Rating M
Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyers owns all things Twilight - I just make them sin with a grin.

Huge thanks and big love to Carrie ZM for beta'ing this bad b and all the hours you spend
helping me through the process and making my fics fit for public viewing. I think you get-off on commas.
Thank you to Planetblue and Robsmyyummy Cabanaboy for pre-reading, your
encouragement and advice. Special thanks to Ceci Lolypowski for the beautiful banner.
I appreciate all of you ladies more than an A/N could ever say.

"Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure."
-Lord Byron

Gluttony: noun \ˈglət-nē, ˈglə-tə-nē \

1 : excess in eating or drinking

2 : greedy or excessive indulgence

"Rosalie Hale to see Dr. Afton."

The receptionist holds up her long, bony index finger telling me to hold on without even looking in my direction, pulling the microphone of her headset closer to her mouth.

"Dr. Afton has two openings next week. He's available Monday at 9:00 AM or Wednesday at 1:00 PM. Would either of those days work for you?" Her voice is sweet and soothing and a stark contrast to the bitchy finger she's still holding up to me. "Alright, I have you down for Wednesday at 1:00 PM and thank you for being so understanding." She smiles at her computer screen. "You too, Mrs. Cope. Buh-bye now."

She looks up at me, beaming like I haven't been standing here for the past three minutes. It also appears that she doesn't seem to recognize me which I find odd since I've been seeing Dr. Afton every Monday morning for the past couple of months. "Hi, how can I help you?"

"Rosalie Hale to see Dr. Afton."

Her eyes widen and I can't tell if it's in recognition of my name or my questionable appearance. Normally when I come in for my appointment, I'm dressed for work. I suppose it's a far cry from the dress I wore to the club on Friday night that I'm still sporting three days later.

"Oh, I'm sorry Ms. Hale. We've been trying to reach you. Dr. Afton is ill." She gives me a quick once over. I must look worse than I thought. "I've penciled you in to see Dr. Whitlock in his absence, if you'd like."

I'm torn. On one hand, I have a pretty decent rapport with Dr. Afton. We play chess while we talk. He's familiar with my history and I've come to appreciate his direct, zero-tolerance-for- bullshit approach. This Dr. Whitlock guy, I mean, who knows, he may have me committed or something like that.

"He's new to the practice," she says, seemingly sensing my hesitation. With a wave of her hand, she directs my attention to a wall of portraits. I step forward to get a good look at the stand-in, and there he is, nestled between Dr. Weber and Dr. Yorkie is the very youthful Dr. Whitlock.

"Um," I say, drawing out the word staring unbelieving at the young doctor. Chin length, bleach blonde hair frames his face, while his pearly whites offset his fake bake tan. "Yeah… He's like ten - is there anyone of age that I can see?"

"He's a really great doctor," she says quietly and blushes.

Apparently the pointy tooth, spiky hair, finger holder has a thing for the Cheeto-tinted doc.

"I'm sure he is, sweets. But I need to talk to a real doctor who's been at this for more than a month. Is there anyone else you can squeeze me in with today?"

She shakes her head slowly and mouths the word 'sorry' though I don't believe she's sorry at all.

Fuck my life. "Alright, I'll see him."

"Great, go ahead and have a seat. He'll be with you shortly."

Sighing in defeat, I turn and face the thankfully empty waiting room. The overhead lights dance off the sequins of my dress as I walk, making pretty patterns on the light beige carpeting. I happen to catch a glance at my reflection in the mirrored glass coffee table and it's not pretty. Perhaps a trip to the restroom is in order, not that I'm particularly keen on seeing more of my reflection, but I showered and ran out of his place like my hair was on fire to get to this appointment.

"I'll be right back. I just need to use the restroom."

She nods and smiles, giving me the 'OK' sign before pulling her headset microphone to her mouth to answer an incoming call.

"For fuck's sake" I mutter to myself and toss my clutch onto the bathroom mirror's ledge.

To call myself a 'hot mess' is a severe understatement, wearing a strapless mini dress and sky-high stilettos on a Monday morning no less. I think I'll just call a spade a spade and say I look like a 'total fucking disaster'.

I run my fingers through my ratty-ass, air-dried hair, all the while inspecting the pallor of my skin. I wish I could blame the harsh fluorescent lighting or the fact that I'm not wearing a stitch of make-up for my current condition, but I can't. Sadly, I also can't make myself feel guilty for the questionable judgment that has me in this situation in the first place.

"Jackpot!" I pump a celebratory fist feeling like fucking MacGyver when I find a rubber band, a tube of mascara, and some lip balm in my clutch. Perhaps I'll be downgraded from a 'total fucking disaster' to 'quasi train wreck' yet.

Starting with my hair, I pull it all into a messy bun on top of my head when I see them - faint light purple fingerprints along my neck. Turning my head, I find another mark hidden beneath my jaw. I continue feeling around my shoulders and twist around to see if there are any more across my back and down my arms.

A sick satisfied smile crosses my face when I uncover ridges of teeth marks near my cleavage, just below the neckline of my dress. I can't help but revel in the evidence of him all over me. I feel him everywhere. He's there in the burn of my thighs whenever I bend to sit, and the dull ache between my legs that throbs both on contact and at the mere thought of him.

The wicked grin stays firmly in place as I make my way back to the waiting room, giving the receptionist a friendly wave and a wink when I take a seat. I thumb through a nearby US Weekly, distracting myself with the sordid tales of the latest off-the-rails starlet when my phone vibrates through my clutch against my leg. My body begins to hum and buzz right along with it.

It's him, and his text consists of one word. It just so happens to be the only word I ever want to see or hear from him.


I pull my lip through my teeth as I type my confirmation.


His reply is nearly instantaneous.


Unsure of how to answer his question, I decide to go with the least committal response.

I'll let you know.

"Ms. Hale?" I look up to see the young doc coming toward me with his hand extended. "I'm Dr. Jasper Whitlock."

"Dr. Whitlock," I say, taking his orange hand in mine and briefly wonder if his Bain de Soleil sunless tanning lotion will leave a residue on my skin. "Please call me Rosalie."

"Rosalie." He corrects himself and directs me back to his office, but not before tapping the receptionist's desk, giving her a quick wave. Oh yeah, they're fucking for sure.

