I’ve apparently been dismissed. Like I’m not the sexy main character in this court-mandated episode of Emotional Damage: The Group Therapy Musical.
Whatever. He can eat his clipboard.
Because Ryker, darling Ryker, is speaking.
He nods once, a motion so casual it punches me in the clit.
“Carry on,” Dr. Dickblock tells him. “You were telling us about what triggered you this week.”
Ryker cracks his neck. The sound of it alone could make panties combust. Then he turns to me. “I’m Jett Ryker,” he says, slow and sinful, voice all gravel and promises I’m legally not allowed to accept. “You can call me Jett.”
Well, there goes my last scrap of sanity. My pussy just eloped with his dick. They’re honeymooning in Vegas and planning a joint bank account. She’s got a Pinterest board titled “Our Horny Future.”
He leans back in the chair, legs spread in that ‘I will ruin you, but you’ll thank me’ way.
“So the fuckwit I was telling you about,” he starts, and honestly, I’m not listening. Not really.
Because I’m busy imagining his hands all over me, on my neck, gripping my thighs, writing declarations of war in the sweat fog of my bathroom mirror. I am no longer in therapy. I am in a mating season hallucination. One smirk away from crawling into his lap and asking for forgiveness with my mouth full.
I try to focus. I really do. I think he’s talking about a guy named Chad, a betrayal involving creatine, and some kind of gym thunderdome rules violation.
Doesn’t matter.
Because he just said, call me Jett.
And that’s basically the same as asking me on a date.
Jett smirks again. Just a flicker.
And in my head, we’re already married, in the courthouse where I get convicted of crimes against public decency, riding him like a mechanical bull on the defense table while a court stenographer tries to spell “oh fuck yes harder.”
The bailiff fans himself and sobs into a Bible.
The judge bangs the gavel and declares me legally insane and married.
I throw rice made of glitter and unpaid parking tickets.
Jett picks me up, bridal-style, and carries me straight to hell like a gentleman.
It’s not a fantasy. It’s a vision.
It’s beautiful.
“Miss Darling?” Dr. Dickblock says.
Time hiccups.
Oh. Right. Group therapy. Rage. Growth. Boundaries.
God, I want to lick Jett’s forearms until I forget my social security number.
Chapter Four
Delilah
Jett wraps up his story with all the emotional nuance of a man who could rearrange your spine with one hand and then rebuild your transmission with the other. Wordlessly, shirtlessly, and with vengeance in his heart.
“So I didn’t stab him. This time,” he finishes.
