Revived (Revved Series Book 2) (7 page)

It’s almost six p.m., and I’m on my way back to India’s office.

India
. I love the sound of her name each time I say it.

And I love how her voice sounds when saying my name.

I wonder how it will sound as it screams from her lips while I’m fucking her.

I can’t fuck her.

Balancing the coffees I just picked up from Starbucks with the takeout sandwiches, I push through the door into her reception area.

It’s empty, as she said it would be.

It’ll be just her and me here. I don’t know if that’s a good idea, to be honest. I don’t know if I can trust myself not to make a move.

Jesus, I’m a grown man. I can control myself around her.

I give a knock on her door before letting myself in.

She’s sitting at her desk, talking on the phone. She smiles those red lips at me, and I feel my cock stir to life.

Down, boy.

The smile still on her face, she lifts a finger, letting me know that she’ll be a minute.

I give a nod and then put the coffees and the bag containing the sandwiches down on the table. I take a seat.

“Sounds good. Okay. See you later. Love you.”

Love you?

She’s definitely not married, as there’s no ring.

Does she have a boyfriend?

Of course she has a boyfriend. Look at her.

Hanging up her phone, she gets up from her chair and walks over to where I’m sitting. She takes her seat across from me. “Sorry about that.”

“No worries. I brought coffee and a couple of sandwiches in case you haven’t eaten.”

Her eyes flicker with surprise, like I’m the first guy to ever bring her food.

“I haven’t eaten. That was really thoughtful of you, Leandro. Thank you. But please let me reimburse you for the coffee and sandwich.”

She makes to get up, but I stop her with my words. “No. My treat.” I wave her off.

She pauses for a moment and then lowers her butt back into the seat. “Okay. Thank you.”

Reaching over the coffee table separating us, I hand her one of the coffees, and in the exchange, I make sure that my fingers brush hers.

Why I do that, I have no clue.

Okay, I do have a clue. I want to see her react to me again.

My eyes search her face for a reaction, but I get nothing this time.

Feeling a bit deflated, I pick up my own coffee and rest back in the chair.

“I got you a black coffee,” I tell her. “I wasn’t sure if you took milk or sugar.” I reach into my pocket and pull out some tiny milk capsules and sugar sachets.

“Black is perfect.” She smiles, the cup by her lips. Then, she takes a sip.

She drinks black coffee and wears red lipstick.

She’s fucking perfect.

“So, I was thinking”—she puts the coffee back down—“about how we should approach your treatment going forward.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, am I right in thinking that you feel that to get your life back, you need to be able to race?”

“I don’t feel. I know,” I say with surety.

“Okay. So, of course, you need to talk about the accident, get those feelings out there for you to deal with them. Clearly, bottling them up isn’t working for you. I thought, while we’re doing that, we can work on getting you back in a car.”

All my muscles stiffen up, and she notices.

“Baby steps,” she says softly. “What I mean is, I was thinking we could go outside, sit in my car, and do our session in there.”

I lift a brow. “Your methods are a little strange. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Yes. Right before they tell me that my methods really helped them.”

A smile edges her lips, and it’s sexy as fuck.

“Confident?” I tease.

“Confidence is surety, and I’m sure this will help.”

“Okay.” I pick up my coffee and get to my feet. “Lead the way.”

I give a sweeping hand gesture as she gets to her feet.

“Let me just grab my car keys,” she says.

I watch her walk away from me, over to her desk, where she leans overs to retrieve her keys. The fabric of her fitted pencil skirt stretches over her ass.

She has an amazing ass.

God, the things I could do to that ass while she’s bent over that desk.

My cock starts to stir in my pants. I have to quickly rearrange myself before she turns back around to me.

“Should I bring the sandwiches as well?” I ask.

“Of course.” She smiles up at me, as she bends to retrieve her coffee from the table.

Snatching up the bag containing the sandwiches, I wait for her to round the coffee table, then, I follow her out of the office and to her car.

THE MOMENT WE’RE SEATED IN MY CAR
, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, putting myself in such close proximity to Leandro.

I can smell the sandalwood in his aftershave along with his own unique scent, and it’s doing things to me.

The man is like a walking sexual conductor.

It’s unnerving.

Because a man has never affected me in this way before.

I haven’t ever felt as physically attracted to a man as I do Leandro.

I’m his therapist.

The reminder hits me like a blast of cold water in the face, and my libido. I need to put a stop to my feelings and thoughts—right now.

“Nice car,” he comments from the passenger seat.

“Thank you.”

I have to have a cool car with a car-obsessed son. Jett picked it out. He saw it at the showroom, and it was love at first sight for him, so of course, I had to buy it.

There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my son, including taking out a twenty-thousand-pound loan to buy a fifteen-year-old Aston Martin that had seventy-five-thousand miles on the clock. I have to admit, it is a stunning car and awesome to drive. I feel like a movie star when I drive it.

