Chapter Twenty-Two
Rhys
She’s angled herself just so on the couch, legs crossed high, skirt caught in the act of slipping. And when she shifts, it’s not subtle. Not even close.
I don’t comment. I don’t look. But I see.
The silk of her stockings flashes with every twitch of her ankle. My throat’s dry. My dick’s a traitor, thick and unforgiving in my slacks. My jaw’s tight. My pulse is a quiet, aching threat.
And my mind is already halfway through a fantasy I can’t afford to finish.
My tie looped around her throat like a leash, her lipstick smeared across her cheek, hands braced on my desk as I bend her over and fuck every boundary I’m supposed to protect.
She moans like absolution while I ruin my license to practice and her ability to walk.
And she’d thank me for it.
But I sit. Measured. Professional. A man pretending he’s not inches from madness.
One couch cushion away. Too close.
I speak like I’m not imagining what she tastes like or how long I can hold my breath. “Why don’t we start with Thursday and move forward?”
She hums. A sound not meant for polite company. Her head tilts, eyes still closed, and I hate how much it looks like she’s waiting for a kiss.
“I see you’ve joined anger management. That wasn’t court-mandated. What prompted that?” I ask.
The smile she gives me is slow. A cat pretending to be reformed while licking blood off its paws.
“Jett,” she says, voice all sugar and smoke. “I guess you know him? Does therapy here too? Anyways.”
My stomach knots.
“You know him personally?” I ask, even though I already know.
She opens one eye, lashes heavy with implication. “That depends. Not really. But you left me high and dry, Rhys, and he strolled into the lobby with thighs. Thighs. So, I followed him to group therapy. Then to work. Signed up for his class. Stole his hat. Then he fingered me in the parking lot.”
She pauses.
I say nothing.
Because what the fuck is there to say?
She continues like she didn’t just set a bomb under the room and pull the pin with her teeth. “Here’s where it gets complicated.”
She reaches into her bag like this is a picnic and not a professional session. Unwraps a candy, holds it up between two fingers like a communion offering.
“Bite?”
I clear my throat. “That’s not appropriate, Miss Darling.”
She pops the candy in her mouth. Sucks loudly. The sound is indecent.
Then she winces. “Ugh. This is bitter and gross. Do you eat dark? Because if not, next time I’ll bring milk chocolate. Maybe something with cream centers. More symbolism.”
I grit my teeth. “We’re going to run out of time.”
She pouts. Pouts. “That’s tragic. Because I’m bringing you gifts. Chocolates. Devotion. Candy that tastes like sucking sin through a paper straw. And you won’t even nibble?”
“Miss Darling,” I say carefully, “did you hit a man named Chad in a gym parking lot this weekend?”
She blinks at me. “Allegedly.”
“You don’t deny it.”
“I said allegedly. I’m not a liar. I’m just creatively honest.”
“You could’ve been arrested.”
“I was busy being fingered at the time,” she says flatly, then leans back and stretches in a way that makes her skirt inch higher. “Priorities, Rhys.”
I take a breath. Try to ground myself in clinical distance. “I’d like to focus on your decision to initiate group therapy. That’s a good step. Let’s explore why you…”
“Do you like dark chocolate?” she interrupts again.
My patience flickers. “I prefer white.”
“Oh, Rhys,” she says, breathless. “I love that for us.”
She closes the candy bag and tosses it aside, then leans forward with conspiratorial glee. “Forget this bag. I wasn’t properly prepared. I’ll bring something better next time. Something that melts.”
I nod slowly, because I have no idea what the hell I’m agreeing to anymore.
But I know one thing.
She’s going to end me.
And I’m going to thank her when she does.
She crosses her legs the opposite way, and the move is so casual it feels choreographed.
I clear my throat, trying to remember how to act like a man with a doctorate and not a hard-on. “What happened at the gym?”
