Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Eighty-Six

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One Week Later...

Friday

My bare foot taps against the floor uncontrollably. My toes rise and fall against the anchor of my heel in rapid successions, as if they're battery-operated.

My arms have become so tense that I think they might snap right off my shoulders at the slightest motion, so I keep them crossed over my chest and stare at the old, washed-out duffel bag in silent resignation.

"Ugh!"

I've been at this practically all day and I still haven't made any progress. Not even a little bit.

Jesus, why am I overthinking this so much?

Because you've never had to pack to spend an entire weekend at a man's house before—a man who's pretty much promised to fuck your brains out while you're there, no less. Duh!

God, I'm going to pass out.

Scratch that.

First, I'm going to hyperventilate, then choke on my own spit, and then pass out.

I'm trying to breathe normally, but normal is the furthest thing from what I feel. I start to shake again, my skin vibrating with a level of anxiety I've never felt before. But I guess all my agitation is not without good reason.

Today is the day.

I can't believe it's happening; my first session with Frost.

God, I don't know if I can go through with this.

I start pacing around my room as my legs grow restless yet again, growing more and more anxious with each manic step. I've lost count of how many times my feet have made their way across the narrow carpet and back again.

Fuck! Why the hell did I agree to this? I scold myself for the millionth time. But I don't even know why I bother.

I know damn well why I did it; why I agreed to do something as low as whore myself out to a married man.

Something cold and slithery creeps up my spine, spreading through the rest of my body. I quickly become this walking bundle of extreme jitters and overactive nerves.

And for the first time since this whole fiasco began, like a punch in the face, it occurs to me:

I...I might actually be terrible at sex.

I mean, I only have one, lone experience to go on that I can barely even remember because I was stoned the entire time.

Oh, my God...

What if I really am? Like, what if I suck so badly that he refuses to pay me? What then? I'd have fucked a married man—and done a piss poor job at it, too—thrown away all of my dignity, and disgraced my deceased mother for absolutely nothing?

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

The more I think about it, the more I freak out. Why the hell didn't I think about this before now? Fuck! What am I going to do?

Just pretend you know what you're doing, a calming voice in my head whispers.

I try to listen to that voice instead of the fear and self-doubt looming heavily over my head like a stupid grey cloud that won't go away.