Chapter Twenty-Three
Delilah
I can still feel Rhys inside me and he hasn’t even fucked me yet. That’s how insane this is. That’s how right it is. I’ve been touched by an angel, or at least by a licensed mental health professional who gave me his personal number and told me what kind of candy he likes.
That’s basically second base. Practically courtship.
I should’ve asked about breakfast preferences. Or allergies. What the hell do I bring to our Thursday date? Something flaky and warm. Croissants? My ass in nothing but thigh highs?
Susan’s vulture eyes snap up the second I exit Rhys’s office, pretending like she wasn’t actively timing my orgasm window with that petty little clock.
“Would you like to move your sessions to Tuesdays?” she asks, all fake-neutral and HR-scented.
Translation: I don’t want you here twice in one week with my office crush, please go ruin someone else’s life.
“Maybe I want to add Tuesdays to the Thursdays.” Because we are a thing now, Susan. A forbidden, throbbing, eye-fuck-from-across-the-room thing. Get bent.
She peers at her little monitor like she’s doing data entry and not fantasizing about licking Rhys’s spoon after lunch. “Your court-mandated treatment plan only requires once a week. I can shift you to Tuesdays instead. Do you have a time preference?”
Time preference?
Bitch.
“Yes, Susan. Mornings,” I say sweetly, because I believe in setting the tone for the day. “He needs something warm to start with. Maybe even a little messy.”
Susan’s face doesn’t change. Stone. Like she’s never once imagined Rhys pinning her to that desk. Liar.
“You know his first slot,” I add with a smile sharp enough to cut through polyester scrubs.
I bet she doesn’t have his personal number.
I bet she doesn’t know he likes white chocolate and used the words emergency only with a straight face while his cock was visibly trying to chew through his pants.
I bet she doesn’t know he’s been jacking off with the image of me unhinged and untethered, dripping on his couch while his license trembles on the edge of suspension.
She slides a printed schedule toward me like it doesn’t cost her everything.
“Do you have one of those feedback surveys?” I ask, resting my elbows on the desk like I might purr. “Just wondering what your name is. Officially.”
That gets a tilt of the head.
“That’s fine. I’ll use the website,” I chirp. “I’m sure they’ll know who I’m talking about.”
I turn and walk out before she can smirk or stab me with a pen. I should be more upset, leaving him with that tight-skirted, emotionally-repressed boundary squatter, but I won’t need to worry about Susan much longer.
I’m gonna recommend they hire someone with real experience navigating volatile client dynamics. Someone with boundaries. Someone ugly.
And then, God is real and I am his slut, I see him.
Benji.
Smiling like I’m his favorite thing he’s seen all day.
Shit.
He’s happy to see me. He lights up. Like I’m the sunrise and not a walking red flag.
Rhys didn’t help with this part. Rhys said journal. He said boundaries. He said, fuck, what did he say? All I remember is wanting to straddle him and scream I have an emergency directly into his mouth.
But now Benji’s here and smiling and I love him.
“You getting off soon?” I ask, like I’m not mentally picturing him doing it with one hand braced against the shower wall.
Benji flushes, bless his soft golden soul. “Yeah, in about an hour. Gotta run and pick out supplies for my niece’s new hamster.”
Of course he’s that guy. The hamster guy. My ovaries make grabby hands like he just invited me to a naked picnic and not aisle six at Rodent Depot. “That sounds disturbingly wholesome. Can I come anyway?”
He smiles like I’m the most adorable decision he’s ever made. “To the pet store?”
“Yes, Benji. I’m the hamster whisperer. I’ve been banned from three malls, once dated a guy named after a reptile, and Trevor the emotional support gerbil still writes to me from witness protection.” I pause and add, “Also, you said come. And now I’m thinking about it again. Rude.”
“You’re amazing,” he says.
Stop that. That’s how girls get rawed in the pet store parking lot. “That’s rich, coming from the man who introduced my G-spot to astrology.”
We spend the rest of his shift with me tailing him like a feral cat in heat, offering a running commentary on his ass that makes him blush so hard I start worrying about his blood pressure.
Benji clocks out while I loiter like a sex goblin with a mission. I’m definitely not wishing this will coincide with Rhys leaving the building. I’m just saying if he does see me leaving with another man, he can go ahead and spiral.
I leave my car parked like a dropped glove beside Rhys’s, bold, brazen, begging to be noticed, and slide into Benji’s passenger seat without a single backward glance.
Let him pace. Let him wonder. Let him stew in his brooding Therapist Thoughts while my car sits there like a challenge he’s not allowed to touch.
The pet store smells like rabbit hay and rodent trauma. I’m immediately in love.
Benji heads toward the hamster supplies like a responsible adult. I head straight for the reptile aisle like a woman who’s Googled “emotional support alligator” more than once.
“Do you think this snake would eat me?” I ask, tossing a container of crickets into the tank like I’m sacrificing a virgin.
Benji glances over. “That’s for the bearded dragon.”
I maintain eye contact with the lizard. “He knows what he did.”
“Which of these is healthiest?” he asks, holding two identical bags of hamster food.
I snatch one from his hand and sniff it. “This one’s Dudley. He’s been through something. You can tell from the oat-to-pellet ratio. The hamster will like it.”
“You name hamster food?”
“I name everything.” I point at a guinea pig in the next pen. “That one’s James. He has enemies. Hold him carefully.”
Benji scoops him up like a gentle woodland creature wrangler and my uterus writes his name in cursive.
“Oops,” I say as James pees on him.
Benji freezes. “Is this normal?”
I nod solemnly. “He knows I want to climb you like a jungle gym and did what any alpha would. Pissed on his rival. Honestly? I respect it.”
Benji laughs, shaking his head as he wipes off his shirt. “You’re insane.”
“You say that like you don’t love it.”
And then I see him. The worm.
He’s pale pink and wriggling against the corner of his display cup like a rejected spaghetti noodle with a dream.
“Him. Right there. The moist spaghetti. He’s calling to me. We’re taking him home.”
Benji gives me a look. “Delilah. That is a worm.”
“He’s a dreamer. He has a soul and a name and you will respect him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mr. Wriggles. He’s been through heartbreak, compost, and eight unforgiving inches of suburban lawn. He gets me. He’s our emotional support worm and future mascot.”
“Do I get a say in this?” he asks.
“No. He chose me. Help me find a sparkly travel pod with air holes and stickers. Preferably pink. He has a vibe to uphold.”
Benji grins and buys the worm without protest. That’s how I know it’s real. Anyone can fuck me, but only true love funds my emotional support vermin.