And that’s all the miles I have to put in as she flicks her cigarette to the ground with a sly grin. Reaching for the scruff of my shirt collar, she leads me around the corner and I make good on my promise.

It may be the best fifteen minutes of her life, but it’s the worst fifteen minutes of mine.

3

Angel of Sin

DIXON

Nobody likes Mondays—especially when you’ve had a shitty weekend. After jacking off in the shower—twice—you’d think my mood would have improved.

My weekend was strange. After boning the blonde on Friday night, I went home alone, which is no surprise, but oddly enough I was kind of disappointed. My number one cardinal rule is never, ever bring anyone home. My home is my sanctuary, it’s the one place where I can truly be myself, and I refuse to pollute that purity with my whoring ways. Also, I still see my home as ours. Lily is still ingrained into every crevice, and I can’t bring myself to taint the happy memories we once shared there.

But Friday night, I found myself wondering what it would be like to actually bring home a chick and fuck her in my bed, as opposed to screwing her up against a brick wall.

I’m a psychiatrist, so I know how the human mind works—most of the time. My need for comfort was triggered by the lovely Madison. Her innocence sung to me, and I haven’t felt that way for a long while. As brief as our encounter was, there was something there. Too bad I was too gutless to find out what that something was.

I felt fucking disgusting after consorting with the blonde, so for the rest of the weekend, I kept my nose clean and out of random chicks’ crotches. It was fairly boring on all accounts, but I feel somewhat unpolluted after my sexual abstinence for two whole days. That’s a long time for someone who uses sex as his shield.

“Dr. Mathews, your twelve-thirty appointment is here,” Ms. Vale says through the intercom on my phone.

Her singsong voice jars me out of my rut, and I clear my voice before replying, “Send her in.”

Pulling up my new patient information sheet on my laptop, I begin entering Ms. Juliet Harte’s details into my computer.

Age: 26

Gender: Female

Address: 18 Union Square West, New York

Problem: Sex Addiction

Oh boy.

“Dr. Mathews?” asks a soft, velvety voice, which has my dick standing in direct salute.

Raising my eyes from the screen, I see that Ms. Juliet Harte is complete perfection wrapped in pure sin.

Her long blonde hair is wrapped into a twist, and strands fall around her face, drawing attention to her “come fuck me” blue eyes. The sexiest lips I have ever seen are coated in a clear gloss, and images of what those lips could do to me have me subtly rearranging myself in my seat.

My newfound celibacy has just mentally motorboated Juliet’s perfect breasts. However, putting my game face on, I give her a small smile and gesture to the leather chair in front of my desk. “Please take a seat.”

She nods and saunters over, making sure to straighten out her cream tunic dress before taking a graceful seat.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Harte,” I say with a nod, getting the formalities out of the way.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Mathews,” she replies, her eyes focusing intently on me.

I see no fear or apprehension behind her poised gaze, and her self-confidence is an absolute turn-on. But I have a job to do.

“So today, we’ll mainly be discussing your history. Think of this as ‘a getting to know you’ session. In order to properly evaluate you, I need you to trust me. In no way will you be judged or condemned for your thoughts. No matter how perverse or wrong your thoughts may be, I need you to be totally honest with me. Do you think you can do that?” I ask with a smile.

Juliet nods. “Yes, I want to get better. I’ll do anything it takes.”

“Good,” I commend. “How about we take a seat on the sofa where we’ll both be more comfortable.”

Juliet’s mouth tips up into a secretive smile, but I ignore it as I reach for my notepad and make my way to the leather recliner. My eyes flick to the clock on my mantel, and I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get through an hour session with this vixen, talking about her sex addiction, without ripping her clothes off.

Clearing my throat, I try not to stare as she takes a seat on the black leather sofa. As she slowly crosses her long legs, images of her black skyscraper heels digging into my ass while I fuck her up against my office wall assault my brain, and I barely suppress my moan at the erotic vision.

“So, what brings you here today, Ms. Harte?”

Juliet shifts in her seat, the leather creaking under her sinful ass as she replies, “I have a problem.”

I nod, encouraging her to go on.

“An addiction, I guess you could call it.” She pauses, lowering her eyes.

I wait for her to continue, as I will try my hardest to act professional.

As she meets my gaze, she huskily whispers, “I’m addicted…to sex.”

Those glorious words coming out of her mouth is what every hot-blooded American male wants to hear, but I appear unaffected as I ask, “How long have you felt this way?”

“For a while now.”

“How long roughly?” I press, my pen poised over my notepad.

“For about two years,” she discloses, her composure never wavering as I write down her secrets.

“I would like to talk about your personal life, Ms. Harte, would that be okay?”

She nods.

“Did anything happen around that time? Anything that may have caused this behavior change?”

I can see her mulling over my question. “Well, there was this one thing,” she states, and I remain impassive, allowing her to continue. “It was the first time I had sex with a girl. Does this mean I’m bisexual? Or gay?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“I don’t like to categorize sexuality, Ms. Harte,” I reply, pressing the notepad over my looming erection. “How did being with a woman make you feel?”

“I liked it. A lot,” she confesses. “There are some things men cannot provide in the bedroom.”

“And what’s that?”

“Being with a woman, it’s soft and familiar. They provide that gentleness and comfort a man doesn’t usually offer. The way a woman touches another woman’s body, exploring the soft curves and supple planes, it really is beautiful. But being with a man, it’s rough and raw. The way a man eats you out, compared to the way a woman does, is completely different. A man wants to devour his meal, while us ladies, we want to take our time and savor the taste,” she explains, her pink tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.

If my erection got any harder, I’d be able to pound nails into the wall. I know I have to steer this conversation into another direction before I show her not all men are barbarians, and we too, like to savor our meals.

“So apart from this event, did anything else happen? How’s your family life? Work? Social life?”

Juliet’s composure doesn’t shift, and she happily answers, “It’s all good. I live by myself in an apartment Daddy bought me. He’s an investment banker, and well, we’re quite well off. My mother passed away when I was seven, so I don’t really remember her. Daddy got remarried to Rachel, and Rachel treated me like I was hers. She has two children of her own, and they are both nice people.”

“Are they older? Younger? What’s your relationship like with them?”

“One older, one younger, and I love…both of them.” I don’t fail to notice the apprehension in her strained admission.

“What do you do for work?” I question, writing down her stepsiblings as a possible cause for her addiction.