Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Red
Saturday mornings used to belong to me. They were a welcome slow stretch of silence. I'd take a long run along the lake, then enjoy my coffee instead of something I drank between sessions. Those mornings held an order that made sense.
Today, there's none.
The only thing in my head is a twenty-five-year-old woman with blue hair who admitted she imagined my hands on her, like she was describing the weather.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, watching a faint line of sunlight sneak between my curtains. I should get up. Instead, my mind drags me back into the moment she said it.
Her voice dropped an octave, soft and deliberate, as if she were testing the edges of the room and me. Her breath shifted before her eyes tracked my throat.
I want to be touched until I burn, Dr. Mercer. Do you know how to do that? Blue's voice asks over and over in my head.
"Enough," I mutter, and throw the covers back before I spiral down this memory any further.
Cold air hits my skin and grounds me for a second.
I force myself upright, plant my feet on the hardwood, and inhale deeply.
I get dressed and leave my condo before my thoughts can drag me back into the apartment.
The cold morning air hits hard as I step onto the path along the river.
The sky hangs low over the city, streaked in muted gray, and the water moves in slow, dark waves that swallow the light.
I start at an easy pace, letting my legs warm and my body find the rhythm I haven't been able to hold anywhere else this week.
The river is busy even at this hour. Cyclists, runners, and walkers line the pavement. I focus on the sharp rush of air expanding my lungs and the familiar burn threading through my calves. My breath steadies, but the rest of me doesn't.
Every few strides, my mind yanks me backward into that office with Blue's voice, hair, and those damn thighs she intentionally wanted to haunt me. It all spins around her vulnerability and seduction, while I pick up my pace faster than normal, trying to outrun it.
The run is supposed to flush her out of my system. Instead, it brings her into sharper focus.
I push harder, lengthening my stride, welcoming the tight sting across my chest. The path curves beneath a series of old steel bridges and shadows slicing across the concrete.
My heartbeat pulses loud in my ears, drowning out thought for brief, merciful seconds at a time before slapping me with new visions of Blue.
The wind grows stronger near the waterline, pushing against me, forcing me to work for each step. I lean into it, letting effort replace everything else.
It barely works.
By mile three, my clothes cling to me in sweat. I keep running, chasing that rare moment of alignment, the one place where discipline always returns. But even here, she won't stop intruding.
When I finally reach the far turn of the river, I stop at the railing, gripping the cold metal with both hands. My pulse is a hard, insistent throb under my skin. The air burns in my throat. The city stretches on all sides, with the fog slowly lifting.
I push back, return to my place, and get into the shower. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, soap on my overheated skin, steam thickening the air. I scrub until there's nothing left but the pulse thudding steadily under my jaw while Blue's knotted hip taunts me.
She shouldn't be in my head. Not here. Not now. Not like this.
I shut off the water, step out of the shower, and catch my reflection. My eyes are sharp, jaw tight, and shoulders tense. My reflection resembles someone trapped between instinct and ethics, and I hate that I recognize the difference.
I towel off, get dressed, and make coffee. I take my first sip and glance at my laptop.
Don't do it.
I turn on my computer and open her chart anyway. My session summary stares back at me, clinical and neutral.
Patient demonstrated provocative boundary-testing. Explored distortions in relational perception.
Reinforced structure and safety.
It says nothing about the way she watched me after her confession, waiting to see how I'd react. It says nothing about the heat coiling low in my stomach or the exact second I lost my steady cadence.
It doesn't mention I saw her glistening pussy, and all I can think about is how good it would feel to slide my tongue across it while holding her down by gripping that scar on her hip.
What does she taste like?
I could drag my tongue up her thigh scar first.
She cut herself for me. I own that scar.
It's mine.
Stop it!
I slam the laptop shut and grab my phone. A message waits.
Seraphina: Dinner still on tonight? Seven at Belmont?
My chest tightens. I had forgotten about Seraphina.
Blonde hair, long legs, and polished with precision, she's the kind of woman who knows what she wants and never apologizes for it. She's self-assured, sharp, and stunning in a typical way that draws attention the moment she enters a room.
We've spent nights together that were efficient and satisfying. There are no blurred edges, dangerous questions, or commitment. It's exactly what I should want.
