The Professional Lover II (18+) | [Complete]

28 : Losing It

A/N: Welcome to my least favorite chapter. 

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His words make me go still. I grab his hand with both of mine, prying myself from his grasp and ask, "Daniel ... why did you call yourself that?"

He lets go of me and eases me from him. I look back as I stand and his expression is just as neutral as always. 

"Did I call you that in my messages?" I ask. He hums his assent while tracing his eyes over my body. "Well ... Does ... Does that upset you?"

"Of course not. I found everything you said ... intriguing," he says, the tone of his voice calm. 

"Everything I said?" What the fuck did I get myself into?

He doesn't respond when he stands. "Come with me," he says with an outstretched hand.

I relax only slightly when I take his hand and he begins leading me down the hall to his bedroom. When we stop at his extra room, my worry returns. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it. My curiosity is piqued until the door swings open.

Inside there is no furniture but a daybed and a desk-like, glass table. Much like his guest bedroom, everything is plain, white, and sterile. One wall is filled with the floor-to-ceiling windows shrouded in white drapes, the others fastidiously lined with framed scans of brains, and artistic images of naked bodies.

"Interesting décor," I try to make light. "You keep a bed in your office?"

"This isn't an office." He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me onto it beneath him.

He coaxes my arms above my head and leans down to place kisses against my neck. My body warms with the softness of his touch, but my nerves still win out. "What exactly did I say in my messages, Daniel?"

"Nothing really," he answers, peppering kisses along my clavicle as he speaks. "That you need a new car," a kiss, "that you hate your brother," another kiss, "and ..." he runs his tongue along my neck, "that your mother is dead." He sinks his teeth into my neck. 

I gasp with pain and surprise. Shit. "It's not what it sounds like." 

He leans up and starts to unbutton his shirt, his pants still unfastened and hanging low on his hips. "A medical student with a sick mother. Such a heartbreaking story," he coos. "You know how to get what you want. I can respect that."

My heartbeat quickens nervously. "I haven't been lying to you to get money out of you, I promise. Everything I told you is true, it's just ... not what I thought."

"I don't care. I just want to fuck you," he says, his tone neutral and calm. It doesn't exactly calm my nerves. "Do you know why I chose neurology a specialty?" he asks me.

"No. Why?"

He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside. "There is still so much we don't understand about the brain. It's capacity to let us feel, remember, create. Yet," he traces his hands down my sides and finishes, "we can still manipulate it to our will."