Page 157 of Dishonored

She was just as bad.

He loved it.

His thrusts came harder then—a brutal pace he knew she was going to feel for the rest of the day. And Jesus … he wanted her to feel it. As she slipped on white lingerie that he would tear off later, and had her face painted and her hair done in soft curls. As her gown was slipped over her body, and she was waiting behind Cathedral doors for them to open to their forever.

He wanted her to feel him.

Her words—still airless and struggling from the belt tight around her throat—melted together in a slur of bliss as she came harder than before.

Please, and fuck, and love you, love you.

She’d feel him.

He’d hear her.

“Still resentful about this, I see,” the woman across the room noted.

Caesar eyed the pencil skirt—modest with only a slit to her knee—and the pale pink silk blouse his therapist was wearing today. Unlike him in his flashy Rolex, Italian leather loafers, and a custom fit Armani suit, she dressed in a simple, understated way. As though she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but especially not when she was in a session with a patient. She didn’t want to be a distraction. Even her pinned back hair and face clean fresh, sparingly-applied makeup was minimalist, and easy.

Over the rim of her thin-framed pink glasses, she asked, “Do you have something to share, Caesar?”

“Yes.”

“Do tell.”

“Why did Aria pick you for me, Amber?”

The therapist smiled a bit—not a lot, mind, but just enough to let him know there was a reason his wife-to-be had picked this woman when she made her demand for this whole shit-show.

So, yeah, maybe he was a little resentful.

Still.

Caesar kept his end of the bargain, though. He came when he was supposed to, and never missed an appointment. He would clear his schedule for two days every week just to make sure he was here like he needed to be.

He did it.

Because Aria asked him to—wanted him to.

And fucking really … because he needed to.

Resentful, sure.

It was still good for him.

“Why do you think your fiancée picked me out of the hundreds of capable therapists in this city, Caesar?”

“I hate when people answer a question with another question,” he muttered.

Amber cocked a single brow high, and smiled in that condescending way of hers. “And yet, when you are on that couch and in this office, you wield very little power, Caesar. You are the patient, and I am the therapist. I don’t answer to you—that’s not how this works.”

That right there.

“That’s why she picked you,” Caesar murmured.

His therapist nodded. “I thought you might say something else, actually. Considering …”

“Like what?”