His office is similar to Dr. Afton's. Cool gray colors against dark charcoal accents. I'm surprised to find a chessboard set up on the table.

"Dr. Afton noted that you guys play chess during your sessions," he says, closing the door softly behind me. "I figured it may make things more comfortable for you."

"Well, that depends," I tell him, taking a seat on the couch. "Are you a better chess player than Dr. Afton?"

He shakes his head. "Not even a little bit. I'm a beginner at best."

"Good, let's play."

"Ladies first." He waves his hand, taking his seat across from me.

I move my pawn to e4 before casually inquiring, "So you've read my file?"

"I have," he confirms, countering my move with a pawn to c5.

"And you know what I'm being treated for?"

"I do." He rests his elbows onto his knees, propping his chin on his entwined hands, watching me play my knight. "How's that going for you?"

I sigh deeply. "Not particularly well." He follows my lead, moving his knight. Beginner my ass, I'm getting hustled. "I think I'm relapsing."

His eyes don't leave the chessboard, nor does his brow arch in surprise, concern or question. "You're relapsing or you've relapsed?"

A humorless chuckle escapes my lips. "Have you seen my outfit today? What do you think?"

He gives no reaction whatsoever.

"I've relapsed," I admit quietly, pushing a loose tendril behind my ear.

He nods, acknowledging my honesty. "How long have you been relapsing? When did it start?"

"I don't know," I lie, knowing exactly when it started.

"You don't know?"

"Maybe a few weeks or so."

"Have you broken your 90-day abstinence commitment?"

My voice is barely above a whisper when I confess. "Yes."


"A few days ago."

"But you say your relapse began a few weeks ago."

I shrug and watch him bring his next knight forward.

"What triggered it?" he questions, his eyes meeting mine for the first time since our match began.

Him. My mouth opens and closes, unsure of the words that may spill out of my mouth. "I met someone."

His eyes go back to the chessboard while he bobs his head in understanding. "Is this a special someone?"

The snort escapes my nose before I can stop it. "If 'special someone' is code for a spectacular fuck, then sure, he's a special someone alright." Apparently the f-bomb brings the brow arch I've been expecting. "No, this is not a romantic entanglement, doc."

"I see." His voice drops as he considers this. "So he's not someone you're in a relationship with. Would you say you see him as a catalyst for your setback?"

"Not really. I don't know. Maybe, I guess." I push another pawn forward on the board and sit back, crossing my arms over my chest. "Ultimately I'm responsible for my choices, but I don't know. He's um," I pause, choosing my words very carefully. "He and I are very similar."

He advances his pawn one square. "How so?"

"We suffer from the same affliction," I say slowly, undoing the bun from the top of my head and nervously pulling my hair to one side.

Several seconds pass before he speaks again. "So, he's been diagnosed with a hypersexual disorder as well?" I confirm with a nod of my head. "How did you meet?"

"That's a long story, doc."

"I've got time."

"It's hardly PG rated."

He laughs. "Good thing we're both grownups here."

I resist the urge to bust his balls and ask to see ID.

"I'm serious. The details are a little…" I trail off suggestively.

"Risqué? Salacious? Obscene?" He rattles off the adjectives that don't even begin to describe our downward spiral into the depths of depravity. "I'm sure I can handle it."

"You asked for it," I tease, swiping one of his pawns and placing it on the table. "We met at a Sexual Compulsives Anonymous meeting or outside of one I guess I should say."

My mind flashes to the night we met as I begin to recount the sordid story to Dr. Whitlock. The words pour from my mouth while the memory plays until I feel as though I'm back in that moment, standing there on Rainbow Boulevard, taking that first deep pull from my pre-meeting cigarette.

Somehow the smoke calms and prepares me for the mind-numbing hour ahead of me. Sixty minutes of people like me sharing their sad, sad stories with other suckers who are just as desperate to fool themselves into believing that they're capable of managing their need. We all sit there and pretend to give a fuck about the person sitting next to us, patting them on the back because they've abstained from beating off in a public venue for eight whole days in a row. Truth be told, I just go to these meetings for the same reason I watch shitty reality TV: to make myself feel better. I may be fucked up, but I'm not as fucked up as those folks.

"Those things will kill you, ya know."

My thoughts are interrupted by the hulk of a man sidling up to me. He's brawny and barrel-chested, and while he appears unassuming in his cargo shorts and slightly snug tee, every single inch of him is muscled and imposing. I can't stop my eyes from roving over his well-defined and deliciously thick extremities. Unfortunately, his brim is pulled down low on his face so I can barely make out his features other than two huge dimples and a cocky smirk.

I blow the smoke out the side of my mouth roughly. "Well doing 'roids makes your dick shrink." I motion my lit cigarette up and down in his direction. "So apparently we both like to live dangerously, hmm?"

He steps close enough that I can see his brown-eyes narrow before he throws a chin nod toward my smoking hand. "Let me light a few more for you."

And with that, he walks into the building without giving me a second glance.

I flick the cig into the street, unable to even savor the dizzying effects any longer now that the Surgeon General took it upon himself to give me an audible warning.

Much like I do every Tuesday evening, I make my way into the meeting room and wave to the two regulars that I can actually tolerate. Just as I'm about to launch into my typical "hi, how ya doin'" thing, I see him. He's shifting nervously near the refreshment table and rightfully so since there is nothing remotely refreshing about the lukewarm coffee or stale store-bought sugar cookies. I wonder if perhaps I was a little too hard on him. Against my better judgment, I approach him in hopes of fulfilling one of my twelve steps and make amends.

"Hey," I say, tapping his bicep. "I'm uh… sorry about that out there." I jerk my thumb at the door on the off chance that he doesn't remember where our little spat went down. "These meetings just, I don't know, unnerve me." I offer my hand. "Truce?"

"Truce." He repeats, taking my hand in his massive one and flashing those killer dimples at me again. "I'm Emmett."

"Rose." I motion to the folding chairs. "Is this your first meeting?"

He shakes his head. "No. I've been going to the Sunday night meetings."

We take our seats in the very back. "Well, let me get you up to speed then." I lean into him and lower my voice, filling him in on who's who. "See that guy with the bed head and the little brunette next to him."

"Mm hmm."

