Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Blue
The second I close the restaurant door behind me, cold night air rushes across my skin, sharp enough to make my pulse flutter with something that borders on triumph.
My friends are still inside, probably wondering why I slipped out without finishing my cocktail, but I can't sit at that table another second.
Ever since Red shoved me into that dark corner and growled at me to stop, my pulse has been electric. His eyes, his breath, the way his hand hit the wall beside my head showed me everything I needed to see. And nothing about him resembled the calm doctor who usually pretends he's in control.
He wasn't untouchable tonight. When he chased after Seraphina like a man terrified of what she might've seen, it wasn't because he wanted her.
He ran because of me.
He wants me.
Smiling, I tug my coat tighter, but not for warmth. His cologne sits under my nails that scraped his chest. I inhale it again, pulling it deeper into my lungs.
My ride pulls to the curb. I slide into the back seat, my heart pounding in a slow, hungry rhythm. I angle my body toward the window, my heart thundering not with fear but with a delicious, swelling anticipation that sits low and hot in my stomach.
Streetlights flicker across my reflection as the driver pulls away from the restaurant. It's nothing like the woman who arrived there two hours ago. My hair is slightly mussed, lipstick smudged, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with something no amount of makeup could fake.
Red did that to me.
He put color in my cheeks and made my lips tremble.
The night stretches thin around me, every sound amplified, every sensation sharper, every breath soaked with promises of our future. I close my eyes, giddy with happiness, replaying all of it.
He said my name like a man begging for restraint while pleading to lose it.
By the time I reach my building, my stomach twists with a heat that crawls up my spine and settles in the hollow of my throat. I rush upstairs, practically floating, and the second I'm inside my apartment, I head straight for my bedroom without turning on a single light.
Darkness suits a night like tonight.
I fall backward onto my bed, dress still hugging my curves, coat sliding halfway off my shoulders. My pulse thrums in my neck, chest, wrists, and the back of my knees.
Red's face grows more prominent. The moment he saw me, and the way his eyes widened, then darkened, then dropped to my neckline as if he couldn't stop himself, will forever be sketched into my brain.
I reach for my phone and open my camera roll. A new rush of adrenaline hits me all over again. I scroll through the photos I took at the restaurant when he didn't realize I was watching.
The first one is harmless enough. He's walking in beside Seraphina, posture straight, jaw set, gaze sweeping over the room. He looks every bit the composed, disciplined man he wants to be.
The second tells a different story. It captured the exact moment he saw me.
His eyes locked onto mine with a force that punched through the crowded room.
Something sharp crossed his expression, and his body tensed in a way that had nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with desire he couldn't hide.
I give myself kudos. I'm a genius for capturing this one, and he should have seen me with my phone barely lifted off the table, but he couldn't take his gaze off mine.
As good as it is, the third photo is my favorite.
He's gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white, like he's holding himself back, and it requires physical effort. His chest is tight, his gaze barely on his date, and there's a tension around his mouth that tells me he's fighting something he's already lost.
I zoom in, tracing the line of his jaw with the pad of my finger. The intensity in his eyes pulls a soft breath from deep inside me, and I press my thighs together, savoring the warmth spreading between them.
He reacted to me.
He chased her out of the restaurant because she caught him wanting me.
Every part of that memory sends a pulse of satisfaction rolling through my body.
I toss my phone onto the pillow beside me and stare at the ceiling.
My pulse still hasn't calmed. The bruise on the middle of my thigh throbs as if reminding me of what I did for him.
I reach down and press it, enjoying the faint ache.
The sensation shoots straight through me, awakening a dark, hungry need.
I sit up, unzip my dress, and shimmy out of it. I only keep my panties on and slide under the covers. I grab my phone and open our message thread.
Besides the one message I sent him, it's empty.
I start typing.
Me: I'm home. But…I'm not doing great. I feel super guilty about ruining your date. I can't stop thinking about hurting myself again.
I stare at the message for one breath, then hit send. I'm not going to hurt myself. I haven't wanted to in months. But tonight isn't about truth. It's about our unbreakable connection.
The response appears immediately.
Red: Is this real, or are you trying to manipulate me again?
Me: Sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you. I've done enough damage tonight.
Red: Are you alone?
Me: Yes. At home in my bed.
Dots appear then disappear.
