A week can feel like eternity when you're waiting for something. Seven days of "normal" have crawled by, attending classes that blur together, eating meals I barely taste, and hanging out with Jubilee in a purely platonic way.
But today's different. Today, I'm standing outside Emma Frost's office door, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. The polished brass nameplate gleams under the hallway lights: "Emma Frost, Faculty." Nothing about "therapist" or "mind-reader who's about to dig through all my trauma." Just a simple, innocuous title that doesn't begin to capture the woman behind the door.
I check my watch, exactly 3:00 PM. At least I'm punctual for my psychological dissection.
Taking a deep breath, I knock firmly on the door.
"Come in," calls that crisp British accent from within.
I push open the door, and my brain immediately short-circuits.
Emma Frost stands by her desk, peeling off her sweat-soaked white tank top. Her back is to me at first, all sleek muscle and flawless skin, but as she turns, I'm greeted with the full glory of her completely bare chest. Her breasts are magnificent, full, perfectly shaped, and impossibly perky for their size. They're like something from a fantasy, pale as moonlight against her glistening skin.
My mouth goes dry. Blood rushes from my brain to significantly lower regions of my anatomy with such speed I'm surprised I don't pass out.
"I hope you don't mind," she says casually, tossing the damp shirt aside. "I just went for a run and I'm sweating up a storm."
I just stand there, frozen in the doorway, my eyes locked onto her chest like they've been superglued in place. These are, without question, the most magnificent breasts I've ever seen in my entire life, two flawless mountains of pale flesh that seem to defy both gravity and decency.
"I…" My voice cracks embarrassingly. I clear my throat and try again. "No problem."
Somehow, I manage to make my legs work, crossing the room to sink into the chair across from her desk. My movements feel mechanical, like I'm piloting my body from a great distance.
Emma tilts her head slightly, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "You're staring, Jack."
"I, uh… sorry," I manage, forcing my gaze up to her face with herculean effort. "It's just... where I come from, women don't usually... I mean, they don't just..." I take a deep breath, trying to organize my scattered thoughts. "I'm from another world, actually. This kind of casual nudity for women isn't something I'm used to yet."
Emma's laughter fills the room, light and musical but with an edge that suggests she's enjoying my discomfort far too much.
"Oh yes, I saw that in your file," she says, making absolutely no move to cover herself as she walks around her desk. "You're from the slut dimension, right?" Her eyes twinkle with mischief. "A world where women keep themselves covered and men parade around showing skin. How absolutely fascinating."
"I wouldn't call it the 'slut dimension,'" I say, trying to keep my voice steady while my eyes betray me. "It's more of a mirror universe, really. Though I guess we don't have superheroes where I'm from."
Emma's smile widens as she leans against her desk, making absolutely no effort to cover herself. I watch, transfixed, as a bead of sweat travels from her neck, down the elegant curve of her collarbone, before sliding tantalizingly over the swell of her breast.
"I'm only joking, darling," she purrs, her British accent making even this casual statement sound sophisticated.
"I see," I manage, forcing my gaze back to her face.
"Do you want to touch them?" she asks suddenly, her smile growing even wider. "Perhaps that might help you get used to them."
I stare at her, wondering if I've misheard. The proposition hangs in the air between us, heavy and tempting. God, do I want to touch her. My hands almost twitch with the desire to feel her skin under my fingertips, to discover if she's as soft as she looks.
I take a deep breath, trying to summon whatever scraps of self-control I have left. "I don't think that would be right," I say, surprising myself with how calm I sound. "It might make things a bit... confusing for me if I'm groping my therapist."
Emma tilts her head slightly, those ice-blue eyes studying me with predatory interest. "What about the reverse?" she asks, taking a step toward me. "If I started touching your chest, you would barely care, right?"
"I mean, I guess not?" I reply, shaking my head. "I've been trying to adjust to the norms here, but there are still lines. Maybe I wouldn't realize immediately that it was taboo, but even in my world, women aren't just casually walking up to men and grabbing their chests willy-nilly."
Emma's eyebrow arches elegantly as she reaches for something on her desk. It's a small leather-bound notebook, which she flips open with practiced ease.
"Interesting," she says, jotting something down with a sleek silver pen. Her nakedness is still on full display, but there's a clinical shift in her demeanor.
"Were you a virgin when you arrived in our world?"
I exhale slowly, finally finding some composure now that we're shifting into actual therapy territory. "Yes," I answer, grateful for the distraction from her breasts.