"That's Edward and Bella. They're married and both of them are addicts. They used to go at it like seven times a day or something. Now that they have a kid, they're struggling to take it down a notch. Last week they said they were only doing it like three or four times a day."

"Really?" he asks disbelievingly. "You'd think that he'd look less constipated if he was getting laid that much."

Fair point. "He's a nice guy, a bit broody. I don't know. I really like them. They're actually the most normal ones here."

"What about that guy over there?" He points to the other side of the room where James and Mike are chatting.

"Which one? The potbelly with the pony-tail or the balding one whose neck rolls look like an eight pack of sausages?"


"That's James. The dude gives me the creeps. He doesn't talk much, just leers and shit. He's like a Law and Order SVU episode just waiting to happen."

"What about sausage neck?"

"That's Mike. See the platinum blonde in the second row." He discreetly shifts so he can get a good look. "That's his wife, Lauren. She's here to support him." I shake my head, eying the sandy blonde next to her who I swear he's fucking on the side. "He's doing her dirty though."

"You think?"

"Absolutely. He's like a degenerate gambler as well, probably banging cocktail waitresses two at a time."

"Him?" he asks, managing to sound both incredulous and disgusted.

I hold up my hand and rub my thumb across the tops of my fingers , letting him know that money makes the pack of hot dogs on his neck a seem little more kosher to the skanks.

The meeting begins before I can give him the scoop on anyone else. Just like me, he doesn't share, he just listens. We sit in relative silence, fidgeting in our seats every now and again, particularly when someone's story hits too close to home. At least I assume that's why he does it, too.

"You gonna light up again, smoky?" He teases when we walk out together.

"Nope," I say with a shake of my head. "That's strictly a pre-meeting ritual. I usually hit up the diner down the street for a piece of pie to celebrate making it through another meeting."

"Celebratory pie, huh?" He pushes his hands into his pockets and looks in the direction of the diner.

"Yep. Best French Silk pie in Vegas." I nudge him with my elbow. "Come on, I'll buy you a slice."

"Uh." He rubs his hand over the back of his neck, contemplating my offer for a moment. "Alright, but I'll buy."

Two blocks, two slices, and two coffees later, we're sitting across from each other at the diner doing the whole 'getting to know you/what's your damage' thing.

"So what do you do?" I ask, watching him pick the chocolate shavings off the top of his pie.

"Personal trainer. I moved out here a few months ago from Washington state." Images of him in flannel doing manly things like wielding an axe and yelling 'timber' cloud my brain. "How about you?"

"Lawyer," I say it like it's a dirty word. I don't want him to think I'm like an ambulance chaser or anything, so I clarify. "Entertainment law."

"Well that's good, you're in the perfect city for it." He waves his fork in the direction of The Strip.

"I was in the perfect city for it, actually." I stab at my pie angrily. "But yeah, Vegas works too."

"You were in Hollywood?" He leans in, his interest is clearly piqued. "What made you move here?"

I snort. "Ever heard the old adage 'don't shit where you eat'?" The side of his mouth lifts into a half smile. "Yeah, well maybe they should add 'don't fuck there either'." I shove a forkful of pie in my mouth and chew thoughtfully before adding, "Or 'masturbate in your office'."

Covering his mouth with a napkin, he nearly chokes on his laughter.

"It's just not a good plan to hook-up with the partners during office hours. Especially when their wives have the power to make you a professional and social pariah, you know?"

"I do," he says, scraping the last of the whipped cream from his plate. "I can relate to the whole 'don't fuck where you work' thing. I practically had to swim across Puget Sound to get back to Seattle after a client's husband found me planking on top of his wife."

"More pie you two?" Our waitress asks, interrupting our confession time while refreshing our coffees.

He looks to me. "More?"

Always more. "More."

"Two more please," he tells her, flashing his 'plank me' smile.

"So you're a personal trainer. Are you like freelance or do you work at a gym?"

"I used to freelance in Seattle. I just moved out here so I'm working over at the gym on Flamingo and Grand Canyon Drive." He shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. "It's alright so far."

"I'm actually a member at that gym. I haven't been in a while though. There was … an incident."

Leaning in, he lowers his voice. "Were you planking someone?"

"I wish." I roll my eyes. "I actually was suspended for a month and haven't been back since."

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing, I swear!" I proclaim my innocence a little too loudly. "I was merely informing someone that it would be more sanitary if they didn't sit on the locker-room bench sans undergarments."

He lifts a brow in question. "What did you really say? Not in lawyer speak."

"I told her to get her labia off the bench." He covers his face with his hands, and his body shakes the entire booth with his quiet laughter. "I mean seriously, it's bad enough the Golden Girl feels the need to prance around the locker-room naked, she doesn't need to rub her crusty vag on public surfaces as well." I pick up my coffee cup and take a small sip before adding, "Truly, it's like the female version of tea-bagging. She should've been the one asked to leave."

We eat our slices, drink our coffee, and loiter until the waitress not-so-subtly slaps a check on our table.

I guess this is our cue to get the fuck out.

"Thank you for the pie," I say as we walk back to our cars.

"Thank you for the invite," he replies, those dimples coming out in full force. "And for the massive boner killer visual. I think that'll come in real handy for me."

"You're very welcome. This is me." I point to my BMW and unlock the doors. "So I'll see you next Tuesday?"

He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets again. "Sure, unless you want to come to the gym, do a quick session with me?"

I smirk, wondering if I'm being propositioned. "Would this be a plank-free session?"

He chuckles quietly and if I were a betting man, I'd say he's blushing. "Plank free, unless you want to plank," he mumbles, looking down and away.

Plank me, he is blushing. "Do you have a card?"

He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and fishes out a card. "This is my cell number." He points a thick finger and I can't remove my eyes from its girth long enough to hear the words coming out of his mouth.



"So you'll call me?" he asks hopefully.

"We'll see. Goodnight, Emmett."

A couple of days later, I'm at my office reviewing some contracts when I receive a text from an unknown number. A picture of an elderly woman on a treadmill pops up on my screen, and I know it's from him. Seconds later another text comes through.

Is this the culprit?

Shockingly, I text him back immediately without giving pause to consider the clear information breach committed to obtain my number. I admit, I'm a little happy to hear from him.

Wrong Golden Girl. Try a little less Blanche and a little more Dorothy. How did you get my number?