He's panicking.
Good.
Red: Do you have anything nearby that could cut you?
Me: No. I want to obey you.
Red: Obey me?
Me: You told me to text you before I grabbed a knife.
A quick moment passes.
Red: I'm glad you didn't grab anything sharp.
Me: Like I said. I want to obey you.
I slide my hand over my chest, circling a finger over my nipple.
Too much time passes without a reply. I slide my hand over my cut thigh, pressing.
Me: My thoughts won't stop. My breath is speeding up.
Red: Put both feet on the floor. Try to take a slow inhale. Identify five things in the room.
I laugh at his clinical response.
Me: I can't. I keep replaying you walking away. I shouldn't have asked to talk. I shouldn't have confronted you. I messed everything up. I ruined your relationship.
There's a long pause. I wait to see if he'll take the bait.
Red: You're misinterpreting what happened. This conversation isn't appropriate outside of session. We'll talk during your next appointment.
No. We'll talk now.
Me: I don't have another appointment. Shirley wasn't there. I don't think I can get through tonight. I don't trust myself. Can you come over?
Deafening silence follows.
Old ghosts of Brax, who never replied to my text messages, terrorize me. My blood turns cold.
Me: Did you block me?
Red: No. I can't come over. That's not appropriate. If you're unsafe, you need to call the crisis line on the back of my business card or go to the ER.
Me: I don't want a hotline or a stranger. I want you. You're the only one who understands what happens to me. You're the only one I trust.
He doesn't respond right away.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let him sit in the tension he created when he pinned me between his arm and the wall.
Let him drown in the memory of my breath on his jaw.
I slide my hand near the heat between my thighs.
Red: This is the boundary you cannot cross. I am not your emergency contact. You're attaching meaning to things that aren't appropriate.
I bite my bottom lip, heat curling low and deep.
Appropriate.
His final shield and favorite lie.
Me: I can't stop pressing the bruise I made for you. The ache...oh God, Dr. Mercer. The ache is pulsing up my thigh. I...I know...I need...
The quiet stretches so long I swear I can hear his heartbeat through the phone.
Red: Stop. You're manipulating the situation. What happened tonight was unacceptable, and it cannot happen again. I shouldn't have let you pull me into that moment.
I smile. He's lying, and he knows it. He loved it as much as I did. He wanted to be alone with me in that dark corner.
Me: I didn't pull you. You pulled me. You always do.
His reply arrives like a strike.
Red: Enough. Our dynamic is therapeutic. It stays therapeutic. I won't participate in this seductive storyline you're creating. It isn't real, and it isn't healthy. It stops now.
Seductive storyline. More glee hits me. He just exposed himself, admitted, without meaning to, that he feels it between us, too.
Most men would shut down. A traditional therapist would cut contact. But Red isn't most men.
He's mine.
I'm not just another patient.
Time to switch gears.
Me: I'm between my sheets right now, naked except for my panties.
They match your shirt. I swear they're identical in color.
The lace is wet, Dr. Mercer. Drenched in all the minutes that have passed since I saw you come into the restaurant.
And don't tell me that's a coincidence that it's the same color as your shirt.
I'm pressing my bruise I made for you with one hand and sliding my fingers through my juices, and it's all your fault.
My pulse beats hard between my ears. Heat incinerates my core as I stare at the phone.
Answer, Red.
My phone rings. My breath catches, and I stare at the screen.
Dr. Red Mercer flashes next to the photo I downloaded from his LinkedIn profile.
"Dr. Mercer," I breathlessly answer.
"Blue?" His voice is low, strained, and already walking the edge of something dangerous.
I swallow. "Yeah."
"You can't do this. You can't send messages like that. You can't toy with our boundaries and expect me to—"
"To what?" My voice slips soft, coaxing. "To care? To worry? To want to make sure I'm okay?"
Silence.
Then a slow inhale, sharp around the edges. He quietly admits, "Of course I want to make sure you're okay."
"Why are you fighting so hard?" I ask.
Another short breath hits my ear.
I slide my finger around my clit and close my eyes, breathing hotter.
His raw voice cracks. "You're emotional right now. You're confused after what happened at the restaurant. You're—"
"Thinking about your hands on me and touching myself." The words spill out velvet-soft, wicked.
His breath stutters.