Chapter Twenty-Three
Maya
As soon as I walk into the restaurant to meet Pippa, the familiar scent hits me, and it’s definitely not my sister.
This is something distinct, something… primal.
It’s my masked man I smell. A wave of apprehension and a flicker of excitement washes over me.
I scan the busy room, my eyes darting from table to table, searching for a familiar silhouette. Would I even recognize him?
The question of why he won’t let me see him is ever present. Does he have a huge scar or deformity? Is he afraid I wouldn’t be interested in him anymore if I saw him? Is his face just really unattractive despite how perfect the rest of him is? It doesn’t matter. It won’t change anything for me.
I just want to know. I want to look into his eyes. I want to see him the way he gets to see me. But as much as I want to know everything about him, I have to respect that he obviously isn’t ready to open up to me, and it’s probably the therapist in me, but I don’t want to push him.
I want him to be ready to share himself with me.
Even though it is driving me crazy.
I know what he sounds like when he comes.
I know what he smells like, but he’s not the only man who wears that insanely enticing cologne.
I know that he is dominant through and through but he’s not controlling.
He doesn’t need to assert his dominance with pain.
He’s a generous lover, and he wants to make me happy.
He reads me like a book, tapping into kinks I wasn’t fully aware I had.
And my dogs love him. That has to mean something, right?
But there’s so much I don’t know about the only man I’ve ever slept with. Like his name. Or what he does for a living. If he has a family or friends. Money doesn’t seem to be an issue for him, but he hasn’t mentioned work at all. Maybe he got a huge compensation payout for his facial disfigurement.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the insane thoughts rattling around. The restaurant is packed, and I’m not going to go up and sniff each man with a similar build to him while the waitress leads me to the table. I need to let it go.
As soon as she seats me, however, my mouth goes dry. Ryan is sitting at the next table over. Alone, reading a book while he eats. Shit, of course he's a reader. Is there anything sexier than someone who reads for enjoyment?
He doesn’t look up or notice me—he’s completely engrossed in his book—and I find myself craving his attention. Wanting him to see me. Wanting a reason to talk to him outside of his therapy sessions.
That voice I try so damn hard not to listen to awakens again. Pushing me toward him. Begging me to claim him. I force it down, reminding myself that it would never be possible. Maybe if I had met him under other circumstances, but I didn’t.
I can do this. I am a strong woman. I do not let the urges control me. The mantra does nothing for me anymore. My other compulsions are in check. But my want for Ryan? That seems never-ending.
The voice is quieter with my masked man. It still urges me to bite him at times, but it’s less insistent. Like it craves Ryan more. Or maybe it’s that I already have the masked man, physically at least. Even if he won’t give me the emotional connection I seek.
Ryan sips from his glass of water while his eyes remain glued to the pages of his book, allowing me to observe him.
Allowing me to take in how his hair curls in a way that’s both unruly and polished.
How perfectly flawless his skin is. How symmetrical his handsome features are.
He looks like a Greek god, or at least a sculpture of one.
Devastatingly handsome and intense in all the best ways.
Just as the waitress is setting down his plate, Pippa joins me, cutting off my view of him. I startle at the intrusion to my staring, and she smirks at me, not missing a thing.
“Enjoying the view? I can move if—”
“Shut up,” I hiss at her, sounding like a petulant child snarking at my big sister, which only makes her smile grow bigger.
“I will end you,” I promise when she makes a point of looking over her shoulder. I grab her hand to stop her from staring at Ryan and thank all that is good that this place is crowded, and the chatter at other tables is loud enough he couldn’t have heard us.
“Anyway,” I say, drawing her attention back to me, “how often do we get a lunch date with just the two of us? Tell me about your date.”
“Subtle, Maya, really subtle change of subject.”
“Come on, I babysit, I get the details.” Maddie was still awake when Pippa got home on Sunday, and there was no chance for her to tell me anything before I needed to get back to the dogs.
“Honestly, it was pretty woeful.” She sighs. “He was fine. Complete gentleman.”
“How awful. Who would ever want that?” I deadpan, and we both dissolve into giggles like we’re teenagers, not grown women.
Given our nine-year age difference and the fact we were never close growing up, I love how much closer we are now.
We never laughed about boys together when we were younger, though Pippa was there for me in the ways it mattered, when everything went to shit when I was fourteen.
And we have had a weekly lunch date since her husband died.
It was my way of forcing her to leave the house when all she wanted was to curl up.
Now that she’s doing better, we have continued it, and somewhere along the way, we became the closest of friends.
“But seriously, what was so bad about it?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Pippa shrugs. “And everything. There was just no excitement, no spark. You know me; I’ll talk to anyone. But, my God, he was just so boring. No substance. The man is forty-five years old, and it’s like he’s never lived. Never lost anything important.”
“I’m sorry, Pippa.”
“It’s fine. At least I got out there again,” she says pointedly, and I roll my eyes to heaven.
She has been pushing me to date for years, even though she knows the reason why I never have.
I can’t tell her about the masked man. She would lose her mind if I told her he won’t share his name with me.
And I don’t even know if what I’m doing with the masked man is dating.
He’s made so many promises and declarations, but it’s hard to believe them when we can’t even go for a walk together.
I don’t know anymore.
Pippa and I give our orders as my head moves in spirals.
I want to talk to Ryan. Part of me wishes he were here with someone so I could listen in to his conversation, but the other part of me feels physically sick at the thought of him on a date.
I want to know who he is when he’s not sitting in my chair and telling me about his internal processes.
I want to know how he transformed from the man who told me he didn’t believe in therapy to making so many changes in such a short time.
And more than anything, I want him to know me. I want him to look up and see me. Not just the therapist part. The real me.
The parts I’ve hidden from everyone.
What is wrong with me?
“Are you okay?” Pippa asks, cocking her head and scanning my face.
“Yeah, I’m just going to go to the bathroom,” I say, pushing to a stand.
Ryan’s not at his table anymore, but his book is still there, and I can’t help taking a quick look on my way past. Then I regret it immediately when I recognize the cover and realize he was casually reading dragon smut in a restaurant.
I both love that for him and hate it for me.
This is doing nothing to stem my ever-growing obsession.
I drag myself away, not wanting to be seen lingering by Pippa or Ryan. I turn the corner toward the bathroom, only to crash into a solid wall of muscle. Large hands come to my arms, steadying me, and I know without looking who they belong to.
“Whoa, are you okay there?”
“Sorry, yes,” I say without looking at him.
“You sure?” he asks, placing a finger under my chin and tilting my face upward. His brown eyes bore into me, and this close to him, I can’t ignore that he smells exactly like the masked man. The scent circles me, and I feel my thong growing damp. It’s practically a Pavlovian response at this point.
Smell that damn cologne and soak my panties.
The voice inside me practically purrs, pushing me forward in a way that’s nearly impossible to ignore. I can’t respond with words. All of my energy is wrapped up in shoving it back down.
Breathe in for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
Out for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
It’s not working. His scent invades me. His touch lingers on my jaw, my skin buzzing at the connection. It’s him, comes the voice.
No! This isn’t happening.
“I need to go,” I say, abruptly pulling away from him and rushing back toward my table.
“Sorry, Pippa. I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head out, but I’ll catch you soon.”
“Wh—”
I cut her off with a shake of my head and grab my bag before practically running out of the restaurant.
Once outside, I lean back against the wall, breathing deeply and trying to ground myself.
When I feel a modicum of control return, I walk back to my office, feeling the prickling sensation of eyes on me the entire way. I don’t look around. I don’t need to.