My phone vibrates a few moments later.

You have a membership with the gym. I wanted to offer you a complimentary session with me. Please don't sue us.

The texting is getting tedious so I dial his number.


"So when do you want to do this?" I ask, pulling off my glasses and leaning back in my chair.

"We can do this whenever you want." His voice is low and deep and faintly suggestive.

"Do you work evenings?"

"Sunday and Monday nights until close at 9:00 PM"

"How long are your sessions?"

"An hour or two. However long you can go."

Definitely suggestive. "Let's go for two. Put me down for Monday night at seven."

Dr. Whitlock clears his throat and interrupts my story before capturing one of my knights. "So far it all sounds like an easy friendship." He looks up at me, gauging my reaction to his assessment. "Bordering on something more, maybe?"

I shake my head and advance my rook. "Nope. Sorry Chuck Woolery, still no Love Connection."

He scoots up and moves his bishop. "Alright then, so when did things go from friendly to… a more gray area?"

"A couple of nights later." I bite my thumb nail nervously, noting his slip up with the bishop. "We'd been texting back and forth, on and off since the initial phone call." I slide a pawn forward, sacrificing it to set him up before shooting him a warning look. "It gets pretty… rough from here on out. Are you sure you want the story?"

"I assure you that there is nothing you can tell me that I've not seen or heard before." He captures my pawn with his bishop before realizing his mistake. "Dang it." I slide my remaining knight up and over and pull the bishop from the board. "Well played," he says, motioning for me to continue.

I resume my story, telling him about our back and forth texts from the days prior. General bullshit and more getting to know you stuff mostly. When it comes time to tell him about the night that things went from social to sexual, I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Flickers and images play in my head as I divulge every delicious and depraved detail.

I scrape the last of the Ben & Jerry's ice cream from the bottom of the pint and pretend that it isn't my second one of the evening. Don't even get me started on the bottle of wine I polished off earlier. Pure boredom and no peen doesn't make Rosie a dull girl, it just turns me into a fucking bottomless pit. I eye the treadmill where I spend most of my nights these days, working off the calories and distracting myself from acting on my 'inappropriate impulses'. Sure running a few miles can produce endorphins, but give me four AA batteries and a quiet room with my vibrator and I'll bet I can produce the same amount in about twelve minutes.

Sighing, I toss the empty pint in the garbage can and go back to the piles of work spread all over my countertop. Just as I'm about to jump back into my riveting Friday night read, a forty page licensing agreement, my phone buzzes. Truthfully, I feel a surge of excitement. After thirty-eight days of sexually sober living, any text after 11:00 pm feels both scandalous and promising, especially when I see his name pop up on my screen.

You up?


Me too.

I text back the word 'obviously' and snort at his lame attempt at conversation. Thumbing to my contacts page, I'm just about to call him when his next message comes in.

Yeah, obviously.

His text is accompanied by a picture of him from the chest down, shirt off, wearing basketball shorts and a massive, protruding hard-on lying against his thigh.

I stare and zoom in and out of the shot. My eyes roam down his perfectly sculpted abs with the smattering of dark hair to the outline of his thick length with the hint of a vein trailing nearly to the fat mushroom tip. I squeeze my thighs together and resist the urge to ask him to let me see it. Instead, I type back my typical snark.

Crusty labia.

The phone buzzes seconds later and I laugh at his response.

Not even Dorothy's cunt can kill this boner, baby. I need your help.

He wants my help. Thoughts of all the ways I can help him with that fill my head and the squeezing of my thighs turns to squirming.

How can I help?

Moments later he replies with another cryptic message.

Show me something.

I need specifics so I prod him.

What do you want to see?

A few minutes pass when he finally responds.

Show me something tight I can fuck.

And there it is. We're finally showing ourselves, our true selves. We're revealing the person inside of us, the one who's controlled by the craving and powerless to the need.

Without a thought, I remove my top, press my tits together, and snap a shot in my nearly see through push-up bra. I quickly hit the send button so I don't have time to think about my lack of impulse control.

Several minutes pass with no word from him. Insecurity sets in and I second guess myself, looking at the picture I sent making sure that the girls look proportional and pert and penetration-worthy. After the ten minute mark, I send him another text.

Please don't tell me that my tits killed your boner, but elderly pussy talk didn't.

When my phone buzzes, there is no text, just a video attachment. I hit the play button, and the screen fills with his chest then pans down to his waist where the basketball shorts are nowhere to be found. It's just him - solid and thick and desperate for relief.

My fingers dip between my legs rubbing over the nearly soaked crotch of my panties at the sight of him steadily sliding his hand up over his cock. Up and down, nice and slow, he strokes it for me while I grind my clit against the heel of my hand.

His movements are precise, starting with a tight grasp of the base and ending with a loose twist and turn beneath the head. Every now and again, he swipes his leaking tip with his thumb and spreads it over the shaft, leaving his length shiny and sticky and oddly delicious-looking.

Soft grunts match the slap of skin while he works it over faster and faster until I hear him grit out a low 'fuck' just before his stomach flexes and his hips thrust up. Three white spurts spatter over his abs and trickle down the indentations of his muscles before settling at the base of his 'V'.

I go to play the video again when his final message of the evening comes through.

Thanks for your help. See you Monday. GN.

"Wait a second." Dr. Whitlock cuts me off as he flips through the pages of my file, looking for something. "I didn't think that exhibitionism was one of your compulsions."

"That's because it wasn't." I braid my hair nervously. "I've never had the inclination to send a nude picture to anyone. I've always been very careful about keeping some semblance of control with regards to my behavior in that respect. I don't take or post pictures or fuck in public." Dr. Whitlock tilts his head looking like he's going to contradict me, so I amend. "By in public, I mean in plain sight with the intent to be seen. Yes, I've fucked in places accessible to the public like board rooms or in a car, but I don't get off on being watched." Indignant now, I cross my arms over my chest. "I have a professional reputation to maintain, now more than ever."

"So why did you do that?"

I tuck my now bouncing leg under my body and lean into the arm of the chair. "You tell me, doc."

He tosses my file back on the table and resumes our game. "Did you find yourself falling back to your old patterns after this incident?"

