𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 1
𖣘
**ETHAN POV**
The library was supposed to help me focus, but instead of studying my textbook, my mind betrayed me again, slipping back to the dreams that left me waking breathless every night.
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my temples. In those dreams, it was always the same: shadows, whispers, a man's hand gripping my wrist, pulling me toward something I desperately wanted.
One thing I knew for sure — I wasn't gay.
Laughter echoed from the next aisle, snapping me out of my thoughts. A group of girls had settled at the table beside mine, their voices too loud for a library.
"Have you heard about Doctor Jeffrey?" one of them whispered, just low enough to sound secretive. "I saw him yesterday. I told him about my sex life — how I never enjoyed sex with James — and do you know what he said?"
My ears perked up. I hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help it.
"He told me, straight up, 'If a man can't satisfy you, he doesn't deserve you.' Just like that."
The other girl gasped, then giggled. "God, he's so blunt. No filter at all. Honestly… that's why I'm kind of obsessed with him."
Their laughter lingered in my head long after they quieted down.
Doctor Jeffrey.
I'd heard the name before — in whispers, in rumors that made people blush. Students on campus talked about him constantly: dangerously honest, the kind of therapist who said things that made you question everything.
Before I could stop myself, my laptop was open. One quick search and there he was.
His photo filled the screen. I stared, blinking. He wasn't what I'd expected. Not stiff or gray like most therapists. He looked… sharp. Handsome in a way that didn't feel safe — like one of those men from the forbidden stories I wasn't supposed to read. Dark hair, darker eyes that seemed to know too much.
Below the photo was a button: **"Book an Appointment."**
I stared at it, thumb hovering over the trackpad, throat tight. I shouldn't.
But I did.
The form asked for my name, age, and reason for the visit. My mouth went dry. What was I supposed to write? "Nightmares"? "Confusion"? None of that was the whole truth.
The truth was messier. I'd always been curious about sex. Growing up in my parents' suffocating world — no parties, no girlfriends, no freedom — had only made it worse. As the only son of a billionaire family, my future was already decided: the people I associated with, the clothes I wore, the path I'd follow. But the dreams made the curiosity unbearable. They filled me with feelings I didn't understand. I wanted to know what it felt like.
My fingers moved on their own.
**Sex.**
I hit send.
The reply came almost instantly: an appointment for tomorrow at 10 A.M.
"That was fast," I muttered, snapping my laptop shut. My heart raced like I'd just committed a crime.
I packed my books and left the library, lying to my professor about feeling sick. I couldn't sit through another class — not with my mind buzzing like this.
By the time I got home, Mom had left a message with the chef: she wouldn't be back until tomorrow evening.
Relief washed over me. No strict eyes, no endless rules — just silence. My mother had raised me like a monk: books, grades, perfection. Friends were "distractions." Fun was forbidden.
As for my father, he didn't care about anyone. All that mattered to him was power and profit. To him, I was just the son who would inherit the business — because he didn't trust my sister. In his world, women had no place in boardrooms; they were meant to marry and move on.
I dropped my bag, went upstairs, and locked my door. The shower washed away the library dust but not the heat pulsing through my veins. After a quick dinner, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, I would meet him. Doctor Jeffrey.
The man already living rent-free in my thoughts.
I drifted off… only to wake again, restless. The same dream.
For weeks — maybe months — I'd been waking up breathless, sheets damp with sweat, body aching with need. Every dream was the same: hands that weren't mine, a mouth whispering filthy things against my ear, a body pressing me down until I woke gasping for something I'd never tasted.
I had never been touched. Not really. And yet my body craved it.
Morning finally came. Instead of heading to class, I dressed and left for the appointment.
Whispers about Doctor Jeffrey followed me everywhere. Just how good was he?
I swallowed hard, staring at the confirmation email on my phone. A private psychosexual therapist everyone in Bloomington talked about.
Some said he was too blunt. That his sessions could ruin marriages. But they also said he was the best — that he understood desire in ways no one else did.
Now I stood outside his office, palms sweating, heart pounding like a guilty schoolboy about to confess.
The plaque on the door read: **Jeffrey Cross, Psychosexual Therapist.**
I knocked once. Before my knuckles fully connected, a deep, steady voice called, "Come in."
I pushed the door open.
The first thing I noticed wasn't the books or the leather chair. It was him.
Jeffrey sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top two buttons undone, dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead. Silver eyes so piercing I almost forgot how to breathe. He looked even better in person — sharper, more dangerous than any therapist had a right to be.
"Ethan Wilson. Twenty. Final year?" His voice was low, smooth, like he already knew too much.
I nodded, swallowing. "Y-yes."
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. I sat, forcing my hands still as he picked up a clipboard and scanned it.
"Your reason for visit said… sex." He looked up. "Are you comfortable discussing intimate details with me?"
