Sex Therapy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  SEX THERAPY

  City of Sinners Series Book 2

  Jillian Quinn

  Contents

  Other Titles By Jillian Quinn

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  TEACH

  TEACH EXCERPT

  PARKER

  PARKER EXCERPT

  KANE

  KANE EXCERPT

  DONOVAN

  DONOVAN EXCERPT

  CORRUPT ME

  CORRUPT ME EXCERPT

  Other Titles By Jillian Quinn

  Author’s Note

  NEWSLETTER

  About the Author

  Other Titles By Jillian Quinn

  FACE-OFF SERIES

  Book 1: Parker

  Book 2: Kane

  Book 3: Donovan

  Book 4: Jameson (July 2017)

  CITY OF SINNERS NOVELLA SERIES

  Book 1: Teach

  Book 2: Sex Therapy

  Book 3: Judge (Fall 2018)

  PHILLY CORRUPTION SERIES

  Corrupt Me

  Totally Corrupt (TBD)

  For updates on Jillian’s upcoming books, visit jillianquinnbooks.com

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  Copyright © 2017 by Jillian Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at jillianquinnbooks.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Jackson

  Trying not to roll my eyes, I keep my head tilted down at the pad in my lap, pretending to take notes. These sessions are fucking painful. Every second spent with the Petersons makes me want to gouge my eyes out with the goddamn pen in my hand. Instead of writing, I’m doodling—large, full breasts, to be exact. I’m a sex doctor, or more accurately, The Sex Doctor, a name I was given by my patients after fixing so many marriages.

  Now, I see everyone from married couples hanging on by a thread to men with erectile dysfunction. But I treat anyone with sex related problems. Sex is my business, and business has been good over the past three years.

  Doing my best to ignore my blabbering mess of a patient, I mutter, uh-huh, a few times, so it seems as though I care. I don’t. And why would I? I’m a single doctor with a big dick, money in the bank, and enough women lined up to keep me occupied for months. The issues my patients have with their spouses will never apply to me.

  I prefer my freedom, thank you very much. I’m content with being thirty years old and unmarried. In fact, I love it. Single life suits me well. With no kids tying me down, or baby mamas in the way, my life is fucking sweet.

  As I trace the outline of the nipple I drew on my paper, I nod my head and say, “And how does that make you feel?”

  Helen Peterson has no idea I have tuned her out, same as her husband. He never listens to a word that comes out of her mouth. The Petersons are here because Tom is having an affair with the woman next door. His wife just doesn’t know it yet. The corners of his mouth turn up as he talks about his relationship with Cynthia, the next-door neighbor, which tells me I am spot on.

  Every time Cynthia’s name is mentioned by his wife, Tom’s face perks up. Cynthia is married with no kids and is friends with Helen. All the obvious signs are there for his wife to see, yet she either subscribes to the ignorance is bliss ideology, or she lives in her own reality world.

  How she doesn’t see what is right in front of her face is beyond me.

  I encounter the same issue every day with my patients. Most of the time, there are deeper issues within the marriage that the couple must resolve before we can begin our treatment. But with people like the Petersons, no amount of therapy will keep Tom’s dick in his pants. Some men have that wandering eye—no matter how attractive their wife may be.

  “He doesn’t look at me anymore,” Helen whines, causing me to glance up from the perky tits with dime-size nipples I am tracing.

  Thirty more minutes before I can leave this damn office and meet my noon appointment for sex. I mean coffee. Maybe a little bit of both. I met this girl at Broad Street Beans this morning who flashed me a bend me over and fuck me smile. And I plan to do exactly that. If I wasn’t running late to see a patient, I would have fucked her in the bathroom while the barista made my latte and then went on my way.

  But duty called, despite my sudden urges. The hot blonde insisted we have a lunch date as if I would ever consider what we’re about to do a date. She can call it what she wants. I plan to buy her coffee, and then, spank her firm ass as she takes my cock and moans my fucking name.

  “Do you see what I have to put up with?” Tom yells, throwing his hands in the air, pulling me away from drawing.

  I glance up at the middle age couple, my eyes focused on Tom. “Communication is your biggest problem. If you’re not willing to give therapy time to work, then I’m not so sure I can help you.”

  I’ve been over the Petersons and their drama since their second session, with each visit growing worse as the weeks pass by. As their doctor, I have to remain impartial, present two sides to the story. No matter how many times I have tried to do this, they insist they will follow my suggestions, only to show up fighting over the same issues. Even with all the medical advice in the world, I cannot save this marriage.

  “Are you quitting on us, Dr. King?” Helen’s eyes and mouth widen in shock.

  I clear my throat before I speak, giving myself a second to come up with some bullshit to spin for them. “No, of course, not. I have my reservations about treatment working for either of you for as long as you come here as a couple. Maybe as individuals therapy could work. There are bigger issues you need to address before you can work on fixing your marriage.”