I nod, watching him make his move. "Um, yeah. I watched the video repeatedly and … pleasured myself while doing so. It became difficult to not want to do that."

"Previously, how did you resist falling back into those old habits?"

"I tried to keep myself busy so I couldn't fixate on it. I ran ridiculous amounts of miles on my treadmill after eating my weight in anything I could get my hands on."

Nodding his head, he sits back, resting his ankle on his knee. "So you tried to compensate by indulging in other areas like excessive eating and exercise to curb your urges?"

"Yes, but that doesn't seem to work anymore." I lick my lips and stare at the ceiling trying to describe it. "It's like something snapped. I mean sex is always on my mind, but the fantasies are more frequent and seem to be more extreme if that makes sense. Like before it was just about me getting off as often as I could to get that high. I knew exactly what I needed and once I got it, I was satiated for a certain amount of time. But now," I pause and shake my head unable to finish.

"It's escalating?"

My voice is pathetic and weak like me. "Yes."

"So when did you see or hear from him next?"

"Uh, not until I showed up for my session at the gym."

"What happened then?"

I clear my throat and launch into the story again, going back to the day of our workout session. I remember him being the picture of professionalism when he greeted me at the entrance, putting on quite the show with the handshake and 'how do you do's' for the girls at the front desk. Once he gets me alone, all pretense is gone.

"You ready to get sweaty, Hale?"

I don't miss the double entendre of his question, and I hope he finds my response equally provocative.

"Let's do this."

We start with basic arm and neck stretches. The typical overhead, side-to-side, and pull from left-to-right. I feel his eyes on me while he circles, instructing and encouraging me while his eyes rake over my body.

"Alright, go ahead and spread your legs a bit." He slides up behind me and places his fingertips at my hips. "Bend at the waist, hands on the floor." Our eyes meet in the mirror and he watches me while my body bows before him. "That's exactly how I want you." His voice dips lower. "Just like that."

After doing a few more exercises that require my ass in the air, he has me lie on the floor which I welcome, trying to get the blood flow back to my brain. I'm not sure if it's the lack of blood, but I get dizzy when he kneels over me.

"Now I'm gonna stretch you out, properly." He gently grabs my foot and places it against his shoulder before pressing my knee to my chest using his body weight. Hard and heavy, his cock is situated right along my thigh, dangerously close to where I want him most. "You feel that?"

I nod absently, feeling both the burn and him hardening between us.

"I'll bet you do, you're awful tight through here." His free hand slides from my knee to my inner thigh and back. "I need to loosen you up."

"I'm pretty flexible."

He lowers his mouth near my ear. "I'm counting on it."

For the next hour and a half, he tortures me with stretches, calisthenics, and lifting. His touches are hardly subtle with a breast graze here and an ass grab there. It's the most painful kind of foreplay. I have no intention of stopping until I hear the voice of the front desk girl over the loud speaker, letting us know the gym is closing.

"So what did ya' think? Was I too hard on you?"

Panting and sweating like a pig, I take a gulp from my water bottle. "Brutal," I admit, still trying to catch my breath. "Do I have time to shower?"

"Yeah, take your time. I'm gonna lock up."

Thankfully, the locker-room is empty and naked Golden Girl free. I let the warm water wash over me, soothing my muscles from the savage training I just endured. Steam surrounds me as I scrub my skin and fight the urge to give my lady bits a workout of their own, when I hear the door lock.

Fearing that I've been locked in, I rinse quickly and throw a towel around me.

"Hello," I yell and my voice echoes throughout the shower area.

The section near the door of the locker-room goes dark, and I nearly shit when I hear a set of footsteps approaching.

"Hello? Who's there?"

I cower near the shower area entrance, clutching my towel.

"It's me," he says, surprising me coming out of a row of lockers.

"You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack," I snap, smacking him repeatedly on the chest. My towel slips in the process, and I barely catch it before giving him an eyeful of the goods.

"Aww, don't be shy now, Rose," he teases, coming toward me again. "It's nothing I haven't seen before. And besides," he smirks and taps his temple, "I've been fucking your tits for days."

I clamp my lips together trying to suppress a whimper when he cups my cheek and presses his mouth against the other side of my face.

"Did you like what you did to me, Rose?" He places a small kiss on the corner of my mouth. "I'll bet you did, didn't you?" My tongue wets my lip just before his thumb swipes it. "Have you been thinking of me?"

I nod slowly as he pulls my bottom lip down and slips his thumb in my mouth, opening it wide.

"I've been thinking about you, too," he admits quietly, sliding his thumb and forefinger over my teeth and tongue. "Imagining all the things I can do to you." I moan and shut my eyes tightly. "All the filthy fucking ways we can use each other."

"I shouldn't," I whisper when he removes his fingers and trails them down my throat, but the coy smile on my face lets him know that I'm more than willing to use him.

I feel him chuckle against my cheek. "That's right. Your abstinence commitment." There's a tinge of sarcasm in his tone. "How long has it been?"

"Forty some odd days, I think."

Still smiling, he gently wraps his hand around my neck. "Now that's just a shame. Forty days and forty fuck-free nights."

He rests his forehead against mine and cups me below, roughly pressing the towel into my clit.

"Whenever you're ready, Rose. I'm waiting on you."

I open my eyes and see his staring back at me. I don't know why, but I decide to pour gasoline on the fire with my next words. "You seem awful sure of yourself." I throw him a doubting look and a challenge. "I'm not sure you can give me what I need."

He tosses his head back, silently laughing, momentarily amused by my defiance until his eyes are on mine again. His hold on my throat tightens ever so slightly. "I'm going to thoroughly enjoy fucking that smart mouth of yours." His face turns serious. "And if you think that workout I gave you tonight was brutal …" He shakes his head slowly and grips my center tightly. "Then you have no idea what I am capable of when it comes to this pussy."

Releasing me, he walks backwards a few feet and the playful smile returns. Clearly, he's pleased with himself getting the reaction he wanted.

"Come find me when you're ready."

Dr. Whitlock accidentally knocks one of his pawns over and the clatter of the piece on the marble board jars me from the memory, bringing me back to the present. "Sorry about that," he says, rearranging the pieces. "So you resisted?"

"I did," I say, smoothing my dress down my thighs. "That time."

"How long did you wait until you gave in?"

"Four days."

