The Trouble with #9 by Piper Rayne
Iuncross and cross my legs when Maksim Petrov walks into my office. It’s a small space already, and he seems to fill it as soon as he enters, forcing me to control my breathing. Ever since New Year’s Eve when his lips were on mine, I’ve wondered if things would have turned out differently if I hadn’t found out minutes later that I was his new therapist and how much he hates my profession.
It was the fastest my libido has gone from thinking I’d chance a one-night stand with a hockey god to icing over because of what a condescending asshole he was. After that, he couldn’t have gotten in my pants with a crowbar.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t affect me or that our kiss didn’t either.
“We both know you’re not here to partake in therapy,” I say, my pen tapping on the pad of paper that rests on my lap from where I sit across from him. “Shall we play charades?”
He rests his ankle on his knee, his fingers tapping his calf. “How about you tell Gerhardt I came, participated, and then we can check that box?”
The “I came” phrasing from his lips makes me swallow hard. But I push aside my reaction. I need to remain professional.
Mr. Gerhardt is my best friend’s dad, and he’s the one who threw me this bone to help elevate my business. I’m a pretty new graduate, having received my doctorate only two years ago. It’s hard to start a practice. When he suggested I come counsel the Florida Fury, I jumped at the chance. But he was clear that I had to see every player.
Mr. Gerhardt also told me specifically to meet with Maksim because of his anger issues on the ice. Of course, a competitive fire is good when it comes to hockey, but sometimes Maksim takes protecting his teammates too far. He’s had a lot of suspensions and fines throughout his career, which Mr. Gerhardt wants to stop. But I know if I tell Maksim that, he’ll blow out of here and into Mr. Gerhardt’s office to confront him, so we’ll need to ease into this.
“I can’t do that. Mr. Gerhardt instructed me that he wants you and the rest of the players to attend at least three sessions now. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but those are the rules.”
His mouth drops open and his forehead wrinkles. “But Drake only has to do fifteen minutes?” He sighs. “Goddamn golden boy,” he murmurs under his breath.
“Well, Mr. Gerhardt did tell me Aiden got his game back recently.”
He nods. “He’s getting laid on the regular by a hot blonde.”
“What does one have to do with the other?” I ask.
“The blonde is his lucky charm.”
“Are you insinuating that sex is the reason for the improvement in his game?”
He lets out a deep, throaty laugh. “Sex does it for some guys. You’ve already counseled most of the team by now… I’m sure you’ve heard the tales on how it works differently for everyone.”
I shrug. A few have made comments to suggest as much, but the majority of the team have long-term girlfriends or wives. Some even have children. They tend to talk more about how to effectively juggle the different roles in their life. All Tweetie talked about was his girlfriend, Tedi. Or how he wants her to officially be his girlfriend but is afraid to ask. I had to bite down my smile at the big rough-and-tumble guy who’s afraid to ask the girl he’s been seeing to be exclusive.
“What about you? Do you think you need sex before games?” I tilt my head.
“Porn and a nap is just fine by me.” He looks up from his shoe and points at me. “You’re not getting me to talk.”
“Knowing your preference for porn is hardly delving into your psyche,” I deadpan. “You and every other man in America.”
“So do you wanna know what kind of porn I prefer?” His tone is challenging.
I poise my pen over the paper. It could tell me something about him, but nothing that will reveal why he thinks he has to be the enforcer on his team. Then again, maybe I’m wrong. “If you care to share. I’m here to listen.”
“Well, I like big tits and a nice ass. There has to be something to the woman.”
I feel heat accosting my cheeks. I didn’t think he’d actually tell me.
“How are you doing over there? Want a glass of water? An ice cube?” His mockery makes my blush disappear.
“I’m perfectly fine. Why don’t you prefer to have sex before a game? Superstition?”
“Nah. Before I found out who you were, I might’ve enjoyed a round or two with you before a game.”
I wiggle in my seat. He’s getting to me, and I’m fearful I’ll never make it through this appointment. “And exactly who am I?”
“A shrink. Someone who makes a living by making people believe something is wrong with them.”
My pen slips from my grasp, toppling to the floor. He bends down to retrieve it and hands it back to me. When our fingers brush during the exchange, goose bumps rush up my arm.
“I don’t make people believe anything is wrong with them.”
“Sure, you do. Like if I told you I was into BDSM or some shit, you’d probably dive in deeper, wondering why I’d want control or to hurt someone or be hurt myself.”