  She folds her arms across her chest, pushing up her saggy tits. Disturbed by the visual, I go back to staring down at the pair of boobs I was working on before they interrupted me with their complaints. I wish they’d just do as my parents had when I was a kid, realize they are not compatible and move on with their lives. Instead, they would rather come here and annoy the shit out of me every Tuesday.

  “We’re doing everything you tell us, and still, we have nothing to show for it.” Tom sounds as whiny as his wife does when he talks. “She nags me all day long. I can’t take it anymore. You said you could fix us.”

  Just like Tom, my father was a dick. He cheated on my mother for years before she had finally figured out that he’d spent all those late nights with his female partner in the back of his cop car. I learned from an early age that relationships take time and effort. Marriage is not for everyone. The more I see how dysfunctional people are, the less desirable monogamy is to me.

  What’s the point? If I can walk into Broad Street Beans and get a blow job as fast as a cup of coffee, then why would I want to put up with the shit the Petersons are dealing with? No, thanks.

  “I can
help you find the source of the problem, Tom, but I can’t make everything better overnight. You have to work with me if you want results. What suggestions of mine have you attempted over the past week?”

  His eyes fall to his lap as he bites the inside of his cheek, probably thinking over the fact he was banging his next door neighbor when he should have been home with his wife. While she may not be as youthful as the woman he’s having an affair with, Helen is not bad to look at. An over weight, middle-aged man like Tom could have done a lot worse.

  But most of the time, people cheat because they are unhappy and not because they found someone more attractive. When my father would joke with my mother that he was trading her in for a younger model, he wasn’t joking. My mom’s replacement was ten years younger and close in age to me, so close that she had just graduated from the Philadelphia Police Academy not long after meeting my father.

  I never said he wasn’t a creeper, but guys like my dad and Tom are all the same. At least I know the white picket fence and cookie cutter family does not suit my personality or lifestyle.

  After waiting far too long for Tom to think of a response, he shrugs. That’s it.

  Annoyed, I glance over at Helen and say, “What has Tom done this week to help rebuild your marriage? Did he assist you with the household chores or offer to take you out for dinner? Something as small as making time to watch TV together or sharing a meal could help.”

  She turns to her husband, a look of disgust on her face, and shakes her head, the dark strands falling in her eyes. “No, he hasn’t done a damn thing. He’s always disappearing into the garage or the basement or even the backyard for hours on end, and then I find out he was next door helping out our neighbors with something.”

  “Cynthia had trouble with her washer. The thing hasn’t worked right for weeks.” His tone is defensive. I see the guilt register on his face, and lucky for Tom, Helen does not notice.

  “Cynthia has a husband who can help her fix the washer. Or she can call a repairman like a reasonable person. You don’t know a damn thing about fixing a washing machine. You never even replaced the broken knobs on the kitchen cabinets in our house, yet you always find time to run next door every day.”

  Maybe she does know about his infidelity. If she has even the slightest hint of suspicion, then why doesn’t she confront him while we’re in this room, trying to work out their problems?

  I go back to tracing the outline of the nipple on my paper, counting down the minutes until I can leave for lunch. This conversation with the Petersons only reaffirms my decision to remain single, an eternal bachelor with no commitments holding me back.

  “Tom is good with his hands, but I think there comes the point when I have to put my foot down.” Helen finally has some fire behind her words, the rage bubbling up and scrolling across her face. She’s turning redder by the second.

  Her cheeks and chest are so splotchy I hope she doesn’t pass out in my office. Because that would mean missing my noon BJ, and I can’t pass up on another chance to have those luscious lips from this morning wrapped around my cock. I was sorry I had to take a raincheck. Nothing will stop me this time.

  “Helen, I think you should tell Tom what you want for him.” I stick the pen inside my book and close it over, peeking up at my patient. “Lay it all out on the table, so he knows what is expected of him when you go home.”

  Knowing that Tom has been cheating on his wife for what appears to be at least a few months, I have no real hope for the success of this marriage. I try to stay optimistic when I first enter treatment with my patients. But Tom’s unwillingness to end his affair and work with Helen leaves me frustrated. We are wasting our time sitting in this office each week.

  Helen rambles off a list of things Tom needs to work on while I do my best to pretend to listen. I record the sessions for a reason. A man can only take so much ranting and bashing before you have to retreat to a happy place, one where nagging wives and girlfriends are not allowed. For me, that place is a strip club, a complaint free zone where no one can bug me. All my happy places, both real and in my head, involve naked women and a glass of Scotch.

  Saved by the bell, the timer goes off on my phone to signify the end of the session. What a relief. After what seemed like hours of my life wasted, sucked dry like a vampire draining a human, this nightmare is over. I’m imagining the unnamed girl I met this morning, which excites me.

