5. Dr. Dangerous

Jaxon

The vibration of my phone against the mahogany nightstand is the first thing that pulls me out of a restless sleep.

I swipe to answer, my voice a low, morning rasp. "Deluca."

"Good morning, Doctor," Sarah, my assistant, chirps with a level of energy I find offensive this early. "Just confirming your ten a.m. It’s a couple. New intake. A Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Vance."

I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face. The name doesn't ring a bell, but the profile does. High-net-worth, North Shore address, likely referred by one of my clients in that region. "Vance. Right. Any notes?"

"The husband booked it. He was... persistent about the time slot. Said it was an 'urgent matter of marital compatibility.'"

I can almost hear the sneer in her voice. We both know what that means. "So, another husband who thinks my office is a repair shop where he drops off his wife for an oil change and a personality transplant. Fantastic."

“You’re the best in the city, Jax. Five years of clinical excellence, two 'Therapist of the Year' awards, and a waitlist six months long. If anyone can handle a narcissist in a Brioni suit, it’s you." She’s not wrong.

"Yeah, well. Send over the digital intake forms when they arrive. I'll see you at nine."

I hang up and head for the shower. As the hot water hits the ink on my shoulders, my mind drifts back to last night. The soft silk. The vanilla and rose. The way she felt against me—like a live wire looking for a place to ground. I’ve been a sex therapist for half a decade, specializing in high-conflict intimacy and trauma-informed desire, but nothing in my textbooks prepared me for the way that woman looked at me in the dark of a biker bar.

Elena.

I’m drying off when my phone buzzes again. This time it’s a FaceTime call from Prez. I sigh and answer, propping the phone against the mirror.

The scarred, laughing face of my best friend, also the president of Iron & Ink fills the screen. He’s already at the clubhouse, a mug of engine-sludge coffee in his hand. "Well, well. Look at the Doc. You look like hell, Deluca. Late night?"

"Mind your business, Roman," I mutter, reaching for my shaving kit. No one else calls him that except for his friends.

"Hard to do when our bartender tells me you spent half the night grinding against a woman who looked like she wandered off the cover of Vogue," Prez cackles, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Word is, she did a literal runner. Bolted out the door like the feds were coming. What’d you do?”

I chuckle, a dry, dark sound. I think about the way her body felt against mine, the way my breath hitched when I realized I was a second away from ruining my life for a taste of her. "She didn't run out. She just... realized what time it was. Some people have lives that don't involve the clubhouse bar, you asshole."

"She ran, Jax. Admit it. Maybe she’s married.”

"Like that matters,” I mutter lowly. “I have to go. I have actual clients who pay me to listen to their problems, unlike you."

"Good luck with the bored housewives, Doc. Don't forget where the real party is tonight."

I end the call and finish getting ready. I put on the mask—the charcoal suit, the crisp white shirt that hides the tattoos up to my throat, the calm, clinical gaze that projects safety and authority. By the time I walk into my downtown office, I am Dr. Jaxson Thorne.

At 9:55 AM, I’m at my desk when the intercom pings. "They’re here, Doctor," Sarah says.

"Give them a minute to settle, then send them in."

I stand up, adjusting my cuffs, and walk toward the door just as it opens.

Marcus Vance walks in first. He’s exactly what I expected. Tall, impeccably groomed, wearing a suit that looks extremely expensive. He carries himself with a terrifying level of entitlement, his eyes scanning my office not for comfort. I judge him instantly. Apart from him letting his wife walk behind, he looks like the typical client I’ve dealt with.

Then, the wife walks in.

The world stops. The air in the room vanishes, leaving me lightheaded and hollow.

Holy shit! It’s her.

She isn't wearing emerald silk today. She’s in a beige, high-necked dress that looks like a suit of armor. Her hair is pulled back so tight it looks painful. Her gaze is cast down, fixed on the rug, her hands clutching a designer bag like a shield.

She takes a seat on the velvet couch, sinking into the cushions as Marcus sits beside her. He doesn't touch her. He doesn't even look at her. He just sits there, radiating a cold, impatient energy.

