Matchweek Three: Liverpool vs. Arsenal

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Trent's pov 

Instead of staying at home and watching the weekend's Premier League fixtures, I went out to my therapist's office. I've realised that sleeping with different women is not going to help, I figured that sleeping with one woman that knows my story might. It just so happened that the only woman that knows my story is my dear therapist, Miss Witmoore.

I sit comfortably on the leather chairs in the reception area, my mind wandering off to all the things I can do with Miss Witmoore. I don't know if she will agree with what I have come up with. I have to convince her before I can even think about sex. Hopefully, I still have all of my charm and it won't be hard to get her in bed.

For a minute I thought that she might not be in on a Sunday, but I managed to phone ahead and book an appointment. Miss Witmoore looks young so it surprised me that she has nothing better to do than come to work. Right now I have better things to do than watching the sport I play, and it also includes a workout.

She emerges from the top of the stairs in a light blue dress that ends mid-thigh. The front of the dress is hanging dangerously low but not low enough to show her cleavage. It leaves the perfect amount to the imagination. I've noticed how beautiful she is; I would be blind if I didn't. I don't even feel guilty for checking her out, even though I do when I look at women that are not Miss Witmoore. Everything about her is so captivating. Her platinum blonde hair is in loose curls and hanging just past her shoulders. The wind picks up and the skirt of her dress flies up, revealing a little of her thighs, as well as blowing her hair back a bit-

"Trent."

I snap out of my daze and my eyes snap to hers. Her cheeks are tinted in a dark pink and she nervously nibbles her bottom lip as she calls me. I realise she has caught me checking her out. Normally that would be a bad thing, but judging by her reaction, she doesn't look creeped out. I would be blushing too if my skin wasn't tanned.

"Yes, Miss Witmoore?" I ask, standing up and adjusting my pants.

"I think it's only fair that you call me Samara since I call you Trent," she smiles brightly, gesturing for me to follow her.

I follow her up to her office. It looks just it did when I was last here, only it's brighter since I'm here earlier than the last time. She pulls out the familiar manila folder from the bookshelf and I can only wonder what she will write in there if everything goes as I planned. I can't seem to keep my eyes off her thick thighs as she flips through the folder before grabbing her notebook and pen. She sits across me on the single armchair, crossing her legs elegantly. It amazes me how she is so gorgeous yet so simple. She barely has any makeup on and yet she can take my breath away.

"Why'd you decide to schedule an appointment early?" She asks me, fiddling with the pen in her fingers.

"Well, I've been thinking about this whole therapy thing. It is your job to help me feel better, no?" I ask with a small smile growing on my face.

Her eyebrows scrunch and I can imagine that she is thinking of a reason as to why I am asking her this. I don't want to force her into doing this; I want her to do it willingly.

"Yes, it's my job to make you feel better on a psychological level," she adds, and I feel it's just to make a point.

My face drops for a second but I manage to recover.

"What if something physical helps me psychologically heal?" I ask, leaning back into the seat and spreading my arms on the back of the sofa.

Her eyes train on the patch of skin that becomes available when my shirt rides up. She licks her lips but quickly averts her eyes back to my own.

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