—
Art is sacrifice. So, I’m sacrificing my lunch hour and two hundred dollars for some insight on sex. I have to break the barriers of my comfort zone in order to make myself a better writer. This is my very own plot twist. Or, in a twist of all twists, this will be when Dr. Sincock fires me.
“Did my client cancel?” Declan, puzzled and disarmingly sexy in his black suit and silver tie, asks as I cross to the leather chair in front of his desk.
“No,” I take a seat, “it’s me. Hi.”
His brows draw together. “Um, what do you mean? Hi.”
I know this is ludicrous, and far outside the realm of employer/employee boundaries, but after giving it some thought, I’ve realized everyone is right—my book is tame. I’m tame. I can take constructive criticism, and in order to make my book left hand worthy, I need Dr. Sincock’s expertise. Without him knowing.
“Well,” I cross my legs, settling back against the padded chair, “I’ve lead a somewhat sheltered life, and I’ve realized it’s affected me in certain aspects.”
And it has. Sadly, that statement is not a manipulation of the truth.
“Rose,” he gives a slight disbelieving shake to his head, “are you wanting me to counsel you on sex?”
“Well, not like that,” I hedge. His words take my imagination to very dark places, one where I’m splayed on his desk. It’s suddenly a hundred degrees in here. Even the backs of my knees are sweating.
“Like what?” he asks, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the desk.
I really have no idea what sex therapy entails. I look at the clock ticking away above his head. Five minutes gone of my hour. “I can’t orgasm during sex,” I blurt out.
“Oh my god, Rose,” he blurts back, standing. “You can’t tell me these things.”
—
Love Doctor is #ComingSoon. Be sure to add it to your TBR if you haven’t.
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