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do that, the vision of watching her touch herself is far more appealing than me helping her along.
    Her shallow breaths tell me she’s close, and as she unsteadily leans further back, needing to gain deeper access into the cavern of her body, I do the only thing a gentleman can do. I wrap a firm hand around her waist and anchor her so she can really reach her climax with no restrictions. The moment we make contact, she groans in the back of her throat and tosses her head back, her eyes shut tight. She extends one hand behind her, resting it on my desk for extra support, while the other never ceases from the frenzied movement inside her thong. Her hips pump forward violently as she almost attains her goal.
    It’s nearly too much, and I just about come in my pants like a pubescent teenage boy. But I refuse to look like an inexperienced child and blow my load just by watching Juliet touch herself. I dig deeper into her waist, my fingers betraying how turned on I am by watching this wicked sight before me, and my firm pressure sends Juliet wild. As her frantic rhythm becomes untamed and wild, she unexpectedly falls onto her back, as the hand supporting her slips out from under her.
    She’s now lying on her back on my desk, her legs dangling over the edge, while her fingers are recklessly coaxing her to come. As her back bows, she lets out a low growl and her body undulates as I watch her explode. It takes every ounce of self-control to not flip her over and make her mine.
    I’m not sure how long she lies sprawled out on my desk, breathless and totally spent. But I don’t attempt to make a single move, because watching this profound creature is akin to discovering a hidden treasure. I take her in, appreciating the way her lissome body comes down from its high, and I know I’m screwed. I’m utterly enchanted by Juliet Harte, and we haven’t even fucked.
    Juliet turns her head, looking at the clock above the mantel. With a sated sigh, she slowly slips down her dress. I try not to weep, as I preferred her barely clothed. Ever so slowly, she rises to full height, but remains seated, her legs hanging over the edge of my desk. She places one stilettoed foot between my parted legs, and rolls my chair toward her. Of course I don’t hesitate and allow her to draw me closer to her body, curious as to what comes next.
    My chest is pressed against her legs, and my eyes are now crotch level. My restraint really is commendable.
    “Thank you, Dr. Mathews,” she says, and leans forward, placing a single kiss on the corner of my mouth.
    Before I can even think of a response, she hops down from my desk and smoothes out her dress before taking a seat on the sofa. I stare, stunned, needing a second to process what the hell just happened. She just called me Dr. Mathews, therefore, does she expect our session to go on like nothing happened?
    As she reaches for her bag and pulls out a compact to check her reflection, I know that’s exactly what she expects.
    I just watched the hottest woman I have ever met come all over my desk, and now I’m expected to play the role of therapist, ignoring the fact my hard-on is about ready to blind anyone who walks through that door.
    This is seriously fucked up, and suddenly I think I might be the one in need of therapy.
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    W e never have drinks on a Monday. What with Finch’s daddy duties and Hunter’s shiatsu, it’s fair to say Mondays are usually off limits, but when Hunter called me and heard the disbelief in my voice after Ms. Harte’s session, he called an emergency catch-up, and that’s what brings us to now.
    If my day wasn’t uncomplicated enough, I’ve organized to meet up at The Pony Bar—Madison’s place of employment. Yup, I’m a masochist.
    “So, how’d it go?” Hunter asks, reaching for his beer, awaiting my bombshell.
    “Well…” I commence, lost for words. “Finch, do you want to block your ears?”
    Finch holds both hands up, shaking his head bravely. “No, give it to