Dr. Dickblock scribbles a note like he’s debating whether that’s emotional growth or just delayed felony.
“Thank you for sharing, Mr. Ryker,” he says, with the cautious cadence of a man who once got dunked in a locker by a guy named Tank and never emotionally recovered.
Jett blinks once, slow and unimpressed, then rises like Poseidon if he bench-pressed his own emotional repression. He’s not wet. He’s slicked in rage, and flexing like a middle finger to god.
My thighs do that thing. Twitch, trying to text him in a language only horny demons understand.
I make it three steps toward Ryker, no, Jett, excuse me, now that we’re apparently on a first-name, eye-fucking-in-public basis, before Dickblock snipes me with the voice of a man who files complaints about strong perfume.
“Miss Darling?” he asks, stepping directly into my dickpath. A human traffic cone of celibacy. “A moment?”
I pause. “If this is about the glitter in my forms, I’m going to need you to know that’s a personality trait, not a crime.”
He does not smile. Of course he doesn’t. “We need to complete your intake, evaluation plan, and emotional riskprofile,” he says, like he’s never once risked an orgasm in the wild. “Just five minutes.”
I get half a whiff of expensive cologne and sinful sweat as Jett vanishes through the door like lust with a backstory.
“But Jett,” I start.
“Mr. Ryker,” he corrects, with all the joy of a man whose safe word is ‘spreadsheets.’ “He’ll return next week. Or he won’t. Either way, compliance is non-negotiable.”
Compliance.
God, that word. It makes my inner brat want to set something on fire just to spite the syllabus.
I crane my neck toward the hallway, praying for one last glimpse of Jett’s righteous ass as it disappears into the fog of my unresolved daddy issues. But Dickblock’s already herding me toward a sad little plastic table with a plastic pen and a clipboard full of state-approved blue-balls.
“Technically, I voluntarily signed up for this under hormonal duress,” I explain. “I was only ordered to six weeks with Dr. Hartwell. So we can skip the formal paperwork.”
“If you want to remain in the program,” he drones, “you need a compliant, completed, and clinically codified file.”
I glance longingly at the door where Jett, the seductive final boss of my trauma healing arc, vanished. “Fine,” I say, flopping into the chair like a girl being punished for her kinks.
Dr. Dickblock drones something about Dr. Hartwell, Rhys, my new therapist/delayed orgasm incarnate, and next week’s appointment.
My mind flakes out like a glitter bomb in a vacuum. Rhys. Breakfast. One week. I don’t know if he likes pancakes or egg pie. If he takes his coffee black or with just a splash of soy daddy issues. God, what if he’s one of those people who says “bean juice” unironically?
I have seven days to solve the culinary equivalent of the Da Vinci code or risk bringing a pastry that emotionally offends him. What if I show up with a donut and he stares at it like I just handed him a carb-packed cry for help? Just… sips his coffee in silence and logs a note in my chart: Patient exhibits poor taste in baked goods and judgment.
What if he’s one of those weird yogurt men? A kefir smoothie freak? Someone who uses the phrase “gut biome” like it’s sexy?
What if I bring him something sugary and he launches into a gentle, nurturing monologue about blood glucose while maintaining direct eye contact? And I climax on the spot because that’s apparently my bar now?
I need answers. A dossier. A mole in his fridge. A stakeout team. One of those shopping receipt trackers that tells you a man’s breakfast habits based on local grocery purchases and the sadness in his eyes.
Dr. Dickblock’s droning again, his voice the human equivalent of a CAPTCHA test.
I blink myself back to reality just in time to hear, “...will review your file with Dr. Hartwell before next week and make adjustments if needed.”
Cool. Adjust this, sir.
I sign. I initial. I check the little boxes that say things like “open to feedback” and “committed to personal growth,” while mentally climbing Rhys and riding him across his therapy office like a demon on a mission.
That thought progresses until I’m bent over his mahogany desk, moaning around a fresh-baked croissant while he spanks me with a printed copy of my intake form.
He feeds me a bite of scone between thrusts and tells me I’m “making measurable progress.”
Eventually, Dickblock dismisses me with a pamphlet and the kind of dead-eyed smile only achievable by a man whose sex life involves socks and missionary regret.
