Title: Therapist
Author: Jaden Wilkes
Release Date: May 19, 2014
SYNOPSIS
I am a sociopath.
I know this because I diagnosed myself.
I have a PhD in Clinical Psychology from a very prestigious university.
I am charming, attractive, and you probably want to sleep with me.
I take what I want, when I want, and I enjoy picking the most tragic of all my patients to experiment with.
I have no remorse, I am unrelenting in my pursuit of tragedy, and I am about to meet my match.
Her name is not important, I am only allowed to call her Mistress. She is a femme fatale, a patient, and now an obsession.
She will destroy me, I will do anything to get inside of her.
I can already feel her inside of me.
**Trigger warning. This novel contains situations of perversity and dubious consent. It is not a love story, but more of a journey through a few short days in the life of a madman. What you see is not always what you get, reality is altered through his eyes and sometimes there is no happily ever after.
I know this because I diagnosed myself.
I have a PhD in Clinical Psychology from a very prestigious university.
I am charming, attractive, and you probably want to sleep with me.
I take what I want, when I want, and I enjoy picking the most tragic of all my patients to experiment with.
I have no remorse, I am unrelenting in my pursuit of tragedy, and I am about to meet my match.
Her name is not important, I am only allowed to call her Mistress. She is a femme fatale, a patient, and now an obsession.
She will destroy me, I will do anything to get inside of her.
I can already feel her inside of me.
**Trigger warning. This novel contains situations of perversity and dubious consent. It is not a love story, but more of a journey through a few short days in the life of a madman. What you see is not always what you get, reality is altered through his eyes and sometimes there is no happily ever after.
EXCERPT:
As I approach my office, I am hit with a
familiar scent. Cigarette smoke. An earthy, fragrant smell that tickles the
edge of my memory. I know this brand from somewhere, but I don’t know where.
I follow my nose down the short hallway to
my private area and open my door.
Smoke hangs heavy in the air, clouds of it
billow away from me as I enter. I cut a path through to find out who fucking
dares to pollute my office like this.
“Shut the door, Alexandre,” a smooth
female voice announces as I enter my space. I turn and see a figure seated on
the couch, a halo of pure white smoke envelops her head and she exhales a
languid breath that lingers as she speaks. “We need to talk.”
I don’t know why, but I obey. I shut the
door, turn back again and look at her. She seems familiar; I think I’ve seen
her before. She’s wearing a cherry red cocktail dress, dangerously high black
leather heels and elbow length white silk gloves. Her hair is black and falls
in waves around her face; her eyes are just as dark. I stare into them and
wonder if they ever end.
“Who are you and how did you get in here?”
I demand and walk to the window. “Please put out your cigarette, this is a no
smoking office,” I continue and slide the glass open.
“I don’t want to, I feel more comfortable
with a cigarette in my hand,” she purrs and smiles at me. Her lips are dark red
and her teeth are perfect, white and straight. She’s an incredibly beautiful
woman. “Think of it as part of my...treatment.”
“Why are you here this early? Who
scheduled you? And once again, how did you get in?” I demand again. She laughs
and leans back on the couch, her long legs stretch out in front of her,
emphasising their perfect shape.
She doesn’t answer, but says, “Doctor, I believe
I have an urgent issue we need to address. Please,” she gestures towards my
desk, “have a seat.” She draws one last breath from her cigarette, exhales as I
sit and butts it out on the bottom of her shoe. Red, Louboutins. In a flash I
remember where I’ve seen her. Just last weekend at the restaurant. She was
there, was she watching me?
I take my seat. She doesn’t seem like the
type I want to argue with, at least not until I get to know her. I decide to go
along with her little game and give her the illusion of being in control until
I can determine how she needs to be treated. “Well? What is this about?” I ask
and set my satchel down on the floor next to my chair.
She takes the cigarette butt and flicks it
onto the floor at her feet. She leans back again and looks me up and down,
landing on my face, her own a mask of disapproval. “You have been a very, very
wicked boy, Alexandre,” she says, her voice still a purr. She has the slightest
accent and draws out the last part of my name with a sexy drawl. It’s not
Russian, Eastern European perhaps? Middle Eastern? I can’t tell, and with her
ambiguous dark features, I couldn’t put a finger on her ethnicity either. She’s
beautiful and a complete conundrum.
