“It only took me a year to realize Soomin and I weren’t well matched. Her masochistic tendencies were very light, and I hungered for more.”
I can’t look at him for this. Not because he won’t understand, but because I know he will, and too well. My eyes drop to my ring, and I absently realize I’ve been spinning it. I take another deep breath and force myself to still my hands.
“For seven beautiful years, it was worth it. Or, at least, I was able to convince myself it was.” I swallow, and then lower my voice. “And if I sometimes trembled with the need for more, to push her in other ways, darker ways, I learned to suppress it. I quashed that part of myself viciously, not even allowing myself the fantasy of it—because even in fantasy it felt wrong when I was vividly aware that she wanted no part of that particular facet of my soul.”
Lucien shifts, but when I glance at him, he just nods at me to continue without meeting my eyes. A small frown mars his forehead.
“Over time, the signs of strain began to show, both in her because she was sharp enough to notice how much I held myself back, and in me, for the holding back. And I loathed myself for the weakness. For the misplaced guilt I saw building in her eyes. But we went to the club, we experimented. We loved one another, so we made it work. We made it work right up until . . .” My voice catches, nervousness closing my airways. I gather myself and continue, “Right up until I met someone. A young soldier who changed everything.”
Lucien has gone so still, I’m not sure he’s breathing. His golden hair is half twisted in a bun on his head and half cascading over his shoulders. The harsh fluorescent lights shouldn’t be flattering, but I’m not sure it’s possible for him to look less than devastating to me.
“Young, gorgeous Lucien,” I say tenderly, and his chest hitches, though I don’t hear a sound. He’s turned his face from me, and I wish he wouldn’t. I want to read every thought that crosses his expressive face. “Who wouldn’t have been in awe, meeting Lucien? A soldier who had moved through the ranks at near record speed. A young man who, while a confident bisexual, was also a conflicted, submissive-leaning switch with heavy masochistic tendencies. It was like seeing a notice for my own demise. He was to be under my care as a high-priority patient—and I was madly, urgently attracted to him.”
Fresh from my promotion, I was feeling good. I’d debriefed Beaumont, Dominic, and most other members of the platoon by that stage, and we’d gotten on well enough. I’d wanted to brush up on my notes before meeting with Jaykob after reading about the incident with his brother, and thought Lucien would be a straightforward assessment.
Right up until I saw the shameless interest that lit up his eyes, and all the shadows and needs and fears that hid behind them.
I saw those dimples begging for my tongue.
Straightforward, my lily-white ass.
Now, those dimples are nowhere in sight. That boy might have matured into an incredible man, but right now, he’s still the picture of vulnerability.
I force myself to go on. “This boy was a cruel joke on me—both on my marriage, and on my profession. It was beyond absurd. Me, a thirty-five-year-old happily married man, an experienced psychologist, lusting after a twenty-one-year-old patient. It was . . . a cosmic unkindness beyond my imagination.”
Leaning against the wall, I sigh. “So of course, I locked that down too, into the same place I pushed my sadistic self. I could indulge neither. Perhaps those fantasies could play with one another there, but I was determined never to peek into that box of shame.” Hardening my tone, I add, “You must understand, Lucien. I loved my wife, genuinely, and she deserved the loyalty I promised. And you—you defenseless, flawless thing—deserved a therapist you could trust, who would help you without guile or agenda. For all our sakes, the box could never be opened.”
But, curse him, Lucien was a flirt, and curious, and he tested all my limits. Through his sessions we talked about his work, of course, and also his sexuality. His fears and worries about being seen as a submissive. His own calling, for pain and tears and pleases and thank-yous that so perfectly, desperately matched my own. His recitations of fantasies and desires that had me sitting swollen and dripping pre-cum in my chair as I took dutiful notes. His curious, hungry, and entirely inappropriate questions about me.
Present-day Lucien looks at me, finally, intensely, but for once, I can’t read him.
“The lines started to blur. Soomin and I became more involved with events on base. You started showing up everywhere, at barbecues and charity auctions and, worst of all, you began frequenting the club. I shouldn’t have been surprised—there weren’t a plethora around . . . and I was intimately aware of your needs.”
I glare at him, unable to help myself, remembering that furious, helpless panic I’d felt on seeing him there. Lucien’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t look away from my wrath.
“I started taking Soomin to the private rooms for our sessions there, not sure who I was trying to protect. Perhaps both of you. Perhaps only myself.” I swallow, some of my glare softening. “I knew seeing you like that, shattered and tearstained, might be something too big to fit in my box.”
It would have been. It is. Every time, despite the soul-souring shame, I have to admit in the most shadowy recesses of my heart, that he is perfect. This gorgeous, likable man whose masochism rides him as deeply as my sadism does me. Whose mischievous spirit is so enduring and bright, he’s impossible not to love.
So while his cries are delicious, and his pleasure addictive, what keeps me up at night is that moment. The one where he gives himself over to me completely, where he looks up with perfect trust and heartbreaking faith. It’s the moment where I know I’ve satisfied something deep inside him, and the relentless craving inside me has also eased. It’s better than any orgasm I’ve ever had.
And fuck, I want that again. But I won’t have it. Not ever.
This has gone on long enough.
“Soomin noticed, of course. She wasn’t stupid. And over the next three years, I devoted myself to convincing her that I would never take advantage of my patient, that I loved her, that I didn’t need to feed the darkness inside me.”
Old hurt spills over, and I can’t keep it from my voice. “I meant it, Lucien. I truly did. Even if she wasn’t my best friend, even if I didn’t love her, the imbalance of power between you and me was— is—far too great to ever be palatable. In the end, though, she didn’t believe me. She left. She left, and I was alone with the promises that I swore never to break.”
And here it is. The hard part. And I will explain it to him, though I know him well enough to know he won’t accept it. It’s why I’ve held my tongue until now.
Every step closer to him hurts, but I take them, until we’re a breath apart. Always close but that space never closed. It takes several moments before he meets my eyes, still with that unreadable, intense expression.
“Those promises are still promises, Lucien, even though it’s been five years and an apocalypse since our divorce. Because you are still too young, you are still my patient, and I still have an ethical responsibility toward you. I’ve been a mentor and a guide to you, and you have confused those feelings with a crush. It would be wrong to take advantage of those feelings.”