The Shrink by Sophia Karlson
Series: Love Nests #2
Publication date: July 30th, 2020
Synopsis:
Apparently she's a bit crazy.
Apparently he's the shrink who will cure her.
Apparently they aren't allowed to fall for each other at all...
Stacey Sinclair's mother died in a gruesome car accident six years ago, and now everybody thinks she is finally losing it. Surely a few crazy actions on her part don't justify her seeing a shrink for months on end?
For a psychologist, Dr. Ivo Linder is too decent, too caring, and too handsome to get a glimpse of what really goes on in her head. Stacey's unforeseen feelings towards him make her retaliate--she taunts him, never expecting to fall with him into forbidden lust.
As their attraction intensifies, the old adage stands: it doesn't matter, as long as nobody finds out. But someone always finds out and when they do, will Stacey and Ivo risk everything to give their love a chance?
Author's Note: This book contains graphic content and themes that might trigger some readers.
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Excerpt
"I miss you," Ivo said, not moving.
She missed him too. Being with him, doing nothing but breathing. Even if it was at a desk, and they were both with their own work, being with him was calming. But now it was unnerving.
"You've been ignoring me," he said, not shifting.
How do you ignore someone who was in your head when you woke up, and who touched you in every dream of late? "I've been ignoring Mrs. Webster."
Surely if her feelings for him, those she'd conjured up, were superficial, she wouldn't be feeling like this? Weak and ready to collapse into him.
When Ivo held out his hand to her, she couldn't help but slip her fingers into his and let him lure her into the shadows, into the secrecy of a deserted courtyard and the quiet of only him and her.
"I think you are messing around with me," he murmured, "from afar." He reeled her in, ever closer, but their bodies didn't touch. Her shoulder connected with the wall, rough and cool under her skin, and she leaned into it, searching for strength.
"I'm not messing around with anybody."
"Good." He let go of her hand but straightened. He didn't seem to be coming closer, but somehow he crowded her, forcing her to lean against the wall and face him, trapped.
He propped his hand next to her face, keeping an arm-length distance between them, but somehow she'd never felt closer to him. His gaze soothed over her face, rested on her mouth, then lower to the column of her neck, making her tilt her head to the side in an unspoken invitation, revealing her every desire. But instead of pressing his lips to her heated skin, his gaze dipped to her chest, and lower, to where her dress covered her breasts, which were taut with desire for him to touch her like she'd wanted him to weeks ago. Just once. Just anywhere. Just all over.
He was inhaling strained breaths, leaning in and exhaling a soft caress over her collarbone, making a swirl in the hollow as she hitched up her shoulder at the sudden intimate flow of air, fragrant with an intoxicating male mix of Champagne and cigarette smoke.
Her hands flicked up to reach for him, to pull him closer and make him touch her, but a soft grunt made her pause.
"Don't," he whispered.
"Don't?"
"Don't touch me."
At his words, her skin burst with the need for him to touch her, to feel more than the warm cascades of his breaths caressing her skin, almost becoming effervescent in their course as every exhale sparkled goosebumps over her body. He was tilting ever closer, his nose running a trail up her neck and jaw, inhaling her as if he could taste her innermost soul with his breath alone.
"I sense there are still some layers here I haven't stripped off, Stacey," he whispered, so close to her ear it was as if the words came from her own mind, having washed into his mouth and spilling out, like a wave, always finding its way into a cave of secrets. "And I want you to come back to see me. On Tuesday."
At the thought, her throat tightened, and pain shot up behind her eyes. She turned her face away from him, from what he might know, and from himself. How messed up was she really?
"Don't." His body inched closer and the heat of his lips rested on her temple. "Don't pull away from me like that. Please."
His chest was a mere inch from hers, his thighs almost brushing her own. Her desire to cry in his arms, to let go and only be with him, was breaking down every resolve. "Ivo--"
"And don't whisper my name as if you're about to come."
"Ivo--" Don't whisper my name as if you're about to come. Stacey was on the edge, wanting to jump if only he'd slip his hand lower to her breasts or cup her sex. She'd go there in a second.
"If we are going to do this, I prefer to be totally and utterly sober."
She didn't care anymore. Drunk, sober, low, high. Whatever. "Why?"
Another step away from her, he pulled his strained body tall, fisted his hands and shoved them into his jacket pockets. "Why?" he asked with a mirthless chuckle.
"Yes, why? You want this. I want this. I want us. And you know it." She swallowed hard and wrapped her arms around her waist, clutching her breasts and wishing it were his palms covering her. "And we both know this is the reason why I haven't been back. We shouldn't, but now--" She paused a second, for once the words were put out there, she wouldn't be able to retract them. "I don't care anymore."
"Neither do I." His gaze drilled into her. "But still. I'd like to be dirt sober, so I can't blame anything else for filling every last inch of your body with my own."
At his whispered words her core contracted, screaming out the need for him, and him alone.
But he sauntered off toward the glass doors that led into the gallery. For a second he paused, his back facing her.
"How are you getting home?" he asked.
She peeled herself off the wall, her legs all jelly with what he'd done with her in his delicate, if ruthlessly arousing, caresses.
"James... James and Mila will take me home. They're staying with us in Llandudno."
He nodded. "I'll see you Tuesday."