She waves a hand, her tone dismissive. “Oh, Chad called me a tramp. I defended myself. Well, technically I didn’t. Jett restrained me. But then I went outside because Jett can’t be around that man, and he was so mad I stole his hat that he lost it and fingered me on his motorcycle.”
She says it like she’s recounting the weather. As if fingered me on his motorcycle is just a thing that happens between errands and therapy. Like it’s not about to live rent-free in my head for the rest of the goddamn week.
I nod slowly. Pretending my dick isn’t already trying to press against the seam of my trousers for a better look.
She tilts her head, thoughtful. “No, maybe it wasn’t the hat. It’s probably because he told me not to touch his bike, which was rude because I only touched it to leave a gift, so I sat on it. Anyway, I did it again yesterday. He hasn’t called. I think he’s ghosting me. But I solved his Chad issue.”
Her smile is smug. Satisfied. Like solving a “Chad issue” is something you can cross off a to-do list between “drop off dry cleaning” and “commit minor felony.”
Listening to her is like watching a car crash in slow motion, except she’s the one behind the wheel, grinning, while I’m strapped in the passenger seat wondering when the airbags are going to deploy.
My tie feels tight. My jaw’s locked so hard it aches. I’m imagining her on her knees, tongue greedy, saying my name like a fucking prayer I never deserved.
This is a problem.
“Something else happened with Chad?” I manage.
She huffs. “You’re skipping Benji, and he’s really why I need you. I understand men like Jett. And you. But Benji…” Her brow furrows like this is an actual mystery she’s trying to solve.
I try not to react to the way she said “you.” Try not to unpack that she puts me in the same mental folder as the man who fingered her on a Harley.
“You understand men like…” No. Stop it. This isn’t about me. “I’m not like…” Stop. Fucking stop. Professionalism is not a kink, but God help me, she might make it one.
“Tell me about Benji,” I say, voice rough.
She lights up like a fucking Christmas display. “So after that clipboard dickblocker who teaches anger management held me back for paperwork…”
It’s almost admirable how quickly she cycles through chaos. I don’t laugh, somehow, but the corner of my mouth twitches. Trenton is a clipboard dickblocker. He’s also a boundary-respecting paper hoarder with no idea what kind of hurricane we’ve got in this chair.
“… I race out to find Jett and run straight into Benji. Oh, Rhys, I hope this doesn’t hurt your ego, but he’s perfect. I mean tall. Not just tall like you. He’s easily six-four. Over a foot on me. He’s got these curls and this sweet smile. But that’s not it. He’s actually sweet. So fucking sweet.”
I swallow hard. And suddenly I hate a man I’ve barely met.
Benji. Security. I’ve seen him in passing. Smiles a lot. Open posture. Seems like the type who holds doors and remembers birthdays. Not her type at all.
Apparently I don’t know her type.
“I believe you mentioned he works security here?” I say.
She nods, dreamy. “Mhm. He teaches swim lessons to little kids and he didn’t even freak out when I gave him a GPS tracker for his keyring.”
“What?”
“So I can track him. In case he gets lost.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
She’s smiling. Like that’s endearing. Like men don’t file restraining orders over less. I write something that might be words in my notebook and keep my eyes off her mouth because she keeps licking the corner like she’s remembering the taste of something she didn’t finish.
I brace myself through a too graphic retelling of the blowjob she gave Benji. And then the sex. And then a woman named Margo.
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Let’s go back. You left a gift… for Margo?”
She blinks. “Yeah. She’s his ex. Well ex is being generous he fucked her once.
She’s been using her position in the HOA to try and get him to fuck her again.
But he’s not into her so I left a little something to let her know.
I mean I don’t blame her the man is huge, and he came twice. That’s unusual. But he’s mine now.”
My license. My fucking license.
“And you broke into Benji’s home?” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Delilah, that’s not acceptable. That’s not a boundary issue. That’s a legal one.”
She shrugs. “I used a key. Which I returned after making a copy. And I didn’t break anything.”
