Page 28 of Look, Don't Touch

I bet he’d like me to ask him his name now. I smirk.

“My job is to nudge you out of your comfort zone,” I explain. “This question is easier to answer than the first. Unless you’d like to answer the first question.”

The room is quiet for a while. I wonder if he’s going to steal my line again about our time being up. I have a knot in the pit of my stomach, thinking he’s about to leave.

“I want you to turn around.” He says the words in such a way that I don’t believe them.

It’s a tactic to outmaneuver my questions. Still, I’ll take it, if he’s willing to give it. “But?”

There’s rustling behind me. For a second, I know he’s leaving. The swish of fabric against fabric permeates the air. Is he a flasher? Am I going to turn around to a cock in my face? Worse things have happened in my office. But I hope he’s not. I won’t be able to see him again. I won’t be able to help him and we’re just getting started with his therapy.

“Do you trust me?” His strange and special voice rasps close behind me.

“Should I?”

“I’ll never hurt you.” The words are small. The promise is big.

“You have to touch someone to hurt them.”

“No, you don’t.” A silk tie lowers in front of my face. It’s woven navy.

Instantly, I know what he wants. Curse me, but I want to give it. My pulse skitters, and my breath whooshes in and out of my lungs. I don’t know whether I will pass out or come on my chair.

Christ, Hailey. This isn’t about you.

I shake myself. “Is this for fantasy purposes or a step toward face-to-face?”

As I wait for his answer, I study his beautiful hands. His fingers are thick and long. They interlace in the ends of the fabric. His nails are neatly trimmed. The calluses on his palms and the busted and swollen knuckles release the lever on the roller coaster. I’m whirring and diving, rising and jerking.

“Can’t it be both?”

Another unexpected dip. “No, it shouldn’t be.”

“Tell me this is okay.”

It’s a command. Not a request. I can decline. I should decline.

Humans love the forbidden. The fruit you’re not to touch tastes so much sweeter. I know I should deny him. Ethically. Morally. I don’t want to. Sure, I’ll rationalize this as him taking steps in the right direction. Of him placing a bit of trust in me. When, in reality, it’s me taking steps in the wrong fucking direction.

Why, with this man? Why am I letting him push my boundaries?

Maybe it’s because I’ve finally met someone as broken as me.

I reach forward, pull the silk to my eyes, and hold it in place.

He reaches around and tugs the loose strands of my hair back from my face.

I forget all about the mask and how Astor would freak out if she knew I was letting my client blindfold me. I forget about Matt’s death. I forget about the mystery million.

All that matters right now is the triumph in that tiny gesture. He touched hair that is not his. It’s a small thing, and it’s oh-so big.

As he ties the fabric, I sense his strength and finesse all around me. His movements are measured and careful. It’s not too tight or too loose. I draw a deep breath, and my lungs are filled with a familiar scent. It’s sexy as hell. I ignore it outright, knowing it’s the blindfold playing with my head and my libido.

“Stand,” he orders, and I comply without thought.

Euphoria rushes through me, making my body limp and noodle-like, as though I just finished a great workout, mosh session, or turn on the bondage bench. I’m glad I’m wearing a thick sweater dress because I can feel my nipples fully erect against my bra.

I hear him lift my chair and turn it around. He situates it, and then everything is quiet for a moment. I guess I’m standing behind the chair now. On instinct, I almost lift my hand to him. I want him to have to guide me, to touch me. It would be a huge step, but I hold still and wait.

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