly my heart finds a different rhythm. Still far faster than it should beat, but for a different reason.

He’s wearing a suit.

A suit. All tailored and professional and smart-looking, but it’s Noah Moore and he’s as hot as ever. No, more so like this. The perfect contradiction.

He strolls towards me and places his hands on the edge of the desk, his body once more invading my personal space, his scent inviting me to breathe deeply. I do just that and see the quirk of his lips, like he knows what motivates me. It sobers me and I swallow, turning my gaze downwards.

‘What do you think I’m doing here?’ The words are drawled out slowly and they pour over my flesh like sun-warmed butter.

My heart skips a beat. ‘I don’t know,’ I hear myself murmur, wondering at the fact I’m still able to speak at all. ‘But, Noah, I have to talk to you. If you’re here for therapy, I need to tell you that I absolutely cannot see you again. Professionally, I mean—’ my cheeks flushing ‘—not after what happened. I’m a professional and I can’t treat someone who’s...who I’ve...’

‘Yes?’ he drawls.

‘I just can’t be your therapist, okay? I have to say that to you now, loud and clear. It’s a line I’m not prepared to cross.’

‘That’s good. Because I don’t want fucking therapy.’

There’s a dark edge to the words. They are honest and plainly spoken. I cannot misunderstand him, and yet I ask: ‘So what do you want?’

‘You.’

There is only the sound of my own breathing. Fast and sharp. He is watching me, waiting for me to speak, and I can’t. I fear I’m my own worst enemy. I cannot give in to this desire—not again! I don’t do this kind of thing. Do I?

‘Yesterday was a mistake.’ I say the words bluntly, hoping to avoid his perception that there’s any wriggle room. ‘As you obviously know, it’s been a long time since I was intimate with anyone and I...obviously...feel attracted to you.’ Heat simmers in my blood; embarrassment clips at my heels.

‘Why was it a mistake?’

I swallow. ‘Where to begin?’ I’m going for humour, but there’s nothing lighthearted in the way he’s looking at me. I stand up, reaching for my handbag, hiding the way my fingertips are shaking.