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Chapter Five

ASHER

I was sitting in the waiting room for thirty minutes. I showed up a little late, sure, but that didn’t matter when I was the one waiting. Now that? That pissed me off.

I woke up feeling weird. Really weird. I don’t particularly like crying, especially not after a sexual encounter. And definitely not over Kaleb. The man hadn’t even touched me. So what the hell had me nearly breaking down?

I didn’t like how he called me dumb.

Okay, maybe I did. But that’s messed up, right? I shouldn’t like that. It was demeaning. And I’m not dumb by any means. But the way he said it, like it was just a fact of life, like I was just a hole, a toy, his dumb little thing to use—

It felt so fucking real.

Like I was just.. fuckable.

I hate that word.

And I know I am, alright? I’m self-aware. But there’s a difference between giving a man permission to think he’s in charge... and Kaleb just being in charge. That wasn’t part of the deal.

I huffed and leaned back into my seat, unlocking my phone to scroll through some new comments on my latest post. It was riskier than what I normally upload, but I’d been riding a high last night, alcohol, arousal, and a heavy dose of orgasm denial courtesy of a certain someone.

I just wanted some control back.

God, I hate how I pictured Dr.Peterson’s voice when Kaleb was sending the messages. I shouldn’t have, he was my fucking herpaist but I was exactly talking to men…his voice was the only one I can picture at this point. And the whole time? I kept remembering the “Doctor’s orders” and it quickly blended with Kaleb’s orders. No coming. Denied.

So yeah, I was on edge. And now, instead of being at home and overcompensating in the filthiest way possible, I was sitting here.

Waiting for my therapist.

“Wow. So insightful,” said a female voice. I looked up.

A woman was walking beside Dr. Peterson, practically glued to his left arm. She looked up at him with a radiant smile.

She was tall, taller than me, though nowhere near his height, and carried herself like she owned every space she entered. Glasses, high ponytail, tailored pencil skirt. Pretty. Confident. Effortlessly graceful.

She laughed at something he said, then took the coffee he handed her. No giggles or hair flips, just the composed elegance of someone who knew she didn’t need to try.

She was mature. Like him.

It made me feel... small. Bitter, even. Just yesterday I was dressed like some sex-fantasy schoolboy, leash and all. Bet she wouldn’t be caught dead in something like that.

Even dressed for work, you could see her curves through the crisp white shirt and fitted blazer. She looked like someone who belonged in his world.

“Okay,” she said brightly, “I’ll be happy to come to the housewarming, Blake.”

Housewarming?

She grinned, confident and sure of herself, like she already knew what she wanted, and what she wanted was him.

Blake smiled back at her. Then he saw me.

Instant shift. Whatever smile he was wearing evaporated. He gestured for me to follow him into the office, like I was some misbehaving pet.

I only followed him because it was court mandated.

He shut the door behind me and took his seat across the room.

“You were late, Asher,” he said, tone clipped.

I scoffed. The audacity.

“I guess that’s something we have in common, Blake ,” I said flatly.

His jaw tightened. He put his tablet down and crossed his arms.

“Did you complete your task?”

Task.

“You mean where I’m not allowed to come?” I asked, glaring.

He inhaled slowly, visibly re-centering himself. “Asher, that was a controlled parameter we established to isolate specific—”

“I don’t care how you dress it up. You didn’t want me to touch myself. Got it.” I rolled my eyes. He was already starting to piss me off.

Sure, he was hot. Tall. Stoic. Built like he probably didn’t even need a gym membership. He had the kind of presence that made people shut up when he entered a room. But that didn’t give him the right to play with my head.

“Let me ask you something, Blake. Do you have control issues? I was a little flirty in the first session, so you, what? Assign me orgasm denial like some kind of punishment? You sure you’re qualified to be a therapist?”

He didn’t answer right away. His rich hazel eyes just studied me. Observing, calm, almost clinical.

Like I was the mystery.

Then he stood. And, holy shit, he was tall. Taller than I remembered. As he moved, a few strands of hair fell across his forehead and he pushed them back. It took everything in me not to stare.

He removed his jacket and crossed to the kitchenette area like I wasn’t even there. Muscles shifted under the thin fabric of his shirt. I could see the stretch of his back, the line of his shoulders. Even the buttons looked like they were working overtime.

No wonder that woman had basically done the classy version of throwing herself at him.

He returned after a moment and set a bottle of water and a granola bar in front of me.

“Drink,” he said calmly. “Being hungry is a side effect of skipping breakfast. Probably because you woke up late. Probably because you went to sleep at 4 a.m. due to overstimulation and poor impulse control. Which, in turn...”

He flipped his notepad around. One word was written in bold capital letters.

LATE

I opened my mouth to argue, to defend myself, but he raised a single finger to his lips.

Shut it.

“If you’re late again, Asher, I’ll drop you as a client.”

What the actual hell?

