It’s shameful. It’s chemical. My brain is halfway through a dissection of whether her nipples match her lip color or if they’re a darker shade, like bruised fruit begging to be bitten.
Then she hands me the journal. “You can keep it,” she says. “I don’t think it’s helping to dwell on Hank when I’ve clearly moved on to Benji, Jett, and… you.”
My cock twitches.
Me. She moved on to me.
“Journaling is…” I try. Fucking focus, Rhys.
“I’ll start a new one. One without Hank. Just write me off those charges, yeah? I’m not stalking him. No more trespassing. I’m over him.” Her eyes flick to my mouth. “I’d be even more over him if you’d stop playing hard to get and just bend me over the couch like we both know you want to.”
“Miss Darling.”
“You’re yelling,” she says.
“I’m not yelling,” I lie. I’m vibrating with restraint. My fingers curl so tight into the armrest that I swear I hear leather groan. I want to shove my cock down her throat, not to shut her up, but because she asked, without even asking.
“This has been a total waste,” she announces. “You didn’t like the candy, you didn’t give me any useful advice, and I’m leaving still not knowing what the fuck to do about a man who doesn’t run. Do I go harder? Can he really like me?”
There. There. Something real in her voice. I dig for it.
“Is there a reason you believe he wouldn’t?”
She goes still. The mask slides for half a second.
Then… “Fuck you, Rhys,” she whispers. “Give me a way to reach you. I might need help. And your secretary hates me.”
“That’s not appropriate,” I say, even as my hand is already reaching for the desk drawer.
“It’s therapy,” she fires back.
“We have five more minutes. What would you like to talk about?” I ask.
“I need a number. I won’t call. Just text. I need help with Benji, and how not to fuck it up.”
Real again. Vulnerable. Honest.
Which is exactly when my cock decides to throb like a bastard.
I look at her and all I can think is: this is a bad, unethical, probably-career-ending version of Roxanne, and I’m the asshole with the torch.
I’m going to help her be a good girlfriend to Benji. Not fuck her raw on the couch until her screams echo in the vents.
Yes, Rhys. Because ethics.
“Journal about Benji. About Jett. And Margo,” I say. “Who’s the woman you nearly ran over?”
“Confidential,” she sings. “Might’ve left her a slightly menacing gift. But no vandalism. That was Chad.”
“Wait, what?” I’m already mentally lawyering the damage. “You know he’s the type to press charges for eye contact.”
“He’s a dickhead who should watch his mouth.”
My phone buzzes. “Your next appointment is here, Doctor,” my receptionist says with nuclear frost.
“Told you she hates me,” Delilah says, standing. She’s so close I can smell her perfume, sweet and sharp, like she bites.
“I’ll give her the chocolates,” she adds. “They’re bitter. Like her ovaries.”
