I'm Sure She'd Understand

Dr. Taylor raises an eyebrow when Sam walks in solo, no wife in sight. He drops the bomb fast—wife's in the hospital, life support, the whole ugly scene. He's going for the lonely-and-starved angle, laying it on thick. She buys the grief act. Tells him his wife probably wouldn't hold it against him if he found a little human contact while the shitstorm plays out. Classic counselor move. Then Sam turns it on her. Drops the ask right in her lap—says he needs her, specifically her, to fuck the pain away and keep him breathing through the night. She hesitates, feels that little twist of sympathy mix with something hotter, and decides what the hell. Clothes hit the floor, bodies get close. She rides him slow, keeps it soft at first, almost gentle like she's doing him a favor. He eats it up, moans thanks between her tits, grabs her ass like it's the only thing keeping him alive. They move from the couch to the floor, she lets him fuck her from behind, fingers tangled in her hair, both of them slick and breathing hard. She comes first, clenching around him, and he follows right after, pumping deep like he can't help himself. The second he pulls out, his phone buzzes. He checks it, smirks, and shows her the screen. Wife's awake. Whole story was a lie. He just wanted to fuck his hot therapist.