“Do you really love me, Michael? Or do you feel obligated to me?”
He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “See? That, right there. I don’t know where the hell that comes from. That, and whatever sexual hangups you’ve got going on, they need to be dealt with. If not with me, then with someone else because I can’t go on this way.”
Vivian peered closer at the card: Dr. Lindsay Smith, licensed sex therapist.
She crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room. “You have got to be kidding me. This is all about your fucking libido?”
Michael advanced on her, pressing her against the wall. The frenzied look in his eyes made it clear something inside him had ripped apart at the seams to reveal the primal animal underneath. An animal who had no doubt been fighting and bucking in his cage for years.
“Michael, you’re scaring me.”
“Good,” he growled. He held her arms to the wall and looked her over like prey. “You. Are. Going. Are we clear?” His stare alone could have pinned her.
“Michael . . . I . . . ”
“The only acceptable answer here is yes.”
Vivian nodded, too afraid of this new, unrestrained version of her husband to refuse his request. He released her wrists and went into his study, leaving her confused and more aroused than she cared to admit.
2
Vivian stared up at the high-rise building, shielding her eyes from the reflective glare of the sun. “Um . . . Miss . . . I don’t have change for this large a bill,” the cab driver said, leaning over the seat toward the open passenger-side window.
“Keep the change,” she said, not taking her eyes off the building.
The driver peeled down the road before she had a chance to change her mind. Vivian took a fortifying breath and went to meet her doom.
As soon as the elevator opened on the tenth floor, soothing jazz drifted to her ears. The music had a hypnotic effect as it wrapped around her and pulled her off the elevator and toward the waiting office. Dr. Smith’s waiting room was filled with house plants. If the world ran out of oxygen, this room would be the last safe haven.
It was empty, something she found odd for a Friday afternoon. Not even a receptionist. She thought Michael said he’d made the appointment for three thirty today. Maybe she got the dates mixed up.
She turned to leave when a deep voice stopped her. “Mrs. Delaney? You’re my three thirty?”
“Yes?” She couldn’t bring herself to turn back around just yet. She’d thought Lindsay Smith was a woman. Apparently not.
“Please, come on back. I apologize there was no one to greet you. My receptionist had a personal emergency.”
Vivian turned and plastered a smile on her face. “Dr. Smith?”
“That’s right.”
The doctor stood at a little over six feet tall in a well-tailored, dark suit and exuded the calm command of a stock broker. He appeared to be in his late fifties with gray at his temples. He was in good shape, what she imagined Michael might look like in twenty years.
He smiled at her and turned to go into the inner office, clearly confident she’d follow.
She considered fleeing the building, but then she thought about the look in Michael’s eyes the previous night, and the moment of terror at seeing a new side of her husband nearly unleashed on her.
When he’d pinned her against the wall like that, with that wildness peering out at her, she’d felt the faintest drop of wetness on her panties. The idea that she could have such an inappropriate reaction, after months of nearly no reaction, scared her more than the thought of him losing control.
No, she’d stay for the appointment this once. Then she’d reason with Michael. She had to at least appear to be trying to comply with his wishes if she wanted him to listen.
Dr Smith’s office had lavender walls that matched the business cards. Not the first color choice she’d pick for a man, but the furniture and striking oak desk made up for any lacking masculinity in the wallpaper. The inner office had about as many plants as the waiting area. A long wall featured several orchids lined in a fastidious row.
The room had no couch, just a couple of comfortable-looking leather chairs that sat on either side of a small table with another orchid on it. She was glad for the lack of couch. She wasn’t sure she could lie down to talk about her nonexistent sex life to an attractive male doctor. Especially with no one in the waiting room to act as a safety buffer. It felt too exposed.
He gestured and Vivian sat in the offered chair, smoothing down her skirt, wishing she’d worn pants.
“You seem very uncomfortable,” he commented.
“You’re observant. This must be why they pay you the big bucks.”
He chuckled. “Your husband has already taken care of the financial arrangements. Would you like some coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
He sat in the chair across from her and observed her quietly. “You’re uncomfortable with the fact that I’m male, aren’t you?”
Vivian looked at her hands. “I thought Lindsay was a woman.”
“You wouldn’t be the first patient with that initial impression.”
“Maybe you should put a picture on your business card to clear up the confusion.”
“Indeed.” He was silent for a moment. “Mrs. Delaney, we won’t speak about anything that makes you uncomfortable. We’ll go at your pace.”
She let out a slow breath and nodded.
He glanced down at a page of notes. “My receptionist gathered a bit of information for the appointment from your husband. He says you’re unhappy with the relationship?”
Vivian balked at that, wondering how many personal details her husband had decided to divulge to a stranger over the phone. “I think Michael needs to come to therapy, too. If I’m coming to therapy.” That had sounded more petulant than she’d intended.
“Perhaps we can arrange that for a future session.”
He looked at his notes again, and Vivian suddenly wished she’d been the one to call and make the appointment. But she’d been stubborn.
“Why don’t you start by telling me why it makes you so uncomfortable to be intimate with your husband.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Delaney . . . ?”
“Really. I don’t know. All I know is that every time he touches me I just want to crawl inside myself and die. If I knew why, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Was it like this from the beginning of the relationship?”
“No. In the beginning it was different.”
“What changed? Did your husband do something?”
“I don’t know. Before we got married things were fine. Then after . . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
“Are you able to achieve orgasm with your husband?”
Vivian looked away and smoothed her skirt again. “No.”
The doctor made a notation in the black notebook perched on his lap. “Sometimes these problems can be rooted in emotion. Do you believe he loves you?”
There was a long pause. She had to work to speak around the lump in her throat. She would not cry in front of the doctor. Absolutely not. “No,” she said.