Beneath His Touch

Chapter Thirteen

JAVAN.

I stand frozen before the entrance, the weight of hesitation pressing down on me like a vice. The thought of stepping into this place—this psychiatric office—feels surreal, like I'm teetering on the edge of a precipice I never thought I'd face. For four years, since my first days as a freshman, I've stayed clear of these doors. Javan Jay—JJ, the guy who never backs down—what the hell am I doing here?

I glare at the nameplate.

Miss Jackline Zuri: Guidance and Counseling.

I let out a sharp breath, frustration boiling beneath the surface. Why the hell did I think this was a good idea? My instincts scream to turn around, get the hell out of here before I end up regretting it. This isn't me. Not this office, not this—whatever the hell this is.

"Javan."

The voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts, soft and sweet, but with an edge that pulls me back. I turn, eyes landing on her. A tall, striking figure, her brown skin smooth and glowing under the hallway lights. Her blouse, tight against her slender frame, hints at curves with just the right amount of professionalism. But the blue bra peeking through? Yeah, that's a bold statement. Her mini-skirt clings to her hips like a second skin, and those stilettos? Black, polished, and sharp enough to leave an impression.

She's got a face that could stop traffic—painted lips, high cheekbones, and those red-framed glasses that sit perfectly on her nose. There's a glint in her eyes like she's in on some secret the rest of the world isn't privy to. No wonder guys are practically glued to her office. She doesn't look like any guidance counselor I've ever seen. Man, she looked like those porn doctors. Just staring at her and am already tempted to push her back in, forgetting all that brought me here as I take her fast and hard.

"Java, right?" She flashes a seductive smile, the kind that suggests she knows exactly how much power she holds.

I raise a brow, still trying to process how the hell she knows me. "Yeah," I mutter, a bit thrown off. "How do you know my name?"

Her smile widens, eyes dancing with amusement. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her crisp white coat, looking every bit like she owns the room. "You're famous around here, Javan," she replies, her voice low, almost teasing. "Your name's come up once or twice in my sessions."

I rub the back of my neck, a strange mixture of pride and discomfort settling in. "Is that so?"

She steps closer, her gaze never wavering. "Would you like to come in?"

The question catches me off guard. "Come in?" I repeat, blinking.

"You look like you've got a lot on your mind," she says smoothly, her voice like silk. "It's okay if you want to talk. That's what I'm here for."

I exhale slowly, my resolve weakening. "You think it'll help?" I ask, the uncertainty creeping into my voice.

She lets out a soft, melodic laugh. "It does for most people," she says, her eyes sparkling as if she's already seen through me.

Her office is immaculate, a pristine white space that feels more like a high-end lounge than a place for emotional unraveling. Charts line the walls, some anatomical, others motivational, all clinical yet artfully arranged. A skeletal model looms in the corner like a silent guardian. Her desk, meticulously organized, boasts gleaming awards and certificates. A long, plush white sofa sits to one side, flanked by two matching chairs that practically beg you to sit down and unload your soul.

"Please, have a seat," she offers her voice smooth and inviting as she gestures to the sofa. She settles into her chair with practiced grace, pulling out a leather-bound journal and pen, ready to peel back the layers.