“Why would you say that, Miss...what did
you say your name is?” I ask her, leaning across the desk. I forgot to give the
surface a swipe yesterday afternoon and it still carries the slightest pungent
scent of the sex that happened on it. A gentle nudge, a reminder of the wicked
things I have done.
“I didn’t,” she says and smiles. She
almost moves in slow motion as if underwater, elegant and purposeful. “I’ve
been watching you, Alexandre, and I’ve seen you get up to all kinds of terrible
things.”
“What kinds of things?” I ask her,
deciding to continue engaging in her little delusion until I know more about
her.
“Things to women, vulnerable women,” she
says and raises an eyebrow. “Patients, women you pick up in bars, online...you
are very busy and very wicked.”
“How do you know this?” I ask her, feeling
rather uncomfortable at this particular line of accusation. I’m very careful
with my activities, especially with patients. “Have you been following me?”
“Not following, but watching. They’re very
different thing. I’ve had my eye on you for a while now, you know,” she tells
me and watches my reaction.
“What is your name?” I demand again,
feeling that familiar sharp prick of anger rising behind my eyes.
“My name is unimportant. You may call me
Mistress.”
“Mistress?” I repeat and laugh, “I don’t
think it’s appropriate to be calling you that. Now please tell me your name so
I have something to call you.”
She leans forward on the couch, crosses
her ankles and stares me down. After a moment or two of uncomfortable silence,
I realize I have to capitulate to get anywhere with her.
I shuffled a few papers on my desk, look
back at her and say, “Fine, Mistress it is. Now why are you here...Mistress?”
She licks her lips and leans back again,
extends her beautiful legs and folds her hands on her lap. She is perfection
and she knows it. That irritates me somehow and yet I can’t help but hang on
her every word. The anticipation of her reply is coursing through my veins.
“I already told you,” she says in her low,
melodic voice, “I am here because you have been wicked. I am here to punish
you.”
I’m not that into BDSM. I like to tie
people up and I am the consummate Dominant man if it comes right down to
it...but the way she says it, in the mysterious accent, sends a thrill down my
spine. I lean farther across the desk, look her in the eyes and say, “How are
you planning on punishing me?”
TEASERS:
Title: Therapist
Author: Jaden Wilkes
Release Date: May 19, 2014
MY REVIEW:
SYNOPSIS
I am a sociopath.
I know this because I diagnosed myself.
I have a PhD in Clinical Psychology from a very prestigious university.
I am charming, attractive, and you probably want to sleep with me.
I take what I want, when I want, and I enjoy picking the most tragic of all my patients to experiment with.
I have no remorse, I am unrelenting in my pursuit of tragedy, and I am about to meet my match.
Her name is not important, I am only allowed to call her Mistress. She is a femme fatale, a patient, and now an obsession.
She will destroy me, I will do anything to get inside of her.
I can already feel her inside of me.
**Trigger warning. This novel contains situations of perversity and dubious consent. It is not a love story, but more of a journey through a few short days in the life of a madman. What you see is not always what you get, reality is altered through his eyes and sometimes there is no happily ever after.
I know this because I diagnosed myself.
I have a PhD in Clinical Psychology from a very prestigious university.
I am charming, attractive, and you probably want to sleep with me.
I take what I want, when I want, and I enjoy picking the most tragic of all my patients to experiment with.
I have no remorse, I am unrelenting in my pursuit of tragedy, and I am about to meet my match.
Her name is not important, I am only allowed to call her Mistress. She is a femme fatale, a patient, and now an obsession.
She will destroy me, I will do anything to get inside of her.
I can already feel her inside of me.
**Trigger warning. This novel contains situations of perversity and dubious consent. It is not a love story, but more of a journey through a few short days in the life of a madman. What you see is not always what you get, reality is altered through his eyes and sometimes there is no happily ever after.
EXCERPT:
As I approach my office, I am hit with a
familiar scent. Cigarette smoke. An earthy, fragrant smell that tickles the
edge of my memory. I know this brand from somewhere, but I don’t know where.
I follow my nose down the short hallway to
my private area and open my door.
Smoke hangs heavy in the air, clouds of it
billow away from me as I enter. I cut a path through to find out who fucking
dares to pollute my office like this.
“Shut the door, Alexandre,” a smooth
female voice announces as I enter my space. I turn and see a figure seated on
the couch, a halo of pure white smoke envelops her head and she exhales a
languid breath that lingers as she speaks. “We need to talk.”