She scribbles something else, nodding. "And then you had sex with Jubilee, who promptly almost blasted your face off." It's not even a question, just a statement of fact.
"Yes."
Emma taps her pen against the notebook, those ice-blue eyes studying me with unnerving intensity. "Have you had sexual relations with anyone else since arriving here?"
I hesitate, images of Katrina's blue skin against mine flashing through my mind. "Yes."
"Who?" Emma presses, leaning forward slightly.
"That's none of your business," I reply, crossing my arms defensively.
Emma's lips curve into something between a smile and a sneer. "Actually, Jack, it is very much my business." She taps the notebook. "After all, I am your therapist."
"I thought therapy was supposed to be about trust and boundaries," I counter, holding her gaze despite the difficulty of not looking lower. "And I'm not comfortable sharing that information."
"Oh, darling," she laughs, the sound like crystal breaking. "This isn't some quaint little practice where we discuss your feelings until you cry and then I hand you tissues. I need to understand your sexual development in this world because it directly impacts your psychological adjustment."
"How is it you even got to teach here? Morgan called you a villain when we were at the academy." I challenge her.
Emma's eyebrow arches perfectly as she sets down her pen, still making no move to cover herself. "I had a long conversation with Charlene, and she agreed I would be a good fit here." Her tone shifts slightly, becoming more guarded. "The details aren't particularly relevant to your treatment."
"Alright..." I hesitate, then decide to just put it out there. "I had sex with Nightcrawler."
The surprise that flashes across Emma's face is almost worth the admission. For once, she seems genuinely caught off guard, those ice-blue eyes widening slightly.
"I didn't know that demon had it in her," she remarks, recovering quickly.
"Well, it was a loophole," I explain, unable to keep a hint of pride from my voice.
"What?" Emma's brow furrows in confusion.
"She's very religious," I clarify, feeling heat rise to my face.
Understanding dawns in Emma's eyes, followed by a smirk that could cut glass. "Ahhh, the ole poophole loophole. Got it."
She scribbles something in her notebook with evident amusement, and my eyes involuntarily drift back to her breasts. The way they shift slightly with each movement of her arm is hypnotic. I force myself to look away, focusing on a framed diploma on the wall behind her.
Emma's pen suddenly stops moving. She sets it down with deliberate care, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes me feel like a butterfly pinned to a board.
"Jack, are you aware that since you walked into this room, your brain has been broadcasting primal lust so thick it's nearly viscous?" she asks, her British accent making even this accusation sound elegant. "It's filling this space like a gas."
"I'm not really surprised," I admit, gesturing vaguely at her still-exposed chest.
She laughs again. "Why did you have sex with Jubilee?"
The abrupt change of subject catches me off guard. "Because I wanted to try it," I answer honestly, shrugging one shoulder.
Emma tilts her head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen. "And Nightcrawler?"
My heart skips a beat. I decide to lie, there's no way I'm telling her I fucked Katrina because I was so worked up from sitting next to her during that meeting with Xavier.
"Same reason," I say smoothly. "I was curious."
Emma's eyes flash with something dangerous as she sets down her notebook. "Such a boring lie," she says with an exaggerated eye roll.
"Alright," she announces abruptly, standing up in all her topless glory. "That's enough for today."
"Really?" I blurt out, genuinely confused. "But we didn't talk about anything important. What about the trauma from killing those people? Or my parents? Or…"
"On the contrary, Jack," she interrupts, her lips curving into that predatory smile that makes my heart race. "We're getting to know each other."
She turns away, giving me a nice view of her back as she reaches for a clean white blouse hanging on a nearby coat rack.
Emma slips into the white blouse, her movements precise and graceful as she buttons it up with practiced ease. Just like that, the spell is broken, and my brain starts working again. I feel like I can finally breathe, though the image of her perfect breasts is now seared into my memory forever.
"I'll see you next week, Jack," she says, smoothing down her blouse with a casual flick of her wrists.
"Yeah, sounds good," I manage, standing up from the chair on slightly wobbly legs.
She tilts her head, lips curving into that predatory smile again. "Unless, of course, you'd like to see me sooner?" The invitation in her voice is unmistakable, hanging in the air between us like a live wire.
God, do I want to say yes. Every hormone in my body is screaming at me to jump at the chance. But there's something about Emma Frost that sets off warning bells in my head, the same instinct that kept me alive through years with my parents.
"No," I hear myself say, surprising both of us. "Next week is good."