My sanity, darling. You’re breaking that in real time.
“I think you’re missing the point,” she says, flicking her wrist like that erases a felony. “He didn’t care. Not about the B&E. Or the key. He doesn’t even know about Margo. Only you do. And you can’t fucking tell, right? It’s like confessional rules. Priest with a PhD.”
My jaw tightens. “You told him,” I say. “About the key?”
“He thanked me,” she chirps, utterly unbothered. “Because, ugh, it’s all in the journal.”
She leans over to grab it from her bag, tits spilling like a damn trap set by Satan himself.
My mouth waters.
It’s shameful. It’s chemical. My brain is halfway through a dissection of whether her nipples match her lip color or if they’re a darker shade, like bruised fruit begging to be bitten.
Then she hands me the journal. “You can keep it,” she says. “I don’t think it’s helping to dwell on Hank when I’ve clearly moved on to Benji, Jett, and… you.”
My cock twitches.
Me. She moved on to me.
“Journaling is…” I try. Fucking focus, Rhys.
“I’ll start a new one. One without Hank. Just write me off those charges, yeah? I’m not stalking him. No more trespassing. I’m over him.” Her eyes flick to my mouth. “I’d be even more over him if you’d stop playing hard to get and just bend me over the couch like we both know you want to.”
“Miss Darling.”
“You’re yelling,” she says.
“I’m not yelling,” I lie. I’m vibrating with restraint. My fingers curl so tight into the armrest that I swear I hear leather groan. I want to shove my cock down her throat, not to shut her up, but because she asked, without even asking.
“This has been a total waste,” she announces. “You didn’t like the candy, you didn’t give me any useful advice, and I’m leaving still not knowing what the fuck to do about a man who doesn’t run. Do I go harder? Can he really like me?”
There. There. Something real in her voice. I dig for it.
“Is there a reason you believe he wouldn’t?”
She goes still. The mask slides for half a second.
Then… “Fuck you, Rhys,” she whispers. “Give me a way to reach you. I might need help. And your secretary hates me.”
“That’s not appropriate,” I say, even as my hand is already reaching for the desk drawer.
“It’s therapy,” she fires back.
“We have five more minutes. What would you like to talk about?” I ask.
“I need a number. I won’t call. Just text. I need help with Benji, and how not to fuck it up.”
Real again. Vulnerable. Honest.
Which is exactly when my cock decides to throb like a bastard.
I look at her and all I can think is: this is a bad, unethical, probably-career-ending version of Roxanne, and I’m the asshole with the torch.
I’m going to help her be a good girlfriend to Benji. Not fuck her raw on the couch until her screams echo in the vents.
Yes, Rhys. Because ethics.
“Journal about Benji. About Jett. And Margo,” I say. “Who’s the woman you nearly ran over?”
“Confidential,” she sings. “Might’ve left her a slightly menacing gift. But no vandalism. That was Chad.”
“Wait, what?” I’m already mentally lawyering the damage. “You know he’s the type to press charges for eye contact.”
“He’s a dickhead who should watch his mouth.”
My phone buzzes. “Your next appointment is here, Doctor,” my receptionist says with nuclear frost.
“Told you she hates me,” Delilah says, standing. She’s so close I can smell her perfume, sweet and sharp, like she bites.
“I’ll give her the chocolates,” she adds. “They’re bitter. Like her ovaries.”
She steps into my space when I stand, right into my breath, my boundaries, my goddamn downfall.
“Please don’t make me face this alone,” she whispers. “I think he really loves me. And I might love him back.”
And all I want is to kiss Benji’s name off her tongue, suck the truth out of her mouth until she forgets every man but me.
I don’t.
I turn, reach for my drawer, and pull out a business card. On the back, I scrawl my personal number. My hand shakes.
“Emergencies only,” I say, and it’s the worst mistake I’ll ever make.
But I do it anyway.