It’s not a smile.
It’s a foreplay warning.
I mentally strip him out of that too-tight gym tee and imagine how many traffic violations his body could commit. I’m not saying I’d throw my life away for this man.
I’m just saying if he told me to rob a Walgreens in just a hoodie and nipple clamps, I’d already be halfway there.
Dr. Dickblock sighs the sigh of a man whose dick has never been sucked during an argument. “Fine. Sit down. We’re working on triggers today.”
I sashay over to the chair beside Ryker with the kind of confidence that says “‘I know I’m a lot, now try and survive it.” Then I sink into the seat with a little bounce, crossing my legs like I’m auditioning to be the downfall of someone’s marriage.
“Perfect,” I purr. “I’m surrounded by triggers.”
Ryker glances at me. Just a sliver of eye contact. But it hits like a sucker punch to the cervix.
And then he smirks.
Not a little twitch. A full-on “I know what you taste like in my dreams” expression.
Oh no.
Oh screw me slowly with a court summons.
I’m going to climb this man like a carnival ride that violates state safety codes. I will worship his dick like it’s a deity and I’m behind on my prayers.
And if this group is about processing anger? Then baby, slap a rage sticker on my forehead and call me emotionally unstable. Because I just found my new trigger.
And his name is Ryker.
“We were doing introductions,” Dr. Dickblock says, voice tight, one namaste away from choking someone out with his emotional support yoga strap. “Can you tell us your name and a little about why you were ordered to these sessions?”
I sit up straighter, spine clicking like a haunted music box, tits presenting like they’ve been personally invited to the Met Gala by Satan in a thong.
I make eye contact with the group. All of them. One by one. Just enough to imprint my presence on their souls without accidentally triggering a feral pissing contest. Except the guy directly across from me. He’s got real rabid raccoon energy. I clock him as the type who drinks energy drinks warm and has punched a vending machine more than once.
“My name is Delilah P. Darling,” I say with enough sugar to rot a dentist’s teeth. “I answer to Darling or Delilah. Or, depending on the mood… other things.”
Rabid Randy cocks his head like he’s not sure if I’m flirting or manifesting a plan to key his truck and fuck his dad. “What’s the P stand for?” he grunts.
I smile, all venom and Revlon. “Poison. Or Persistent. Possibly Pestilence. My ex says it stands for Please Stop Texting Me, but he’s a little bitch.”
Dr. Dickblock clears his throat with the kind of moral judgment usually reserved for bad grammar and public masturbation. “And what brings you here?”
“Well,” I say, drawing the word out, warming up to lie, “I was court-ordered to learn some boundaries.”
A few guys nod like, yeah, fair.
“But then this enchanting man walked in,” I continue, locking eyes with Ryker, my ovaries whisper, fully unsupervised, “and I just knew, spiritually and vaginally, that I needed to learn about anger, too.”
Dr. Dickblock closes his eyes, hand to head.
“I felt it,” I say solemnly, tapping my cleavage. “Right here. Divine underwire. The archangel Gabriel flicked my nipple and whispered: go forth, my chaotic daughter. Become the rage slut you were born to be.”
Ryker doesn’t react. Not much. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth like his dick heard me and started doing warmup jumping jacks.
I want to marry his triceps and let his delts name our future mistakes.
Dr. Dickblock stares at me a long beat. “Okay… thank you. Back to triggers, then.”
