The river is busy even at this hour. Cyclists, runners, and walkers line the pavement. I focus on the sharp rush of air expanding my lungs and the familiar burn threading through my calves. My breath steadies, but the rest of me doesn't.
Every few strides, my mind yanks me backward into that office with Blue's voice, hair, and those damn thighs she intentionally wanted to haunt me. It all spins around her vulnerability and seduction, while I pick up my pace faster than normal, trying to outrun it.
The run is supposed to flush her out of my system. Instead, it brings her into sharper focus.
I push harder, lengthening my stride, welcoming the tight sting across my chest. The path curves beneath a series of old steel bridges and shadows slicing across the concrete. My heartbeat pulses loud in my ears, drowning out thought for brief, merciful seconds at a time before slapping me with new visions of Blue.
The wind grows stronger near the waterline, pushing against me, forcing me to work for each step. I lean into it, letting effort replace everything else.
It barely works.
By mile three, my clothes cling to me in sweat. I keep running, chasing that rare moment of alignment, the one place where discipline always returns. But even here, she won't stop intruding.
When I finally reach the far turn of the river, I stop at the railing, gripping the cold metal with both hands. My pulse is a hard, insistent throb under my skin. The air burns in my throat. The city stretches on all sides, with the fog slowly lifting.
I push back, return to my place, and get into the shower. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, soap on my overheated skin, steam thickening the air. I scrub until there's nothing left but the pulse thudding steadily under my jaw while Blue's knotted hip taunts me.
She shouldn't be in my head. Not here. Not now. Not like this.
I shut off the water, step out of the shower, and catch my reflection. My eyes are sharp, jaw tight, and shoulders tense. My reflection resembles someone trapped between instinct and ethics, and I hate that I recognize the difference.
I towel off, get dressed, and make coffee. I take my first sip and glance at my laptop.
Don't do it.
I turn on my computer and open her chart anyway. My session summary stares back at me, clinical and neutral.
Patient demonstrated provocative boundary-testing. Explored distortions in relational perception.
Reinforced structure and safety.
It says nothing about the way she watched me after her confession, waiting to see how I'd react. It says nothing about the heat coiling low in my stomach or the exact second I lost my steady cadence.
It doesn't mention I saw her glistening pussy, and all I can think about is how good it would feel to slide my tongue across it while holding her down by gripping that scar on her hip.
What does she taste like?
I could drag my tongue up her thigh scar first.
She cut herself for me. I own that scar.
It's mine.
Stop it!
I slam the laptop shut and grab my phone. A message waits.
Seraphina: Dinner still on tonight? Seven at Belmont?
My chest tightens. I had forgotten about Seraphina.
Blonde hair, long legs, and polished with precision, she's the kind of woman who knows what she wants and never apologizes for it. She's self-assured, sharp, and stunning in a typical way that draws attention the moment she enters a room.
We've spent nights together that were efficient and satisfying. There are no blurred edges, dangerous questions, or commitment. It's exactly what I should want.
I type back.
Me: Yes. Seven works.