I almost tell Leandro that it was Jett who talked me into buying it, but I stop myself. I don’t share my private life with patients.

“A 2000 Aston Martin DB7 Vantage, right?”

“Right.” I smile. “You seem surprised I have this car.”

He blinks back at me, his shoulder lifting in a half shrug. “I guess I just expected you to have a…I don’t know, an Audi or a Toyota. This doesn’t fit with your…image.”

“You mean, the image that you have of me.”

Something passes through his eyes that I can’t discern.

“I guess.” He looks away. “So, are you into cars?”

“No. But someone close to me is. I was talked into buying this. It’s pretty, and it gets me from A to B, so I’m happy.” I let out a light laugh.

He laughs, and it’s rich and deep. “That sounds like something I would expect you, a woman, to say.”

“Well, I’m glad I tick off at least one of your stereotypical boxes.”

He turns to look at me. His stare is direct and intense. “You tick more than one box.”

I feel a tremor deep inside. I swallow down.

I tear my eyes from his. “What sandwiches did you bring?”

There’s a slight pause before he answers, “I played it safe.” He reaches into the bag and pulls them out. “Ham or turkey?”

“Turkey, please.”

He hands it over. I make sure not to touch his fingers, like when he handed me the coffee earlier. I felt like I had an electrical surge pulsing up my finger. It took everything in me to maintain my composure.

I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. I have to hold back a moan. I haven’t eaten all day, and right now, this sandwich tastes like heaven.

Putting the sandwich on my lap, I pick up my coffee from the cup holder in my car, and I catch Leandro looking away from me.

Was he watching me?

I scratch the thought from my mind and focus on my job, which is helping him.

Taking a sip of coffee, I keep the cup in my hand. “How does this feel, being here in my car?”

“Fine.” He shrugs. “It’s stationary, and I’m in the passenger seat.”

“How is traveling in a car as a passenger? Better or worse?”

Pressing his cup to his lips, he appears to think my question over. “Well, I avoid being in cars as much as possible, which is easy while living in the city since I can travel pretty much anywhere by the Tube. But when I do have to be a passenger…I’m anxious.”

“Because?”

“I’m not in control.” He takes a breath, setting his coffee on his thigh. His fingers curl around the cup. “I have to be in control in all aspects of my life. That’s what frustrates me about all of this.”

“Not being in control?”

“Mmhmm.”

“So, you try to take control back in the only way you can at the moment, and that’s in a destructive manner in your life.”

I can feel his eyes on me, so I turn in my seat to look at him. It’s important to maintain eye contact with a patient—only, being in the car isn’t easy.

“You mean, the drinking and the women?”

Lifting a shoulder, I say, “Do you think those are positive things in your life?”

“I drank and had women before the accident.”

“But I’m guessing, before, you did those things for enjoyment, not to cover your pain.”

He looks out the window, away from me. “Do you always have to be right?” His tone is light, so I know I haven’t pushed him too far. He brings his eyes back to me.

“It’s part of my job,” I say in a teasing manner. “But, in all seriousness, just because I think something doesn’t make it right. It’s what you think that counts.”

“I guess.” He takes another sip of coffee.

“So, it’s easier sitting in the passenger seat. If I asked you to sit in the driver’s seat with the engine off, would that be possible?”

“Do I have a choice?”

There’s no humor in his voice, so I tread back carefully.

“You always have a choice, Leandro,” I say in a soft voice. “Nothing has to happen that you don’t feel comfortable with. You ever think I’m pushing you too hard, tell me. We’ll stop and reevaluate.”

“I was teasing, India, but good to know where you stand. And it’s fine. Let’s do it. Nothing can happen to me in a parked car, right?”

“Right.” I smile, my eyes meeting with his.

“So…”

“So?”

“Are you going to crawl over my lap to swap seats, or are we getting out of the car?” He grins at me and my face flushes.

Crawling over his lap…

“We’re getting out of the car.”

We pass at the back of my car, and surprisingly, he’s in the car before me.

I shut my door with a soft clunk. “How does this feel?” I ask him, assessing his face.

“Fine, I guess. I feel…stupid.”

“Stupid?”

“Yeah.” He rests his forearms on the steering wheel. “I’m a grown-ass man who needs help getting into a car.”

“No, you’re a grown-ass man recovering from a serious accident that nearly took your life.” I take a deep breath and go for the plunge with my assessment. “Leandro, have you heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?”

“Yes. People who come back from war have it.”

“Yes, but it’s not only military personnel who suffer from PTSD. People who have survived a traumatic experience, like you did, can also suffer from PTSD.”

He turns his face to me. “You think I have PTSD?” He points a finger at himself.

“A mild form, yes.”

He faces forward, staring out the windshield. He’s silent for a long time.