The waiting room is silent after hours. The usual shuffle of clients, the low murmur of conversations behind closed doors, all gone. Now, it’s just the faint smell of herbal tea and the ticking clock, marking the time I should have gone home.

But I’m still here.

So is he.

I hear him before I see him. Footsteps on the polished floor. Slow. Measured. Not the usual hurried pace of a clinician running behind schedule.

I pretend I’m working. Notes, reports — the usual things that keep me late. But when I look down, the screen’s dark, and the pen in my hand hasn’t moved in ages. I’m not working. I’m just waiting.

Waiting for what, exactly, I couldn’t tell you.

Until I catch the shadow moving past my door.
And after a moment, there’s a knock — two soft taps, like he’s unsure whether I’ll still be here, or if he even meant to knock at all.

I smooth the hem of my dress, just enough to remind myself where I am. Who I’m supposed to be here. Professional. Calm.
And then I open the door.

He stands there in the low light, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His eyes move to mine, then flick away.

“Just finishing up,” I say, as if that explains anything.

He nods once. “Same.”

But neither of us moves.

I step aside. “You can come in, if you want.”

He does. Slowly. As if crossing some invisible threshold.

I sit on the edge of the couch, the one I usually reserve for clients. The air feels different now. Warmer. More alert. He stands by the window for a moment, looking out into the darkened city, then turns back toward me.

“I always wonder what your office feels like at night,” he says, his voice quieter now.

I smile, feeling the space shift between us. “After hours, the masks come off.”

He doesn’t laugh, but something flickers in his expression.

He steps closer. Not quite close enough to touch, but I can feel the shift in the air between us. A charged stillness.

There’s a silence where we could both pull back. Let the moment pass. But neither of us fills it.

Instead, he raises a hand, not quite touching me, just hovering at my jaw, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. I don’t. I breathe. That’s all.

He lets his fingers brush the side of my neck, light and searching. His thumb traces the edge of my collarbone like a question. I answer by leaning in, just a little.

That’s enough.

His fingers tighten, not enough to hurt, just enough that I feel the weight of his hand, solid, grounding. His mouth finds mine a second later, hungry, deliberate, like he’s done thinking about whether he should.

The first kiss isn’t gentle. It’s searching. A little rough. Exactly what I’ve been holding back from.

I breathe into him, and he takes that too.

When his other hand finds my waist, I feel myself soften, body leaning into his without thinking. My hands move to his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt, just needing something to hold onto.

I can feel the tension in him. Like he’s still fighting the instinct to take more. Like he’s afraid I’ll stop him.

“I locked the door,” I whisper against his mouth. “You don’t have to keep holding back.”

That’s when his control slips.

His mouth claims mine again, deeper this time. His hand slides down, fingers splaying possessively at my hip. He pushes me gently back, guiding me onto the couch, settling between my legs.

My skirt rides up as he presses closer. I let it. I want him to feel how little I’m resisting.

When his hand finally slides up my thigh, skin to skin, I can’t help the sound I make, soft, involuntary, shamefully desperate. His fingers pause at the edge of my underwear, and I think I might lose my mind if he hesitates now.

But he doesn’t.

The first touch is slow. Teasing. Like he’s memorizing the way my body responds. He strokes me carefully, deliberately, just enough to drive me insane without giving me what I need.

I arch into him, voice catching. “Don’t make me beg.”

His breath hitches. I feel it, even as he finally slips his fingers beneath the lace, sliding into the heat of me, slow and firm. My body clenches around him automatically, and he swears under his breath low and rough, like he wasn’t prepared for how ready I am for him.

“You’re—” he starts, but stops. Like the words might ruin it.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him down until his mouth is against my neck.

“Just don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

His fingers slide deeper, slow but deliberate, and my body reacts without hesitation, tightening around him, pulling him in. He moves expertly, dragging each motion out until I feel my thighs trembling against his hips.

I gasp against his mouth, trying to muffle the sounds, but he feels the way I shake, the way my nails dig into his shoulders.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low against my skin.

“Please.”

I don’t even know what I’m asking for anymore. More. Faster. Anything. Just don’t stop.

His thumb finds the spot just above where he’s buried inside me, and when he circles there, slow, exact. I feel my whole body jolt, my back arching up off the couch, pressing my chest flush to his.

“Just like that.” My voice cracks. “God—don’t stop.”

I’m close. Too fast. I don’t even care.

His mouth captures mine again, swallowing every broken sound, every curse, as he pushes me higher, his fingers working me relentlessly now. His other hand cradles the back of my neck, anchoring me to him as my body begins to unravel.

I try to warn him. Try to tell him I’m right there, but my words fall apart.

When I come, it rips through me, hot, shaking, overwhelming. I cling to him, body convulsing around his fingers, my breath caught somewhere between a cry and a gasp. My whole world narrows to the pulse of pleasure radiating from his touch, wave after wave until I collapse against him, boneless, trembling.

He doesn’t move right away. Keeps his fingers inside me, gentle now, grounding me through the aftershocks. His mouth brushes along my jaw, softening, soothing, as if he’s reminding me it’s over.

But I don’t want space. Not yet.

I feel his breath at my ear. “You should’ve told me you needed that.”

I smile, still catching my breath. “I didn’t know how much.”

He finally withdraws his hand, slow and careful. I shiver when he does.

“I’ll remember that next time.” His tone is warm now. Confident. Certain there will be one.

He draws his hand back, slow, almost reverent. I’m still catching my breath, but already, something in me is shifting. The haze of pleasure clears just enough for something sharper to surface.

Desire, yes — but not just to feel.
To take.

He’s watching me now. Eyes dark. Waiting to see what I’ll do. Maybe expecting me to melt further into the couch, to let him gather me up and leave things right there. But he should know better.

I sit up slowly, legs still spread, skirt rucked indecently high on my thighs. I don’t adjust it. I want him to see me like this, flushed and open and I want him to know I’m not done.

His gaze drops to my mouth, like he’s waiting for instruction.

Good.

I reach for his belt. Steady. Unhurried. Not asking. Just claiming.

His breath stutters. “You don’t have to—”

I cut him off with a look. A quiet, unmistakable command.

He stays still. Good boy.

The belt comes loose with a quiet slide. The button, the zipper, he’s already hard, pressing against the fabric, and when I free him, the weight of it in my hand makes my mouth water.

I stroke him once, slow and steady. His hips twitch and his mouth drops open.

I lower myself to my knees in front of him,
when I take him in my mouth, I hear the way his breath shatters. One hand grips the edge of the couch for balance. The other hovers, like he wants to touch me, guide me, bury his fingers in my hair.

I take him deeper the second time, tongue curling, lips firm, setting the pace I want. He groans, low and rough. I know he’s fighting the urge to fuck into my mouth. Good. Let him ache for it.

I hollow my cheeks and watch his control start to fray. His thighs tighten. His jaw clenches.

“I’m close,” he warns, voice strained.

I hum around him — permission, encouragement, maybe even a challenge.

His breath breaks apart as he loses it, coming in hot pulses against my tongue. I take every drop, swallowing without flinching, not breaking eye contact as he falls apart.

He’s panting. Flushed. Beautiful like this, coming apart in the chair where others usually confess to me..

He’s still catching his breath, eyes wide like he’s not sure what just hit him. I give him a moment. Let him sit with it.

I take my time pulling on my jacket, smoothing the lapel. Composure is half the point.

I lean in close, my voice just a whisper and give him a wink.

“Plenty to reflect on. Professionally, of course.”

And then I step into the hallway, leaving him in my office and very much in his head.