I type back.
Me: Yes. Seven works.
Her reply lands almost instantly.
Seraphina: Wear that black shirt I like, and I'll have no choice but to let you stay at my place.
I stare at the message longer than necessary. A grounded man would welcome the distraction. A sane one would embrace the company of a woman who requires nothing from him except his presence and cock.
I want to be that version of myself tonight. More than anything, I want to end the day forcing my mind away from Blue. So I text her back.
Me: I'll pick it up at the dry cleaners.
Seraphina: Good. I'll wear a new number I bought just for you.
Her message should make my dick hard. Instead, Blue's crotchless red panties barely touching the corner of her thigh next to her pink, wet clit haunt me.
She's a virgin.
Does that mean her clit is, too?
She kissed a boy. Has anyone ever touched her there?
The damp spot on the chair I dried before I left my office leaps into my thoughts.
Don't do it.
I need to wash it.
Liar.
My jaw twitches. I reach into the laptop bag and pull out the hand towel I got from my office bathroom and used to wipe her seat. My fingers tighten around the towel before I'm ready for what hits me.
The faint trace of her arousal rises off the fabric, warm and sweet with that sharp edge that branded the back of my throat the second I noticed the darkened patch she left on the leather.
A cruel surge of blood surges low and heavy in my balls until standing upright becomes a negotiation for my cock.
The scent wraps around me like a hand closing at the base of my spine, dragging up every image I shoved down.
Blue's parted lips she tried to hide, the tremor in her thighs when she shifted in the chair, the soft gasp she swallowed when her skirt rode up high enough to expose what she shouldn't have shown me in the first place, all torture me.
Untamed and vicious heat pours through my muscles, tightening my chest.
I lift the towel higher, cursing myself as the fragrance intensifies. My erection presses hard against the inside of my pants, with a brutal, demanding, insistent pulse.
The air thins, and my control frays further. I push the towel against my nose, inhaling deeply and closing my eyes, seeing the red scrap of lace and the obscene cut of it across her perfectly trimmed pussy.
Blue's arrogance to stroll into my office in something designed to keep a man on the edge of sanity wasn't unintentional. She knew what she was doing, and I mutter, "Damn you, Blue!"
My grip shifts, knuckles strain, breath drags unevenly into my lungs as the scent settles deeper. My entire body goes taut. All my nerves heighten further. Every instinct in me pushes me toward the one thing I'm not allowed to want.
"I need to find her another therapist," I say out loud and force myself to put the towel back into my briefcase.
I open the laptop up and click on a file with other professionals I've referred patients to in the past. For over an hour, I stare at the dozen names, making excuses why each one isn't qualified to deal with Blue.
"Fuck this," I mumble, and shut the laptop.
I get up, put on new workout gear, and go to the gym in my building.
I lift until my muscles burn. Then I return, shower, and clean my counters that are already spotless.
I reorganize my bookshelf even though nothing is out of place.
By early evening, it's finally time to get dressed.
Shit. I forgot to pick up the shirt.
I hightail it out of my condo, but by the time I get to the dry cleaners, it's closed.
Damn you, Blue, I curse in my head, knowing it's her fault she took up all my time today.
I return home, shower again, then shave. My hair refuses to behave, and I slick it back too many times. I finally give up and go to my closet. I reach for a tan shirt and stop.
Seriously?
This isn't healthy.
I take a cobalt-blue shirt off the hanger and slide my arms through it. I button it, leaving one undone, and look at my reflection in the mirror.
I firmly state, "You're in control. Act like it."
I push away from the counter, leave my home, and lock the door behind me. I make my way through the building and step into the early winter evening.
Cold air bites at my freshly shaved skin. I forgot a jacket, but I don't go back for it. I let it steady me as I head toward Seraphina's building. It's a ten-minute walk, and by the time I get there, I'm feeling better. My face is numb from the chill. I've talked myself into focusing on my date.
Seraphina opens her door before I knock a second time. Her long, toned legs fill the doorway, framed by a slate-colored dress that hugs every precise line of her silhouette. The scent of dark jasmine and quiet luxury floats between us.
Blue smells better.
Stop it.