Chapter Four
Delilah
Jett wraps up his story with all the emotional nuance of a man who could rearrange your spine with one hand and then rebuild your transmission with the other. Wordlessly, shirtlessly, and with vengeance in his heart.
“So I didn’t stab him. This time,” he finishes.
Dr. Dickblock scribbles a note like he’s debating whether that’s emotional growth or just delayed felony.
“Thank you for sharing, Mr. Ryker,” he says, with the cautious cadence of a man who once got dunked in a locker by a guy named Tank and never emotionally recovered.
Jett blinks once, slow and unimpressed, then rises like Poseidon if he bench-pressed his own emotional repression. He’s not wet. He’s slicked in rage, and flexing like a middle finger to god.
My thighs do that thing. Twitch, trying to text him in a language only horny demons understand.
I make it three steps toward Ryker, no, Jett, excuse me, now that we’re apparently on a first-name, eye-fucking-in-public basis, before Dickblock snipes me with the voice of a man who files complaints about strong perfume.
“Miss Darling?” he asks, stepping directly into my dickpath. A human traffic cone of celibacy. “A moment?”
I pause. “If this is about the glitter in my forms, I’m going to need you to know that’s a personality trait, not a crime.”
He does not smile. Of course he doesn’t. “We need to complete your intake, evaluation plan, and emotional risk profile,” he says, like he’s never once risked an orgasm in the wild. “Just five minutes.”
I get half a whiff of expensive cologne and sinful sweat as Jett vanishes through the door like lust with a backstory.
“But Jett,” I start.
“Mr. Ryker,” he corrects, with all the joy of a man whose safe word is ‘spreadsheets.’ “He’ll return next week. Or he won’t. Either way, compliance is non-negotiable.”
Compliance.
God, that word. It makes my inner brat want to set something on fire just to spite the syllabus.
I crane my neck toward the hallway, praying for one last glimpse of Jett’s righteous ass as it disappears into the fog of my unresolved daddy issues. But Dickblock’s already herding me toward a sad little plastic table with a plastic pen and a clipboard full of state-approved blue-balls.
“Technically, I voluntarily signed up for this under hormonal duress,” I explain. “I was only ordered to six weeks with Dr. Hartwell. So we can skip the formal paperwork.”
“If you want to remain in the program,” he drones, “you need a compliant, completed, and clinically codified file.”
I glance longingly at the door where Jett, the seductive final boss of my trauma healing arc, vanished. “Fine,” I say, flopping into the chair like a girl being punished for her kinks.
Dr. Dickblock drones something about Dr. Hartwell, Rhys, my new therapist/delayed orgasm incarnate, and next week’s appointment.
My mind flakes out like a glitter bomb in a vacuum. Rhys. Breakfast. One week. I don’t know if he likes pancakes or egg pie. If he takes his coffee black or with just a splash of soy daddy issues. God, what if he’s one of those people who says “bean juice” unironically?
I have seven days to solve the culinary equivalent of the Da Vinci code or risk bringing a pastry that emotionally offends him.
What if I show up with a donut and he stares at it like I just handed him a carb-packed cry for help?
Just… sips his coffee in silence and logs a note in my chart: Patient exhibits poor taste in baked goods and judgment.
What if he’s one of those weird yogurt men? A kefir smoothie freak? Someone who uses the phrase “gut biome” like it’s sexy?
What if I bring him something sugary and he launches into a gentle, nurturing monologue about blood glucose while maintaining direct eye contact? And I climax on the spot because that’s apparently my bar now?
I need answers. A dossier. A mole in his fridge. A stakeout team. One of those shopping receipt trackers that tells you a man’s breakfast habits based on local grocery purchases and the sadness in his eyes.
Dr. Dickblock’s droning again, his voice the human equivalent of a CAPTCHA test.
I blink myself back to reality just in time to hear, “...will review your file with Dr. Hartwell before next week and make adjustments if needed.”
Cool. Adjust this, sir.
I sign. I initial. I check the little boxes that say things like “open to feedback” and “committed to personal growth,” while mentally climbing Rhys and riding him across his therapy office like a demon on a mission.
That thought progresses until I’m bent over his mahogany desk, moaning around a fresh-baked croissant while he spanks me with a printed copy of my intake form.
He feeds me a bite of scone between thrusts and tells me I’m “making measurable progress.”
Eventually, Dickblock dismisses me with a pamphlet and the kind of dead-eyed smile only achievable by a man whose sex life involves socks and missionary regret.
I launch myself out the door, a slutty bloodhound, scanning the hall for Jett, his rage muscles, his denim sin-walk, the angry stormcloud of a man I want to ruin me emotionally and then ghost me for three to five business days.
But he’s gone.
Vanished like my last impulse control.
I let out a dramatic sigh that’s mostly for me and partially for whatever building camera footage is currently recording my descent into criminal thirst.
The hallway is emptier than my morals. Just me and a vending machine that’s fully stocked with knockoff sugar disasters like “ChocoBrick” and “CreamWadz.”
I’m debating whether depression calories count when a literal fantasy in tactical polyester steps into frame. A wet dream in steel-toed boots.
“Oh. Hi,” I breathe, staring up into a wall of man-meat so big I momentarily forget what language is. “Holy linebacker, Batman.”
The man in front of me straightens from where he was leaning against the wall.
He’s massive. “You could build furniture on his thighs” massive.
His brown hair curls sweetly at the edges of his security cap, and he’s wearing one of those soft, fitted uniforms that makes my ovaries play the national anthem.
He does a little startled blinky thing, as if surprised I’m talking to him. “Hi, ma’am. Can I help you?”
Ma’am.
My nipples give a standing ovation. If he says it again, I might bust a glitter orgasm right here in the hallway.
Is this a therapy office suite or portal for sex deities? Because I’ve lived in this town for years and I’ve never seen more than one remotely jumpable man at a time in the same place. Even in big places like the everything under the sun store.
“I was… looking for someone,” I say, trying not to sound like a stalker. “Tall, angry, looks like he could bench press a motorcycle and has trauma you can smell.”
He considers this seriously. “That describes, like... half this floor, ma’am.”
Sweet cinnamon protector with the soul of a golden retriever. And shoulders like sin. His shirt pulls just slightly across his chest as he shifts, and my brain commits treason against every plan I had for the next hour. He smells like clean cotton and safety.
His name badge reads BENJI in all caps. Benji. Of course he’s a Benji. A name that sounds like a cuddle and tastes like a toaster pastry.
“Well, if I can’t find him, I guess I’ll need something else to satisfy my cravings,” I beam at him. “What do you recommend?”
He turns pink. Pink. This man is six-foot-something of muscle and pepper spray, and he’s blushing like I kissed his puppy. He makes a sound like a small engine failing. “Nothing from there. You want the bakery across the street.”
Oh no.
Oh yes.
Oh fuck me sideways with a signed restraining order.
Benji just entered the chat like a side character with main character dick.
And I am spiritually naked.