Her lips taste like beer and something sweeter, something I can't quite name. She's on top of me, her hands pressed against my chest, nails scraping just enough to sting. The couch creaks beneath us as she leans in closer, her breath warm against my neck.
I let her take control, because that's what she wants. To feel powerful. To be the one making the choices. I know this, and I let her believe it. Because, in the end, she's exactly where I want her to be.
But let's rewind, shall we? Let's go back to the moment I stepped into her house, because this isn't just about what's happening now. This is about how we got here.
Cassandra opened the door like she had been expecting me all her life.
"Look who actually showed up," she teased, stepping aside to let me in. Her house was… predictable. Stylish, expensive, but with that sterile, magazine-perfect look that screamed, "I was decorated by someone paid to make it look like I care."
"You doubted me?" I asked, smirking as I walked in. The place smelled like vanilla and something artificial. Like a home that was trying too hard.
"Always," she said, grinning as she led me to the kitchen. There was already an open beer on the counter, and another waiting for me. "Welcome to my sad little rebellion."
I picked up the bottle, eyeing her. "Your husband doesn't approve of casual beer nights?"
She scoffed, leaning against the counter. "My husband doesn't approve of much. Fun? Disapproved. Spontaneity? Disapproved. Having a personality? Highly disapproved."
"Sounds exhausting."
"You have no idea." She took a long sip of her drink, eyes locked onto mine over the rim. "Tell me, Dr. Cross, do you ever get tired of listening to people complain about their miserable lives?"
I smiled, swirling the beer in my hand. "Only when they're not as interesting as you."
She laughed at that, and it was real. Loud, unapologetic. Not the careful, measured laughter I imagined she gave her husband.
"You're good," she said, pointing at me. "You know exactly what to say, don't you?"
"It's a skill."
"It's manipulation."
I tilted my head. "And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"
Her smile widened, and something flickered in her eyes—something sharp. "Maybe."
The night went on like that, easy conversation, playful jabs, the kind of chemistry that most people spend their whole lives chasing. We talked about nothing and everything. Her husband. My "ethical dilemmas" as a therapist. The sheer absurdity of pretending to be happy in a life that didn't fit.
She asked me questions no client ever did. About my past. About why I chose this career. I lied, of course. But I did it well.
One beer turned into two, two into three, and at some point, we ended up here. Her straddling me on the couch, her laughter melting into something else. Something raw. Something inevitable.
She pulls back, breathless, eyes locked onto mine like she's trying to read something hidden between the lines.
"I shouldn't be doing this," she whispers.
I brush a strand of hair from her face. "Then don't."
She laughs softly. "That's not how this works."
I know. And I know she's already made up her mind.
Because people like Cassandra don't stop when they should. They stop when there's nothing left to ruin.