Chapter 77 - SEVENTY SEVEN

Chapter 77: Chapter SEVENTY SEVEN

ANGEL

Dr Moreau’s office smelled like chamomile tea.

I hated it even before my ass touched the chair.

The woman was exactly what I expected. Her dark hair was pinned into a strict bun, her reading glasses dangling on her nose. She was wearing a silk blouse that was buttoned all the way to her throat.

And she was curvy. This was the very first thing I clocked and it pissed me off immediately.

Her breasts were huge, pushing against the silk of her blouse like they were trying to escape.

Her pencil skirt did nothing to hide the width of her hips.

I could see so many similarities between her and Jillian.

They had the same body. That soft polished femininity that I could never possess. She was obviously the type of woman that Vincenzo would like.

Jillian was gone, Vincenzo had told me about their divorce when I’d asked about her a few days ago.

I’d been more than thrilled to know that hateful bitch was out of his life.

Who knew there’d be a fucking psychologist named Dr Moreau?

I sneered inwardly, not bothering to disguise my dislike at how proper she looked. She looked like the kind of woman who went home to a clean apartment and a glass of wine and never had a man’s cum drying on her thighs while she begged for more.

She had probably never crawled across a floor on her hands and knees to put her mouth on a cock because she was told to. She didn’t look like she had ever been on her knees thanking someone for ruining her throat.

I hated her. The hate was instant and absolute and it had nothing to do with therapy.

It was because of what happened in the waiting room about five minutes ago.

"Vincenzo. It’s good to see you," Dr Moreau had come out to greet us personally, she had used a first-name basis with Daddy.

She’d smiled at him and then she’d leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Her hand had found his forearm and stayed there—two seconds, I counted—while her eyes went all dewy looking up at him. Like she saw a devoted father struggling with a difficult daughter, she had definitely looked like she wanted to take some of his worries off his shoulders and onto her big, welcoming tits.

I stood three feet away watching this with a smile while imagining a knife on her throat.

This woman wanted to fuck my father.

And she had absolutely no idea who she was competing with.

"Please, have a seat." She gestured to a leather armchair with that therapist smile. Safe. Warm. That totally gave me the ’I’m here for you, sweetheart’ vibes, but it only made my teeth ache.

I sat. Crossed my arms. And gave her nothing.

"How are you feeling today, Angel?"

"Fine."

"Vincenzo mentioned you’ve been through a difficult time recently. Would you like to talk about any of that?"

"No."

"That’s okay. We can start wherever you’re comfortable."

I wasn’t comfortable. I was sitting in a chair that smelled like other people’s tears, staring at a woman with Jillian’s body who’d just put her lips on my father’s face like she had the right to put her lips anywhere near him.

"Is there anything on your mind right now? Anything at all?"

Scrubbing your lips with a knife, maybe.

"No."

She wrote something. The scratch of pen on paper crawled under my skin.

"Sometimes it takes a few sessions to feel comfortable opening up," she said, still with that maddening patience. Like my hostility was a very normal pattern she’d simply wait out. "As we have more sessions together, you might find it easier to—"

"How do you know Vincenzo?" I cut her off.

The question landed and I watched her face carefully like a hawk targeting a chick.

There it was again—that softness in her eyes. whenever Vincenzo’s name was mentioned.

"Your father and I have been friends for some time," she said quietly.

Friends? Why didn’t I know about this?

They were not even business colleagues. But friends. Was it with benefits?

That little word was stretchy enough to cover everything from dinner to his cock in her mouth.

I also didn’t like the way she simply referred to him as my father.

The savagery of it burned through me. Vincenzo was my Daddy. Mine. And the difference between those two words was something her psychology degree will never teach her.

I didn’t say it. I was saving my bullets.

Dr. Moreau steered back to her questions. How was I sleeping? Was I eating? Did I think about hurting myself? Each question was asked with a calm so unshakeable that I fantasized about smashing her face along with her reading glasses against her desk just to hear something break.

I gave her one-word answers. Hostile stares. I stared at her until she looked away first, then stared some more, I just wanted to make her very uncomfortable.

She was good, I’d give her that. She didn’t fidget under my obvious dislike. She just sat there with her pen and her notepad, waiting me out as if I was a wild animal she planned to tame with kindness.

Five minutes of this. Ten. The clock on her wall ticked loud enough to hear between my heartbeats.

I was bored. And being boredom made me start to think, and thinking turned into scheming.

If this woman wouldn’t quit from silence, she’d quit from horror.

A sudden idea unfurled inside me and I felt my lips curve into a smile that I knew looked wrong.

"You want me to talk?" I said with a sudden cheerfulness. "Fine. Let’s talk."

Dr. Moreau’s looked surprised by my sudden openness. I nearly rolled my eyes, she had no idea.

"Sure, what do you want to talk about,"

"I want to talk about Damien."

"Of course. Tell me about Damien."

"He was the man who kidnapped me to an island where he keeps other slaves. Do you know I ended up being his favorite?" I let my voice go soft. Dreamy.

"He made me feel things I didn’t know I was capable of feeling."

Dr. Moreau nodded, writing something in her notes.

"He liked to fuck me on his desk," I continued, and watched her pen stutter. "He’d bend me over it and pull my hair until my back arched and take me from behind so hard the whole desk would slam against the wall. His favorite position. He said he liked watching my ass bounce while he fucked me."