I stood up, defensive. “That’s not fair. You—”

“Sit down,” he said.

No yelling. Just a shift in tone. Authority. Cold. Final.

I sat, fuming.

“You were late,” he continued. “So I took my lunch break early. I gave you a ten-minute grace period. You still didn’t show.”

He opened his notepad without looking at me.

“And I prefer you address me as Dr. Peterson.”

I scoffed, irritation prickling at my skin. So that woman in the hallway could call him Blake, but I had to be formal? Who even was she to him?

“The task wasn’t meant to agitate you to this extent,” he added. “I apologize for the oversight.”

He skimmed his notepad with those annoyingly calm eyes.

“How about you tell me what about the task was particularly difficult?” he said. “What do you usually do before bed, Asher?”

I couldn’t exactly answer that. Not truthfully.

Usually, every Friday night, I give Kaleb a show, the kind he pays for. And every other night? I send him sexy photos. Nothing too explicit, just enough to keep him hooked. Sometimes I messaged other guys, but it wasn’t the same. They didn’t pay as much. They didn’t get my heart racing like he did.

Which was stupid. As fuck.

He was a man on a screen. For all I knew, Kaleb could be some fifty-year-old creep with a foot fetish and a VPN.

But in my gut, I knew he wasn’t.

He’d sent me clothes, after all. A package that smelled... good. Not just clean-laundry good, either. It smelled like spring. Like something personal.

I liked it. I wore that oversized shirt too often.

Dr. Peterson was still staring at me, waiting for an answer. Obviously I wasn’t going to tell him the truth.

He narrowed his hazel eyes at me. Today, his hair was slightly less neat than usual, like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. I hated that he was still handsome. Hated his hot-but-professional outfit. The kind that was perfectly tailored but casual enough to seem effortless. The kind of look only someone unfairly attractive could pull off without trying.

He had a bit of scruff today too, and his serious gaze made me feel like he could see right through me. His hands were large and masculine as he toyed with the pen in his grip.

He didn’t sit like a therapist. Not the crossed-legs, sweater-vest type. He sat with his legs spread like he owned the room, spine straight, energy controlled but powerful.

I hated it.

“I don’t usually do anything before bed,” I said, flatly.

He nodded, almost amused, and jotted something down.

“What about yesterday?” he asked. “Anything special?”

Jesus.

“No. Well. I don’t remember. Bad memory and all.”

He nodded again like he believed me. Which was insulting.

“Let’s try something new.”

He stood.

He was tall enough to easily overpower me, which I knew wasn’t the point of the moment but still sent a bolt of something uncomfortable through my chest.

I watched as he rifled through a drawer and pulled out a folded red cloth. He smoothed it into a triangle between his fingers.

Then he walked toward me.

“I’m going to blindfold you,” he said evenly. “With one of your senses dulled, you may recall more.”

What the fuck?

Nope. I didn’t want this. I really, really didn’t want this. It felt too intimate. Too exposed. Too much. But I couldn’t bring myself to say that out loud. I didn’t want to lose whatever edge I thought I still had.

Any retort died in my throat the second he got close. I could smell his cologne. Something fresh and sharp and warm, like cedar and citrus and soap. Familiar, but overwhelming. My chest tightened.

“You’re seriously just going to blindfold me?” I muttered.

His hands grazed my cheek as he centered the cloth over my eyes. Darkness fell over me. And then... just him.

No sight. Just scent. Touch. The heat of him behind me as he tied the knot gently, his fingers brushing through my hair like it meant something.

I gripped the couch cushions hard enough that my nails bit in.

I knew the second he stepped back. His scent faded, leaving me with a bizarre, shaky emptiness.

“Okay, Asher,” he said softly. “Take a deep breath for me.”

I did.

“Now, tell me... what about yesterday made the task particularly difficult?”

It hit me in that moment: this man didn’t know me. He might have a degree, a license, a notebook full of psych terms, but he didn’t know me. To him, I was just another patient with a fucked-up file.

And maybe that’s all I was to him. A problem to solve. Something to diagnose, treat, and file away.

A man like him wanted a clean little ribbon wrapped around his hypothesis. So why not give him what he wanted?

“Yeah... I’m remembering now,” I said, my voice quiet but steady.

The silence that followed was thick. Like he was waiting, listening, processing.

“So... yesterday, I was with... my boyfriend.”

Which was a lie. Obviously.

I was with Kaleb, but I wasn’t about to tell my therapist that I liked getting paid to perform in front of a camera. I didn’t need him psychoanalyzing my relationships with faceless usernames. I’d already tried flirting with him and that backfired. So now? I’d play along. Play the game.

The silence stretched so long I almost reached up to remove the blindfold. But then—

“ Boyfriend? ” he asked.

His voice sounded different. Deeper. Rougher. Or maybe that was just the blindfold messing with my senses.

I couldn’t tell.