“I can’t deny that I would want to know why you were into that.”
“Maybe it’s just my kink and has nothing to do with a bad upbringing, or unresolved daddy issues, or being bullied in high school.” His raised eyebrow grates on my last nerve, but he’s doing this so I’ll kick him out of my office.
Instead, I smile sweetly, not taking the bait. “Perhaps. But it could be exactly what you just said. That’s why I went to school, to figure out whether that’s the case.”
He stares at me a beat. A beat too long because I squirm, and he smirks, knowing the effect he has on me. “It’s a shame, right?”
I clear my throat. “What is?”
“If you didn’t work for the team as a therapist, I might be able to relieve that ache you’re feeling between your thighs right now.”
I use every muscle in my jaw to not allow it to hang open. All while my panties grow wetter. He’s called me out and I hate that he’s right.
“Maybe we should talk about your ego,” I say.
He chuckles again. “It’s very much intact.”
“Exactly. Maybe there’s a reason for that.”
“Or maybe I’m confident in my skills. That kiss on New Year’s Eve was amazing. We’d be compatible in bed.”
“Sometimes you hockey players amaze me.”
His mouth opens in a dazzling smile—not with perfectly straight teeth, but alluring all the same. Just like his nose that’s slightly crooked, there’s something so appealing about his imperfections and how they all work together to make one insanely attractive man.
“Why?” he asks.
“The confidence. Surely at some point, you were a shy kid who wasn’t confident in his skills.”
He laughs and his gaze dips to my legs, then he changes the subject. “Do you wear a dress every day?”
“Most.” I’ve always been more of a dress person. Or a skirt and a blouse. Rarely do I wear pants.
“You don’t have any tights on either,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“Well, I’m not eight years old.”
His eyes meet mine, and those sparkling blues pour heat all over my body. He’s right to think we’d be compatible in bed. “Excuse me?”
“Girls wear tights. I would be wearing nylons.”
His gaze returns to my legs. “Regardless, you’re not wearing any.”
I shake my head. “No. Now—”
“So if I was to slide my hands up your legs right now, the only barrier for my hand touching your pussy is a thin pair of panties?”
I shift in my seat again, not sure how we got this off track. “We should stick to what you’re here for—therapy.”
“What color are they?”
“Maksim,” I plead, but my voice is breathless.
His smirk widens because he knows he’s getting to me. “Would you have?”
I set the pad of paper and pen on the edge of the table by my chair. “Would I have what?”
“Slept with me? Gone home with me on New Year’s Eve?”
I look around as if the answer is somewhere in this room. It’s not, but I know in my bones I would have. “I don’t know,” I lie. “I’m not really a one-night stand kind of girl.”
He nods a few times. “Who says I’m a one-night stand kind of guy?”
“You kissed me shortly after meeting me.”
“You’re making an assumption. Should a therapist really assume things about their client?”
I grab the pad and pen again. “Tell me then, Maksim… are you sexually promiscuous?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not looking for relations with every girl, but if it happens, it happens.”
It would have been easier for me if he were a womanizing manwhore. “That’s refreshing.”
“Answer my question. Would you have come home with me?”
I look him directly in the eyes. “We shouldn’t be talking about that. We’re therapist and patient now.”
“If you sign off on my slip, that part of this relationship could end.”
He’s so right and damn if I don’t want to see his head disappear under my dress. To feel one swipe of that filthy tongue I know he has along my center. But Mr. Gerhardt trusts me, and I can’t very well falsify records and still expect him to refer me out to people.
I clear my throat. It is long past time for me to get this session back under control. “Okay, enough, Mr. Petrov.” I glance at the clock and see we still have twenty minutes remaining. “Either we actually talk for the next twenty minutes, or this session doesn’t count.”
He relaxes back into the sofa and spreads his legs wide. “I’m Russian, only child, my parents are still married. What else do you want to know?”
“Why are you so rough on the ice?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I’m a hockey player.”
“Sure, but have you given any thought as to why you take it upon yourself to police other players for violations the refs miss, or even the ones players are already penalized for?”
He stares me dead in the eyes, his gaze intense. “I protect the ones I love.”
My stomach drops and not because I didn’t think that exact thing when I started watching tapes after Mr. Gerhardt told me his behavior needed correcting. My stomach drops because something rears up in me that wants him to protect me. I’d love those big arms around me, telling me everything is all right. That I won’t feel this lonely all my life.