"And how did you cope over those four days? How did you manage?"

I slide my queen up. "Uh, let's see. That was Monday so Tuesday morning I went to work early, stayed late. Then I went to my meeting and actually participated for a change - big help that was." I huff and tuck my hair behind my ear. "Went to the diner, ordered a whole fucking pie to go. Went home, ate it all in one sitting, and then hopped on my treadmill."

"He wasn't at the meeting?"

"Obviously not, otherwise I'd have fucked him on the sign-in sheet." Dr. Whitlock gives me a somewhat reproachful look. "Sorry, you know what I mean."

"Continue with how you coped for the rest of that week."

"More of the same. I increased my hours in the office. Binged and ate massive intakes of food followed by hours of exercise. Watched some porn. I even fucking joined Pinterest for Christ's sake." I roll my eyes at myself for getting sucked into that nightmare.

"Back up for a moment, you said you watched some porn. Are we talking an unhealthy amount here?"

"Define unhealthy."

"Any amount is unhealthy for someone attempting to abstain from their compulsion."

Although the 'duh' in his statement is implied, the 'go fuck yourself' in mine is far more obvious. "Then I guess it was unhealthy, wasn't it?"

He holds his hands up in surrender and motions for me to continue.

"So anyway, that Friday I had lunch with an old friend and client. Lunch became happy hour and before I knew it, I was meeting her out at a club later that evening."

Dr. Whitlock hesitates as he goes to move his remaining bishop. He's fucked and he knows it, but I respect him for going out in a blaze of glory.

"Somewhere between the salad and the drinks, I decided I didn't give a shit anymore." Bringing my queen forward again, I remove his bishop from the board. "I took a tab of 'X' and sent him a text that I was at Lavo."

"'X' as in Ecstasy?"

"Yep. I put a tab on my tongue and sent him a picture telling him to 'come find me'." I roll my eyes, snickering at my antics. "I suppose I was feeling a bit theatrical."

Dr. Whitlock's poker face is back, empty and expressionless and wanting me to get on with it. I think back to that night and begin relaying the events, starting with the moment the 'X' kicked in at the club.

Strobe lights flicker over sweaty swaying bodies on the dance floor. Flashes of neon whirl all around from the tourists who still think adding a glow stick to the mix will somehow improve their lame ass dance moves. Booming beats pulse and pound, vibrating the railing I'm holding while moving to the music.

Heidi has my other hand in hers as we dance side-by-side. Palm to palm, our fingers are entwined and her soft skin feels amazing on mine. Our bodies brush against each other in time to the music and it causes the most incredible prickling sensation throughout, positively euphoric. I throw my head back, letting the intensity of the sounds and colors hypnotize and overwhelm my senses.

Warmth spreads over me when I feel a hand cover my throat and another slip over my eyes.

Soft lips skim the shell of my ear and whisper the words I've been waiting to hear all night.

"Found you."

Moaning softly, I lean my back into his chest and inch my fingers up, burying them in his hair. His pelvis rolls against my backside while his hands ghost down the length of my body, resting gently on my hip bones. Heidi looks on longingly as he places open-mouth kisses down my neck before nibbling on the soft round edge of my shoulder. He must feel her eyes on him.

"Looks like your friend wants to join us."

I feel the side of his mouth curve into a sinful smile, watching Heidi dance seductively, running her hands all over her body, obviously amiable to the possibility of a 'one pole, two holes' party.

Unfortunately for her, I'm not.

I slide my hand down to his cheek, rubbing my thumb into his dimple, and give Heidi an apologetic shrug. "I don't share."

He grinds into me possessively, tightening his grip to hold me in place. "Neither do I." I don't believe him for a second, but I'm enjoying the feel of his fingers tracing down the seam of my dress far too much to call him on it. "Do you want to get out of here?" I nod, unable to articulate a simple 'yes' when he's tickling and teasing the tender skin of my inner thigh. "Tell me what you want, Rose," he commands, dipping his hand between my legs. "I want to hear you say it."

I want the same thing he wants. The same thing he needs. The mutual craving we've yet to satisfy on our own or with each other. I wet my lips and say the one word he's demanding to hear.


The car ride to his house is relatively silent, save for the rumble of the old Bronco engine anytime he gives it some gas. His hand is covering my thigh, inching my dress up with each pass. I stare out the window, watching as we move further and further from the glitz of the strip. The streets are no longer lined with bright lights, dancing fountains, or thrill-seeking tourists. Instead, these streets are dimly lit with cracked pavement and tagged walls.

"You need a real date, Sugar?"

A busted up hooker approaches our car at a light, resting her arms on my window ledge and leaning in to proposition Emmett. Lifeless blonde hair surrounds her skeletally thin face, though I think she may have been a looker at some point in her life. Now she's sporting a fresh shiner underneath a layer of foundation on her cheek, while scrapes and bruises color her elbows and knees.

I sometimes think I'm no different than someone in her profession. We're both trying to fulfill a need through a series of lousy, unsatisfying screws with nameless, faceless strangers. The only difference is that I do it for the thrill of the fuck, while she does it for the green of the buck. I'll bet if I hit rock bottom, the line between she and I would be razor thin and too easy to cross. I don't know what I find more alarming, my utter indifference at this legitimate comparison and its consequences, or the fact that I can't seem to stop myself.

We pull away and I eye her in the rear-view mirror. Fear and desperation are now evident in her features. It's then I notice a man stepping out of the shadowed doorway. She hunches, bracing for the impact. I look away. I guess we all have consequences for doing what we need to do to get by.

Emmett cuts the engine in front of a pawn shop. "Home sweet home." I eye the building warily, something about the graffiti sprayed accordion gate across the storefront screams 'warning' to me.

My expression must be priceless, because he just smiles at me and shakes his head. "You'll be fine, princess."

He leads me up three flights of stairs to the top floor and opens the door for me. Home sweet home is a bit of an overstatement on his part. More like home sweet shithole. It's an oversized one-room efficiency and totally basic. A weight bench and workout equipment litter an area near the wide open windows, while an unmade full-size mattress, box spring, and frame serve as the focal point of the room. There's a loveseat opposite an entertainment center housing a huge TV which clearly cost more than everything he owns.

