I press my thumb against the rim of the glass, watching condensation gather and slide. My grip tightens, and the memory won't stay buried. It's the same problem I've always had. My thoughts wait patiently, for moments like this when quiet, isolation, and alcohol allow them to surface, then attack me until I feel unable to deal appropriately with them.
Everything hits fast. Blue's under my desk, her mouth's on my cock, and her eyes...
"Fuck," I mutter, and take another swallow that stings, but it doesn't burn the image of her looking up at me like she already owned something I hadn't admitted I'd given her. She dared me to say no and watched carefully to see if I could.
I failed.
I set the glass down harder than necessary. The sound snaps through the room. I turn away from the city and stare at my phone, which sits face down on the counter. Then I glance at the clock.
It's been an hour since my phone chirped. I've not looked at her message, showing restraint, control, and professional distance.
It's been long enough.
It hasn't.
I stand, hold myself back from sprinting into the kitchen, and flip the phone over.
Blue: My parents will be at our next session.
I go perfectly still, and it's like every instinct in me slams into reinforced glass. There's a sharp pull low in my gut, heat crawling up my spine, and my legs prime to move even as my mind clamps down hard.
What rattles me isn't the text itself. It's the precision and timing of it. She didn't ask, apologize, or reach for reassurance. She asserted presence. And beneath the irritation and the familiar surge of control snapping back into place, something darker and far more dangerous settles inside me.
She's not spiraling.
She's playing.
The part of me I've spent years disciplining feels awake, alert, and deeply, disturbingly interested in whatever game Blue has planned.
I scrub my hand over my face and curse, "What the fuck is wrong with me?"
The words settle cold and precise in my chest. I huff out a breath that isn't quite a laugh.
Of course she would do this. Of course she'd escalate by disguising it as compliance and drag witnesses into the room. She's shifting the power dynamic and forcing me into a position where terminating treatment looks punitive instead of necessary.
She's forcing me to stay.
I take another drink, slower this time, letting it coat my tongue and throat. The heat spreads, dulling nothing, sharpening everything. She's studied me and learned where I hesitate. She thinks she knows what I won't do if there are eyes on me besides hers.
A loud chirp blares out of my phone. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I slowly glance down.
Blue: I left you a present in your office. You should get a better lock.
My pulse skyrockets. I finish my Scotch, grab the bottle, and move down the hall, stepping into the spare bedroom that I use as my home office. I don't turn on the lights. The glow of the city is enough to illuminate the room, and the locked drawer beneath the desk catches the light.
I stop in front of it, pull my set of keys out of my pocket, and unlock it. The drawer slides out smoothly, revealing an oversized blue envelope.
My pulse kicks once, hard enough that I feel it in my wrists, and I welcome it instead of tamping it down. The anticipation sharpens my focus, stripping away hesitation until there's only forward motion left.
I unclasp the back of the envelope and pull out a thick stack of printed 8x10 photos.
The first one is Blue, laughing on a sidewalk, head tipped back, beaming with not a care in the world. I study it, not seeing any resemblance to the woman who's often distraught.
I thumb through the photos slowly, my chest thumping harder with each image. Blue looks over her shoulder, as if she sensesshe's being watched and likes it. Then she's inside a restaurant, in a dress that makes my hands itch with the memory of fabric clinging to skin I've never touched the way I want to.
Fuck. I want her.
The revelation isn't new or sudden, but I'm too educated on desire and obsession to lie to myself.
