Her reply lands almost instantly.
Seraphina: Wear that black shirt I like, and I'll have no choice but to let you stay at my place.
I stare at the message longer than necessary. A grounded man would welcome the distraction. A sane one would embrace the company of a woman who requires nothing from him except his presence and cock.
I want to be that version of myself tonight. More than anything, I want to end the day forcing my mind away from Blue. So I text her back.
Me: I'll pick it up at the dry cleaners.
Seraphina: Good. I'll wear a new number I bought just for you.
Her message should make my dick hard. Instead, Blue's crotchless red panties barely touching the corner of her thigh next to her pink, wet clit haunt me.
She's a virgin.
Does that mean her clit is, too?
She kissed a boy. Has anyone ever touched her there?
The damp spot on the chair I dried before I left my office leaps into my thoughts.
Don't do it.
I need to wash it.
Liar.
My jaw twitches. I reach into the laptop bag and pull out the hand towel I got from my office bathroom and used to wipe her seat. My fingers tighten around the towel before I'm ready for what hits me.
The faint trace of her arousal rises off the fabric, warm and sweet with that sharp edge that branded the back of my throat the second I noticed the darkened patch she left on the leather. A cruel surge of blood surges low and heavy in my balls until standing upright becomes a negotiation for my cock.
The scent wraps around me like a hand closing at the base of my spine, dragging up every image I shoved down. Blue's parted lips she tried to hide, the tremor in her thighs when she shifted in the chair, the soft gasp she swallowed when her skirt rode up high enough to expose what she shouldn't have shown me in the first place, all torture me. Untamed and vicious heat pours through my muscles, tightening my chest.
I lift the towel higher, cursing myself as the fragrance intensifies. My erection presses hard against the inside of my pants, with a brutal, demanding, insistent pulse.
The air thins, and my control frays further. I push the towel against my nose, inhaling deeply and closing my eyes, seeing the red scrap of lace and the obscene cut of it across her perfectly trimmed pussy.
Blue's arrogance to stroll into my office in something designed to keep a man on the edge of sanity wasn't unintentional. She knew what she was doing, and I mutter, "Damn you, Blue!"
My grip shifts, knuckles strain, breath drags unevenly into my lungs as the scent settles deeper. My entire body goes taut. All my nerves heighten further. Every instinct in me pushes me toward the one thing I'm not allowed to want.
"I need to find her another therapist," I say out loud and force myself to put the towel back into my briefcase. I open the laptop up and click on a file with other professionals I've referred patients to in the past. For over an hour, I stare at the dozen names, making excuses why each one isn't qualified to deal with Blue.
"Fuck this," I mumble, and shut the laptop. I get up, put on new workout gear, and go to the gym in my building. I lift until my muscles burn. Then I return, shower, and clean my counters that are already spotless. I reorganize my bookshelf even though nothing is out of place. By early evening, it's finally time to get dressed.
Shit. I forgot to pick up the shirt.
I hightail it out of my condo, but by the time I get to the dry cleaners, it's closed.
Damn you, Blue,I curse in my head, knowing it's her fault she took up all my time today.
I return home, shower again, then shave. My hair refuses to behave, and I slick it back too many times. I finally give up and go to my closet. I reach for a tan shirt and stop.
Seriously?
This isn't healthy.
I take a cobalt-blue shirt off the hanger and slide my arms through it. I button it, leaving one undone, and look at my reflection in the mirror.
