Both Andi and Carrick assure me that Dr. Harris will be able to help me.
Hence, why my ass is in this chair in the waiting room.
Impatient, I glance at the clock, tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair.
My appointment was due to start five minutes ago.
I hate waiting.
I’ll wait five more minutes, and then I’m out of here.
My eyes move to the magazines on the table. A sports mag is peeking out from under the fashion mags. Leaning forward, I pull it out, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
On the cover of the magazine is a picture of me with the caption, What the Bad Side of Formula 1 Looks Like.
So, now, I’m the bad side of Formula 1. Good to know.
I already know what the media say about me. How I’ve turned from a great racer into a drunk and a whore.
They’re not wrong on the whore part. Well, whore is a bit harsh. I don’t charge for my services. And I wouldn’t say I’m a drunk. I just like to drink—a lot.
I shouldn’t read the article. I know this, but the sadistic part of me has me turning those pages.
Finding the article, eyes scanning the text, I pick out the usual shit.
Why is Silva no longer racing? Physically, he’s healthy. Is it mental problems? Fear over racing because of his accident? Is that why he drinks—drowning his misery in alcohol? Such a shame to see a once great driver fall from grace so dramatically.
Frustration and rage grip my chest like a vise.
Fuck this. I don’t need this shit.
Even though I can’t race, it’s not like I actually need to.
I don’t need to race. I just need to drink and fuck. That’s all I need now. All I will ever need.
I’m a liar and a chickenshit. And that’s why I’m sitting in the waiting room to see a therapist.
Maybe I am beyond help.
Tossing the magazine back onto the table, I get to my feet, ready to leave this place, just as the door opens, revealing the epitome of what I could really do with screwing right now.
My eyes trail up the tanned, toned legs to the fitted pencil skirt that I would happily hitch up to see the magnificent pussy that I bet lies beneath. A pale-pink blouse is tucked into that skirt, covering what looks like a fantastically sized pair of tits. Silky blonde hair sits on her shoulders. Hair that I would enjoy getting my hands all tangled in while I fuck those bright red lips of hers, enjoying seeing that lipstick smeared all over my cock.
My dick pulses in my jeans, more than ready to proposition her with the offer.
“Mr. Silva.” She steps forward. “I’m Dr. Harris. But please call me India.”
She’s Dr. Harris?
This hitch-your-skirt-up-and-let-me-fuck-you-right-now woman is my new therapist.
Well, that’s just fucking great. It’s not like I can bang my therapist.
I put my cock on hold and give her my best smile, the one that always has panties dropping to the floor, as I say, “And you can call me Leandro.”
I see a definite flush in her cheeks. The same flush I see in all women who want to fuck me.
Stop it. She’s your therapist.
Not yet she isn’t. This is only my first session to see if we like each other.
We might not.
Who am I kidding? I definitely like her. Well, I would like her right up until I came, and then I wouldn’t want to see her again.
Do I really want to screw up getting help from a brilliant therapist for the sake of a fuck that I can get with someone else later?
“I apologize that I’m a little late for our appointment.”
“No problem.” I follow her into her office.
Standard therapist’s office, all neutral colors and calm feel to it. Not that I have been in a therapist’s office before.
“Please take a seat.” She gestures to a comfy-looking seat as she sits down in one a few feet in front of me with a coffee table separating us. “Would you like a drink before we start?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” I say with my eyes glued on her legs, which she’s just crossed.
She clears her throat, dragging my eyes up to hers.
Reaching forward, she picks up a manila folder, setting it on her lap. “So, this is our introductory meeting. This will help me get to know a little about you and what you need help with. It will let you get to know me and see if we’re a good fit together, if you think I can help you.”
We’d definitely be a good fit. Her naked, me inside her.
I think we’d fit just perfectly.
“I’ll make notes, if that’s okay with you? Some therapists like to tape the sessions, but I prefer pen and paper.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I give her a small smile, so I don’t come off like the asshole I am.
She returns my smile, eyes on mine.
I feel that smile all the way down to my cock.
She looks away, down at the folder. Opening it up, she picks up a pen from the table and holds it, poised over the paper before her. “So, let’s start with the reason you’re here?”
Tell her why I’m here.
I’m here because my life is fucked. Fucked because of one accident.
I don’t want to sound like a whiny-ass pussy to anyone, but I know, to get better, I have to fess up my shit to this woman.
“I was in an accident.” My voice is monotone.
She nods as she begins writing.
“On the track. I’m a racing driver.”
“Did your accident result in major injuries?” Her eyes meet with mine. She’s looking at me like she doesn’t know, and her words sure as hell sound like she doesn’t know.