“Good morning, welcome to my office.”

"Mornin," Marcus says, his voice a smooth, condescending hum. "

She lifts her head. Her eyes meet mine, and I see the exact moment the realization hits her. Her pupils dilate. Her breath hitches in a small, audible gasp that she tries to mask as a cough.

Marcus cuts a sharp look at her. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she whispers, her voice trembling. "Just... a tickle in my throat."

I stay perfectly still. My heart is thundering against my ribs, a wild animal trying to kick its way out of my chest, but my face remains a mask of professional neutrality. I don't acknowledge the bar. I don't acknowledge the dance. I don't acknowledge the fact that I know exactly how her skin feels under that beige wool because it’s our moment. And doesn’t concern him.

My mind goes back to what Prez said. He’d have a laugh if only he knew how right he was.

"I’m Dr. Thorne," I say, my voice steady and deep. I take the chair opposite them, leaning back and crossing my legs. "Thank you for coming in. Marcus, you initiated the intake. Why don't you start? Tell me what brings you both here."

Marcus shifts, leaning forward, claiming the space. "It’s quite simple, Doctor. My wife has become... distant. Frigid, if I’m being honest. We’ve been married for almost three years, and while I’ve been patient, our intimate life has become a source of significant stress for me. She seems to have developed some... unusual needs about what she wants.”

I watch Elena. She shrinks. It’s subtle, a slight rounding of the shoulders, a tightening of the jaw, but to a trained eye, it’s a collapse. She is begging me with her eyes—a silent, desperate plea to stay silent about the night before. To keep her secret.

"I see," I say, my eyes flicking to her for a split second before returning to Marcus. "And Elena? How would you describe the situation?"

"I... I just think we’ve lost our connection," she says, her voice barely a thread.

"Connection is a vague term," Marcus interrupts, his tone dismissive. "The problem, Doctor, is that she’s made it weird. She’s asked for things that are beneath her. Things that are, frankly, revolting. And when I declined, she decided to stop trying altogether." I notice her frown.

I want to lean across the table and wrap my hand around Marcus’s throat, for the way he talks about her like she’s a malfunctioning appliance.

I guide the conversation for the next forty minutes, peeling back the layers of their dynamic. Marcus is a textbook case. He centers every conversation on his own comfort. He frames his rejection of her desires as a moral high ground.

"Marcus," I say, interrupting his latest monologue about his busy schedule at the firm. "Based on what you’ve told me today, I’m seeing a very specific pattern. You’ve used the word 'normal' five times. You’ve used 'revolting' twice. You’ve centered your own satisfaction and your own peace of mind in every example of conflict you’ve provided."

Marcus stiffens. The mask of the charming lawyer slips, revealing a jagged, defensive edge. "I’m paying for your expertise, Doctor, not a character assassination."

"Oh, no. Don’t get me wrong. I’m giving you a clinical observation," I say, my voice dropping an octave. "What I’m hearing is that you are consistently sexually self-centered. You view your wife’s needs not as a shared journey, but as an inconvenience to your established routine. You’ve created an environment where her vulnerability is met with judgment rather than curiosity."

The silence in the room is deafening. Marcus goes very still, his eyes turning into chips of ice. Elena is staring at me, her mouth slightly open, a flicker of something—hope? terror?—burning in her eyes.

"I think we’re done for today," Marcus says, standing up abruptly. He doesn't look at Elena. He just heads for the door. "I’ll have my assistant call to... re-evaluate if this is the right fit."

He marches out, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.

“Uh, have a good day doctor.” Elena stands up slowly, her legs looking like they might give out. She looks at me, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated panic.

"Mrs Vance," I say, standing up. "Wait."

She stops at the door, her hand on the frame. She won't look at me. Her husband steps back. “Is there a problem?”

“If like to speak to your wife.” I say quietly. "Ask her some questions. Privately. Just for a moment."

She looks at me at then back at him as if asking for permission. When he doesn’t give any she mutters a low, “I’ll be right back,” And then walks back into my office.

"Close the door, Elena," I command softly.