"Uh, the air conditioning has been out the past couple of weeks," he says, almost embarrassed, switching on an oscillating fan in one corner of the room. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

I shake my head 'no' and unzip my dress letting it fall to the floor, making my way to the bed undressing the entire way. "This isn't a social call," I tell him, kneeling on the edge of the mattress.

His darkening eyes trail down my body, taking me in as he bends to turn on a box fan on the floor, positioning it to face the bed. The small burst of air feels phenomenal against my skin, and my nipples pucker at the chilly sensation. My hands drift up, circling them softly in invitation.

Apparently, that's all the invitation he needs, pulling his shirt over his head and freeing himself from his jeans until he's standing before me, hardening and nearly ready. I place my hand over his heart feeling it thunder in his chest and slowly slide my fingers down his stomach, watching as I skim the straining muscles.

He softly runs a fingertip down my cheek, tilting my chin to kiss me sweetly.

"Don't!" I jerk my head away. "Don't make this about that."

He holds his hands up in surrender, defending the gesture. "I was just trying to be a gentleman."

Reaching up, I grab the back of his head, bringing his mouth close to mine and roughly pull his bottom lip between my teeth causing him to hiss.

"Don't be."

Understanding is evident in his narrowing eyes and his lips curl into a wicked grin. He kneels before me, attacking my chest with his mouth, sweeping his tongue across and around my nipples before sucking each roughly. The fan blows cool air over the wet flesh, and I moan as they painfully pebble beneath his touch. Apart from the hum of the spinning blades, the only sound that can be heard in the room is the laving and licking of his tongue between the valley of my breasts, wetting it thoroughly, letting his saliva trickle and trail down to my stomach.

Fisting his hand in my hair, he takes a hold of my head and stands over me, stroking his cock. "Let me fuck your tits," he grits out through clenched teeth, rubbing the head of his dick over each of my nipples.

I watch him slide himself into the wetness between my tits before I press them together, trapping his thickness tightly. Slowly at first, he thrusts his hips in and out; the head of his dick playing peek-a-boo as it escapes its confines, enticing me to lean forward and lick it with every stroke. He picks up the pace, grunting in time with the slap of his thighs against my stomach. A soft moan escapes my lips when he snakes his hand down to play with my nipple, tweaking and twisting it sharply before moving to the other.

"You like that?" His voice is hoarse, coming out in a gruff whisper as his fingers torturously tease me. I nod and dart my tongue out, licking off the small bead of pre-cum forming on his tip and angling myself to get my lips around him despite the hold he has on me. I feel his hand wind around in my hair, tightening his grip and pulling my head back roughly, forcing my eyes to meet his. "Answer me!"

I smirk at his command, finding myself both amused and turned on by his show of dominance. "Yes," I speak softly, grabbing his length to bring it to my lips. "I do."

His sucks in a sharp breath and loosens his hold on my head when he sees my lips part. "Tell me what you want." My eyes are locked on his when he rubs his tip back and forth across my bottom lip.

"Why don't you tell me what you want?" I challenge, pulling away from him to rest on my haunches, running a finger up over my breast before slowly sucking it into my mouth and releasing it with a pop.

"Your mouth." I barely hear the words over the sound of his fist furiously stroking his dick. "I want to fuck your mouth."

I make a show of getting on all fours, then slowly rolling onto my back, letting my head hang over the side of the mattress in front of him. I hear him curse under his breath when he positions himself over me, tapping his cock on my lips. I smile victoriously before opening my mouth wide in welcome.

I close my eyes when he glides it in slowly, stretching my jaw and taking as much of him in my mouth as I can. His thighs quiver slightly when he reaches the back of my throat and he gives a tentative push, pressing himself a bit further. My tongue teases along his veins when he withdraws, and I wrap my hand around his balls, rolling them gently in my palm.

"Yeah," he gasps roughly at the feel of my teeth grazing his length. His hips move harder and faster, while his free hand reaches down to pinch and twist my nipples, causing me to whimper in both pain and pleasure. "That's it. Suck me." Hollowing out my cheeks, I hum around him, feeling his thrusts become erratic as I shamelessly let him fuck my face until he's had his fill.

Ripping his cock from my throat, he roars out his release, exploding over my chin and chest. "Goddamn," he pants, stepping back on seemingly weak legs. Smiling smugly, he tosses a t-shirt to me in lieu of a towel before collapsing on the middle of the bed.

"Feel good?" I ask, wiping his cum from my chest. Nodding slowly, he eyes me and I know he's not even close to being done with me yet. "Good." I toss the t-shirt to the ground and straddle his thighs. "My turn."

"You gotta give me a minute," he says with a small chuckle.

I trace the lines of his muscles with my finger and continue climbing his body. "No." I place my knees on either side of his head. "I don't." Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I lower myself onto his mouth. "Now get me off."

Sliding his hands beneath my thighs, his fingers dig into my skin and spread me crudely until I'm hovering over his parted lips. He pauses and I feel him inhaling and exhaling deeply across the sensitive flesh. Fraught with anticipation, I look down to find him staring back at me, amusement evident in his eyes. I grip his hair tighter and groan in frustration, which quickly turns to a desperate mewl when he flattens and drags his tongue over my slit.

Loosening his grip, my hips rock back and forth over his mouth and grind down as he slides and teases his tongue at my entrance. The mattress springs creak beneath us with each thrust. Unable to maintain my balance, I brace myself against the wall. I close my eyes and throw my head back, enjoying the feel of his frenzied feeding below.

He lifts me slightly and plunges his tongue deep inside. I circle and buck my hips over him, pressing my palms roughly into the textured drywall. Drawing a shaky breath, my eyes pop open and fix themselves on the crucifix banging against the wall in front of me just as he captures my clit, sucking it hard into his mouth. "Oh God, yes!"

Panting and chanting the Lord's name, I shiver and tremble, feeling the telltale signs of my climax spreading like wildfire over my skin. He snarls below, devouring and consuming me. Nipping and grazing me with his teeth, until I scream out my release on his tongue.

Gasping for air, I collapse on the bed, tremors of pleasure still ripping through me. I barely have time to contemplate the fact that I'm surely going to hell for the literal come-to-Jesus moment, when I feel him move to kneel beside me. Smiling wide, he removes the evidence of me with a quick swipe of his fingers over the corners of his mouth.