  If I were smart, I would have asked for her name and number. I chuckle to myself, wondering what I’d even do with her number. Not like I would call her. I shudder at the thought of sitting on the phone and having an actual conversation with a woman. Cell phones are for calling take out restaurants to deliver food and texting booty calls in the middle of the night, all of which are on speed dial. Other than that, the damn thing is useless, apart from announcing the end of painful therapy sessions.

  “Take care,” I say, standing in an attempt to silence my patients and their brutal conversation. “Tom, make an effort to talk to Helen more and help her out with chores instead of running over to the neighbor’s house. Just give it a shot, and I’ll see you next week.”

  Tom helps Helen up from the couch, a gesture that not only surprises her but me as well. I haven’t seen Tom touch his wife once since I started working with them.

  Rushing them out the door, I grab my wallet from my desk along with my keys. I wait a minute for them to leave. After I lock my door, I fly past Alexa, my secretary, telling her I will be back in time for my next appointment, and step out into the hallway to hit the button on the elevator.

  Time to get my dick sucked.

  Chapter Two

  Chloe

  The law offices of Harper, Pierce, and Goldman are vacant at this hour. It’s hard to believe that in the five years since I skipped town with Mike that I have only been inside this building three times. His firm owns the entire top floor, which makes it challenging for me to figure out where I am going. With only a few secretaries and junior associates shuffling throughout the halls, all of them busy and with their minds elsewhere, I roam the halls unattended.

  My soon-to-be husband just made partner, and with Mike working a lot of late nights, I thought I would surprise him with dinner. It’s what a good wifey would do. We haven’t spent as much time together over the last few months with Mike always working. He was assigned to a big case he refuses to discuss, leaving me home alone. Some nights, he slips into bed well after two in the morning.

  Clutching the paper takeout bags in my hands, the scent of Italian herbs filling my nostrils, I peek at the names on the closed doors I walk past. From what I had gathered, a corner office came with Mike’s promotion. So, I follow the curved walls, around the bend, and to a dead-end with four more doors. The setup is interesting, unlike anything I have ever seen before.

  Door number one belongs to the managing partner, Travis Harper. Pierce and Goldman occupy doors two and three. Mike is last. I smile at the placard that says Mike Hartwell, Senior Partner. This is everything he worked toward for the past five years. His new partners lured him away from Philadelphia with the promise of more, and they held up their end of the bargain. Mike is still waiting to have his name added to the wall in the entryway, but just seeing the sign for myself in person consumes me with so much pride over his accomplishment.

  I turn the doorknob, nervous anticipation brewing inside me that quickly turns to excitement. The look on Mike’s face will be priceless. Or at least that’s what I think before I push open the door, taking in the mental picture laid before me. This is not real. Mike would not do this to me.

  Blinking a few times, I watch as my fiancé grips the hair of a brunette who is sucking his tiny cock.

  Motherfucker! How could he do this to me?

  “I’m going to come,” he tells her with his eyes closed and head tilted up to the ceiling.

  “No, you’re not!” I don’t even recognize my own voice I yell so loud. The bags in my hands fall to the floor, crashing against
the tile with a loud bang. “You lying, cheating piece of shit.”

  Glancing over at me, with her lips still wrapped around Mike’s cock, the girl’s eyes widen in shock. She finally gets enough sense to remove the dick from her mouth. I can already tell she’s not a bright one. The color drains from Mike’s face when he locks eyes with me and realizes he’s busted.

  You can’t have your cake and eat it too, you bastard.

  “Chloe, it’s—” He chokes out the words, but I cut him off.

  “It’s not what I think. Is that what you were going to say? Because this is exactly what it looks like. I get that you have been working late, but it seems to me that you have been working her more than the case.”

  “Sawyer is my secretary,” he says, defensive, standing up with his dick hanging out from the slit in his trousers.

  I wish I could take a picture and capture this moment for everyone to see. The sight of Mike vulnerable and with his sad dick out on display is fucking priceless. While the sex with him was never anything worthy of an ovation, I put up with him because of the life he had promised me. I never had much growing up, and when Mike waltzed into my life like Prince Charming, ready to sweep me off my feet, I knew I couldn’t say no.

  So, I followed him to Hartford, Connecticut and waited for him to make partner. But what did I gain from this arrangement? Now, I’m a twenty-five year old college dropout with few skills and a worthless asshole of a fiancé. Well, as of thirty seconds ago, I have an ex-fiancé.

  Hello, sleeping pills and vodka, my new best friends. Staring up at the ceiling in what used to be my bedroom with Mike, I pop another pill from the bottle and chug it down with a big ass swig of vanilla vodka, straight from the bottle. This is rock bottom, I guess. For years, I watched my mother drink herself into a stupor over my father leaving us behind. I was five when he walked out of our lives for good. He never turned back.