His words were not a question; they were an ill-disguised command. He didn't give her the gap to respond. He was gone with long strides, not looking back, but leaving an imprint on every part of her lonely and longing body.
There was only one thing that could happen in his office on Tuesday.
She was in for it, all of it.
She missed him too. Being with him, doing nothing but breathing. Even if it was at a desk, and they were both with their own work, being with him was calming. But now it was unnerving.
"You've been ignoring me," he said, not shifting.
How do you ignore someone who was in your head when you woke up, and who touched you in every dream of late? "I've been ignoring Mrs. Webster."
Surely if her feelings for him, those she'd conjured up, were superficial, she wouldn't be feeling like this? Weak and ready to collapse into him.
When Ivo held out his hand to her, she couldn't help but slip her fingers into his and let him lure her into the shadows, into the secrecy of a deserted courtyard and the quiet of only him and her.
"I think you are messing around with me," he murmured, "from afar." He reeled her in, ever closer, but their bodies didn't touch. Her shoulder connected with the wall, rough and cool under her skin, and she leaned into it, searching for strength.
"I'm not messing around with anybody."
"Good." He let go of her hand but straightened. He didn't seem to be coming closer, but somehow he crowded her, forcing her to lean against the wall and face him, trapped.
He propped his hand next to her face, keeping an arm-length distance between them, but somehow she'd never felt closer to him. His gaze soothed over her face, rested on her mouth, then lower to the column of her neck, making her tilt her head to the side in an unspoken invitation, revealing her every desire. But instead of pressing his lips to her heated skin, his gaze dipped to her chest, and lower, to where her dress covered her breasts, which were taut with desire for him to touch her like she'd wanted him to weeks ago. Just once. Just anywhere. Just all over.
He was inhaling strained breaths, leaning in and exhaling a soft caress over her collarbone, making a swirl in the hollow as she hitched up her shoulder at the sudden intimate flow of air, fragrant with an intoxicating male mix of Champagne and cigarette smoke.
Her hands flicked up to reach for him, to pull him closer and make him touch her, but a soft grunt made her pause.
"Don't," he whispered.
"Don't?"
"Don't touch me."
At his words, her skin burst with the need for him to touch her, to feel more than the warm cascades of his breaths caressing her skin, almost becoming effervescent in their course as every exhale sparkled goosebumps over her body. He was tilting ever closer, his nose running a trail up her neck and jaw, inhaling her as if he could taste her innermost soul with his breath alone.
"I sense there are still some layers here I haven't stripped off, Stacey," he whispered, so close to her ear it was as if the words came from her own mind, having washed into his mouth and spilling out, like a wave, always finding its way into a cave of secrets. "And I want you to come back to see me. On Tuesday."
At the thought, her throat tightened, and pain shot up behind her eyes. She turned her face away from him, from what he might know, and from himself. How messed up was she really?
"Don't." His body inched closer and the heat of his lips rested on her temple. "Don't pull away from me like that. Please."
His chest was a mere inch from hers, his thighs almost brushing her own. Her desire to cry in his arms, to let go and only be with him, was breaking down every resolve. "Ivo--"
"And don't whisper my name as if you're about to come."
"Ivo--" Don't whisper my name as if you're about to come. Stacey was on the edge, wanting to jump if only he'd slip his hand lower to her breasts or cup her sex. She'd go there in a second.
"If we are going to do this, I prefer to be totally and utterly sober."
She didn't care anymore. Drunk, sober, low, high. Whatever. "Why?"
Another step away from her, he pulled his strained body tall, fisted his hands and shoved them into his jacket pockets. "Why?" he asked with a mirthless chuckle.
"Yes, why? You want this. I want this. I want us. And you know it." She swallowed hard and wrapped her arms around her waist, clutching her breasts and wishing it were his palms covering her. "And we both know this is the reason why I haven't been back. We shouldn't, but now--" She paused a second, for once the words were put out there, she wouldn't be able to retract them. "I don't care anymore."
"Neither do I." His gaze drilled into her. "But still. I'd like to be dirt sober, so I can't blame anything else for filling every last inch of your body with my own."
At his whispered words her core contracted, screaming out the need for him, and him alone.
But he sauntered off toward the glass doors that led into the gallery. For a second he paused, his back facing her.
"How are you getting home?" he asked.
She peeled herself off the wall, her legs all jelly with what he'd done with her in his delicate, if ruthlessly arousing, caresses.
"James... James and Mila will take me home. They're staying with us in Llandudno."
He nodded. "I'll see you Tuesday."
His words were not a question; they were an ill-disguised command. He didn't give her the gap to respond. He was gone with long strides, not looking back, but leaving an imprint on every part of her lonely and longing body.
There was only one thing that could happen in his office on Tuesday.
She was in for it, all of it.
The Paris Apartment by Sophia Karlson (Love Nests #1) -
About the Author:
Sophia Karlson writes sensual, emotional, and evocative contemporary romance, often set in far-flung settings. She used to work in the travel industry before turning to full-time writing. Her first book, Perfect Mistake, was a finalist for the Daphne Award for Romantic Suspense and won the Kathryn Hayes award in 2019. All her novels can be read as standalone, although she tends to write about siblings because family dynamics are so intriguing. Taking readers on a journey of their own with her books is part of the plot. Bon voyage!
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