But I want to ruin her carefully.
Not fuck her. Ruin her. So thoroughly she forgets who touched her before me.
She said she’s “moved on” to Benji, Jett… and me.
I’m next. She’s collecting us.
She believes I’ll give in.
She’s not wrong. I’m one whisper away from fucking this entire career across the arm of that couch.
And when she left, she brushed against me. Said she didn’t want to face this alone. That he might love her.
And I wanted to be the man she said that about. Not the therapist. Not the rulebook. The man.
I gave her my number. It was a mistake.
God help me.
She’s real. She’s relentless. And I’m not immune.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Delilah
I can still feel Rhys inside me and he hasn’t even fucked me yet. That’s how insane this is. That’s how right it is. I’ve been touched by an angel, or at least by a licensed mental health professional who gave me his personal number and told me what kind of candy he likes.
That’s basically second base. Practically courtship.
I should’ve asked about breakfast preferences. Or allergies. What the hell do I bring to our Thursday date? Something flaky and warm. Croissants? My ass in nothing but thigh highs?
Susan’s vulture eyes snap up the second I exit Rhys’s office, pretending like she wasn’t actively timing my orgasm window with that petty little clock.
“Would you like to move your sessions to Tuesdays?” she asks, all fake-neutral and HR-scented.
Translation: I don’t want you here twice in one week with my office crush, please go ruin someone else’s life.
“Maybe I want to add Tuesdays to the Thursdays.” Because we are a thing now, Susan. A forbidden, throbbing, eye-fuck-from-across-the-room thing. Get bent.
She peers at her little monitor like she’s doing data entry and not fantasizing about licking Rhys’s spoon after lunch. “Your court-mandated treatment plan only requires once a week. I can shift you to Tuesdays instead. Do you have a time preference?”
Time preference?
Bitch.
“Yes, Susan. Mornings,” I say sweetly, because I believe in setting the tone for the day. “He needs something warm to start with. Maybe even a little messy.”
Susan’s face doesn’t change. Stone. Like she’s never once imagined Rhys pinning her to that desk. Liar.
“You know his first slot,” I add with a smile sharp enough to cut through polyester scrubs.
I bet she doesn’t have his personal number. I bet she doesn’t know he likes white chocolate and used the words emergency only with a straight face while his cock was visibly trying to chew through his pants. I bet she doesn’t know he’s been jacking off with the image of me unhinged and untethered, dripping on his couch while his license trembles on the edge of suspension.
She slides a printed schedule toward me like it doesn’t cost her everything.
“Do you have one of those feedback surveys?” I ask, resting my elbows on the desk like I might purr. “Just wondering what your name is. Officially.”
That gets a tilt of the head.
