Page 30 of Look, Don't Touch

“Another stalker, stalkee situation?”

“Mild,” he admits. “There’s no harassing. No aggression. Nothing overtly illegal.”

I press my lips into a line to keep from smiling at the adjective. He’s no stalker, not by definition. Sure, he could be lying, but his emotions and actions line up with my gut. I’ve counseled stalkers. He’s not even mild. He’s an admirer.

“You watch her that night. Does she notice you?”

“No, she’s working a bit, championing the cause of the night.”

“So what happens?”

“I go home and touch myself to thoughts of the heat of her against me, the smoothness of her thighs, the smudges my exploration could leave on her skin.”

My skin heats at his words. I hope my cheeks don’t show color. This is nothing compared to the twisted tales I’ve been told. This is nothing compared to the twisted things I’ve done. Yet my body is abuzz with the simple yearning in his tone.

“Is that the first time you’ve thought about touching and being touched while masturbating?”

“Yes?”

“Did you come?”

“Shamefully fast.”

For not touching or being touched, he seems completely confident in the sexual arena. Most people who’ve been fucking for decades can’t force themselves to speak about it. As though simple words will bring about a plague or STI.

“Have you spoken to her?”

“Yes.”

“Does she know you’re interested in her?”

“No.”

“If presented with the opportunity, would you want to touch her?”

The intimidating dragon is back, huffing out a long breath. “Want to? Yes.”

Bad phrasing on my part. “Would you?”

“I don’t know.”

A small smile takes over my face. “It’s not a no.” I shrug. “It’s progress."

“You’re smiling.”

“I tend to do that when progress is made.” I shift in my seat, suddenly aware that he’s watching me, and I can’t see him. “The next time you touch yourself, I want you to imagine her presenting you with the opportunity to touch her, innocently, on the shoulder or the hand or on the cheek. In this fantasy, I want you to take that opportunity.”

“Unique approach.”

“Positive association.” I smile once more. “Our time is up. Goodbye, Mr. Judge.”

I hear him stand and walk to the door. Then I remember my blindfold belongs to him. “Your tie?”

“Keep it for next time.” I hear the door open. “I’ll see you, Hailey.” The door closes.

I sit there in his blindfold for far too long.

“It’s been two weeks since the donation heard ’round the world, and you still don’t know the identity of the mystery philanthropist?” Nat asks without opening an eye.

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