My eyes widened. I shook my head quickly — too quickly — then caught myself. "Yeah. I… I've been having these recurring dreams."
He leaned back, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "I like to be blunt. You've probably heard that about me. But I'll say it anyway: some of my questions will be very personal. Sexual in nature. Are you willing to discuss them?"
I'd never shared my dreams with anyone. But now, with him watching me like that, something twisted inside me — anticipation, maybe.
I hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. I think I am."
"Good," he murmured, smirk deepening. "Curious boys learn fastest."
Heat flooded my cheeks. The way he said it made me shift in my seat.
"So… dreams?"
"Yeah," I managed. "Dreams about… being touched."
He studied me in silence, making my skin prickle.
Finally: "And you like these dreams, don't you?"
My throat went dry. I couldn't answer — until he raised a brow, waiting.
"I… do," I admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
The room fell quiet. Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing with something decidedly unprofessional. "Since you've agreed to be open… tell me, Ethan — do these dreams ever make your body respond physically?"
I froze.
He smirked, almost cruelly. "Don't be shy. You came here because you can't handle it anymore, right? You want someone to make sense of this hunger… or maybe even satisfy it."
He was right. God, he was right.
I nodded slowly, shame burning through me. "Yes."
"Good," he said softly, leaning forward. "Then let's see how deep these dreams go… and whether you're brave enough to face them."
My pulse thundered.
He watched me for a moment, then asked, "So, what have you done so far to manage these… urges?"
"I couldn't figure it out," I admitted quietly. "That's why I'm here."
He nodded thoughtfully. "As a therapist, I'd normally suggest discipline. Distraction. Exercise. Cold showers. Journaling triggers. Standard redirection techniques."
I nodded, hanging on every word.
He paused, watching me absorb it. Then a faint smirk returned.
"Is that what you wanted to hear?"
I blinked. "Huh?"
He chuckled low. "Those don't work. You can take a thousand cold showers and still end up burning, craving sex."
Before I could respond, he leaned closer, voice dropping. "Why not bring those fucked-up dreams into reality? That's the only real solution. Don't hold back."
The words hit me like a punch. My mouth fell open, face flaming.
*I'm not gay. I'm not gay.*
He studied me, then murmured — almost to himself — "A virgin?"
Every muscle in my body locked. I gripped the chair arms until my knuckles ached.
He stood. The scrape of his chair sent a shiver down my spine. He moved slowly, deliberately, until he stood beside me.
"Since you've agreed to be open," he said quietly, "let's explore what these dreams really mean… and what they make you feel. You can tell me if it gets too much."
I nodded, throat tight.
He leaned down, cologne brushing my senses, mouth hovering near my ear.
"Tell me, Ethan…" The way he said my name made my stomach flip. "In those dreams… did he kiss your neck? Slowly… until you begged him not to stop?"
I swallowed hard, heat rushing through me.
He didn't wait.
"Did he touch you?" His voice turned darker. "Stroke you until your back arched? Suck you until you thought you'd lose your mind?"
My breath hitched. I clenched my thighs together instinctively.
"Or maybe," he whispered, lips almost brushing my ear, "he spread your legs and made you ache, hard and leaking, desperate. Did you let him?"
I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
"You did, didn't you?" he pressed. "Or did he stop right before you came?"
A shaky breath escaped me.
"You have to use your words, Ethan. That's how you own your hunger instead of hiding from it."
I tried to speak, but nothing came.
He circled behind my chair. His shadow fell over me.
"After those dreams… do you touch yourself?"
My heart stopped.
"Do you wrap your hand around yourself at night, stroke until you can't breathe?"
No sound. Just my pulse thundering.
"Or do you lie there, aching, hard, too afraid to admit how badly you want to be ruined?"
A whimper slipped out before I could stop it.
"Did he ever use his tongue on you? Lick you clean?"
I squeezed my eyes shut, a low moan escaping despite myself. My body was on fire — hard, straining, betraying me completely.
He leaned closer. For one heart-stopping second, I thought he'd touch me. But he didn't.
"You'll learn something with me," he whispered. "Words alone can awaken everything you've been holding back."
Then — silence. He stepped away.
When I opened my eyes, he was back in front of me, arms crossed, expression calm again… except for that wicked smirk.
"That's enough for today," he said smoothly. "Good boy. You'll come back tomorrow."
I blinked, stunned. Tomorrow?
His gaze dropped deliberately to my clothes, then back to my eyes. "Wear something easier to remove next time. I like my patients prepared."
"I'm never coming back," I muttered, standing on shaky legs. "And I'm not gay."
He waved a dismissive hand, as if I hadn't just unraveled in his office.
"You'll be back," he said simply. "Your type always returns to the one who knows exactly how to break them."
I grabbed my bag and stumbled out, mind screaming *never again*.
But my body… my body already knew he wasn't lying.
A man had made me this hard.
And I hated how much I didn't hate it.
𝑇𝐵𝐶