I don’t know why, but I obey. I shut the
door, turn back again and look at her. She seems familiar; I think I’ve seen
her before. She’s wearing a cherry red cocktail dress, dangerously high black
leather heels and elbow length white silk gloves. Her hair is black and falls
in waves around her face; her eyes are just as dark. I stare into them and
wonder if they ever end.
“Who are you and how did you get in here?”
I demand and walk to the window. “Please put out your cigarette, this is a no
smoking office,” I continue and slide the glass open.
“I don’t want to, I feel more comfortable
with a cigarette in my hand,” she purrs and smiles at me. Her lips are dark red
and her teeth are perfect, white and straight. She’s an incredibly beautiful
woman. “Think of it as part of my...treatment.”
“Why are you here this early? Who
scheduled you? And once again, how did you get in?” I demand again. She laughs
and leans back on the couch, her long legs stretch out in front of her,
emphasising their perfect shape.
She doesn’t answer, but says, “Doctor, I believe
I have an urgent issue we need to address. Please,” she gestures towards my
desk, “have a seat.” She draws one last breath from her cigarette, exhales as I
sit and butts it out on the bottom of her shoe. Red, Louboutins. In a flash I
remember where I’ve seen her. Just last weekend at the restaurant. She was
there, was she watching me?
I take my seat. She doesn’t seem like the
type I want to argue with, at least not until I get to know her. I decide to go
along with her little game and give her the illusion of being in control until
I can determine how she needs to be treated. “Well? What is this about?” I ask
and set my satchel down on the floor next to my chair.
She takes the cigarette butt and flicks it
onto the floor at her feet. She leans back again and looks me up and down,
landing on my face, her own a mask of disapproval. “You have been a very, very
wicked boy, Alexandre,” she says, her voice still a purr. She has the slightest
accent and draws out the last part of my name with a sexy drawl. It’s not
Russian, Eastern European perhaps? Middle Eastern? I can’t tell, and with her
ambiguous dark features, I couldn’t put a finger on her ethnicity either. She’s
beautiful and a complete conundrum.
“Why would you say that, Miss...what did
you say your name is?” I ask her, leaning across the desk. I forgot to give the
surface a swipe yesterday afternoon and it still carries the slightest pungent
scent of the sex that happened on it. A gentle nudge, a reminder of the wicked
things I have done.
“I didn’t,” she says and smiles. She
almost moves in slow motion as if underwater, elegant and purposeful. “I’ve
been watching you, Alexandre, and I’ve seen you get up to all kinds of terrible
things.”
“What kinds of things?” I ask her,
deciding to continue engaging in her little delusion until I know more about
her.
“Things to women, vulnerable women,” she
says and raises an eyebrow. “Patients, women you pick up in bars, online...you
are very busy and very wicked.”
“How do you know this?” I ask her, feeling
rather uncomfortable at this particular line of accusation. I’m very careful
with my activities, especially with patients. “Have you been following me?”
“Not following, but watching. They’re very
different thing. I’ve had my eye on you for a while now, you know,” she tells
me and watches my reaction.
“What is your name?” I demand again,
feeling that familiar sharp prick of anger rising behind my eyes.
“My name is unimportant. You may call me
Mistress.”
“Mistress?” I repeat and laugh, “I don’t
think it’s appropriate to be calling you that. Now please tell me your name so
I have something to call you.”
She leans forward on the couch, crosses
her ankles and stares me down. After a moment or two of uncomfortable silence,
I realize I have to capitulate to get anywhere with her.
I shuffled a few papers on my desk, look
back at her and say, “Fine, Mistress it is. Now why are you here...Mistress?”
She licks her lips and leans back again,
extends her beautiful legs and folds her hands on her lap. She is perfection
and she knows it. That irritates me somehow and yet I can’t help but hang on
her every word. The anticipation of her reply is coursing through my veins.
“I already told you,” she says in her low,
melodic voice, “I am here because you have been wicked. I am here to punish
you.”
I’m not that into BDSM. I like to tie
people up and I am the consummate Dominant man if it comes right down to
it...but the way she says it, in the mysterious accent, sends a thrill down my
spine. I lean farther across the desk, look her in the eyes and say, “How are
you planning on punishing me?”
TEASERS:
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