"My turn," he repeats my words and rolls me over, lying me flat against the mattress. He runs his tongue over the edge of my jaw, and nuzzles his nose against my ear before sucking my lobe into his mouth. "You know what I want you to do for me, Rose?" I shake my head and feel his length hard and straining on the back of my thigh. His breath comes out in harsh pants as he inches my lower half off of the bed just slightly and positions himself at my entrance. "Scream for me."

In one swift move, he's deep inside of me, filling and stretching me like never before. My shrieks are muffled by the mattress as he furiously pounds into me from behind. His thrusts are forceful, unrelenting, and I can hear him coming unhinged with every stroke. He murmurs his filthy thoughts aloud against my ear, and I clench around him when he orders me to beg for his cock.

I beg and shamelessly plead as my fingers clutch and fist the fitted sheet at the corners of the bed, tearing it off in my desperation to brace myself. The sweaty skin of his stomach and thighs slap and slide against mine when he grinds into me, all the while he's still in my ear, claiming my pussy as his own and demanding that I tell him it's his.

Pulling out, he turns me over to look at him. "Say it!" He grabs the back of my knees and brings them to my chest, resting my ankles on his shoulders. "Whose pussy is this?" He slips two thick fingers inside, curling them roughly. "Say it!"

"Yours," I mumble, trying to catch my breath.

Replacing his fingers with the tip of his cock, he teases my slit. "Louder!"


Smirking smugly, he dips the tip in a bit. "My what?"

"Pussy." I run my hand down my stomach and circle my clit with my fingers. I pull my lip through my teeth before continuing in a breathy whisper. "Your pussy."

"You're goddamn right it is." His hand moves to my neck, lightly holding me in place as he presses into me once again. My back arches off the bed, lifting my hips to greedily take what he's so ferociously giving. "So close, baby!"

Every inch of him is tensed, from the strain of his jaw to the rigid flex of his muscles. My fingers claw at him, tearing and raking down his back, marking him as I cry out with each and every brutal thrust.

He hisses and tightens his grip on my hip, fury flashing briefly in his eyes, baring his teeth as he plunges deeper.

"Harder," I moan out, my need deliciously close to being sated. He goes wild above me, taking me roughly, spurring me on with the raw, animalistic growls and grunts he's spewing against my skin. I feel my body stir. White hot flames consume me, igniting every inch of me. My cries go from deafening to earsplitting when I clench around him, relishing the feel of him stiffening and jerking deep inside of me.

He collapses and slumps over me, crushing me with his weight as I continue to come apart beneath him. I admit that I miss it immediately when he rolls off of me a few moments later. The fan blows over us, cooling our heated flesh and drowning out the sounds of our harsh breathing. For several minutes, we both stare at the ceiling in silence. I close my eyes, savoring the feeling that there's no craving or need to be satisfied, no thirst to be quenched for the time being.

All the while I'm wondering how fast he can get hard again, because I don't want this feeling to end, not ready for the emptiness to set in. He leans up on an elbow and runs the palm of his hand down over my body, following every inch with his gaze, and when he looks back up at me, I see another frenzy building and hear his simple demand.


I hear a click of a pen and look up to find Dr. Whitlock jotting a note into my file. His brow is furrowed, concern evident on his face for the first time since our session began.

"So, that happened … repeatedly over the past three days," I mention casually, just in case wearing the same clothes days later isn't glaringly obvious to him. "Your move, doc."

He looks up from my file. "You didn't mention taking any precautions."

I shrug. "I've got the pill and a prayer."

He shakes his head and tosses my file back on the couch. "Unfortunately for you, those don't protect you from STDs."

I roll my eyes, partially annoyed at the health lecture and secretly mortified that the thought never crossed my mind in my haste to get my fix - repeatedly. So I lie. "He told me he's clean."

The accusing brow lifts again, silently calling me out. "Right, well…you may want to get checked out just in case." Unable to find a way to put off the inevitable any longer, he sacrifices his queen. "So how are you feeling about the fact that you've relapsed?"

"Indifferent," I tell him honestly and I see him tilt his head in question. "I feel … nothing." My phone buzzes against my leg, strengthening my resolve. "I mean, I get it. I know all your textbooks say that I probably feel shame or like a failure because I turn to the addiction to relieve the pain that's caused by the addiction." I draw a circle with my finger. "It's a vicious cycle or whatever."

"It is," he says solemnly, leaning forward to level with me. "But you don't have to get caught in the cycle. There are alternatives to the choices you're making." I stare at him blankly. "There's prevention and rehabilitation programs that will help you learn the coping skills to prevent these types of slip-ups." I pick up my queen, clutching it tightly. "Now ultimately, the choice is yours." He weighs my options in his upturned palms. "Recovery or addiction?"

My phone vibrates again, spurring me on as I knock his queen over sending it clattering against the chessboard. "Checkmate."

We watch the piece spin on the board until it he stops it with his fingers. "What's the endgame here, Rosalie? What is it that you hope to get out of all this?"

The pulsing of my phone is incessant, unrelenting much like my urges. I don't know what the endgame is, but I do know what I hope to get out of all of this.

The only thing I want. The one thing I need.


A/N: This was my contribution to the SALIGIA compilation by The Sinners. It was a privilege to write with these lovely ladies and I encourage you to check out their sinful one-shots. All of the one-shots can be found on The Sinners account, or you can visit the writer accounts individually: DazzledIn2008 (Pride), Gothic Temptress (Envy), JonesnInDaHood (Wrath), Planetblue (Lust), Robsmyyummy Cabanaboy (Greed), and SexiLexiCullen (Sloth).

I'm posting this from brunch with my boo, CarrieZM. Time for us to serve up a couple of hot WIPs for you guys to gobble down. Time to Let It WIP!

My Ex-Con by Counselor - (*Lay flails through a megaphone*) Run, don't walk. Devour this - then hit up every single word she's ever written. True facts - I'm having a love affair with her storytelling. Hard Hearted's Edward and Bella shot to my Top 5 favorite E/B's with a bullet.

Masen Manor - Vampward at his finest - a must read. Plus everyone can use a little Drotuno in their life.

And if you aren't already, hop on the good foot and do the bad thing with our girl Planetblue. Badlands. Get in on the crazy love.

Thanks so much for reading!