Page 56 of Look, Don't Touch

“Yes.” He drags a hand down his face and huffs out one of his dragon breaths. It’s amazing to see how wide his chest goes when he inhales.

“I still don’t understand what that has to do with continuing therapy.”

“Very soon, she became my favorite partner. My only partner.”

I find myself leaning forward, damn near about to fall out of my seat.

“She is a stunning woman, whose identity was a mystery to me until last Friday. Up until then, I called her my siren.”

My gaze narrows.

Is she trying to make him quit therapy?

What a bitch.

“You see, last Friday, the only thing you and my siren had in common was red hair.” My heart trips. "Then I helped you with your coat, and I noticed you also have the same, highly unique?—”

“Crows,” I interrupt him as he interrupted me last Friday when he saw my tattoos. My hand slaps over my mouth.

Still, it takes my muddled brain too long to connect all the dots. To realize that my option one is my Mr. Judge is my million-dollar donor.

He is the source of all my upheaval.

He is the wrecking ball.

My house of cards collapses completely.

“No.” Tears fill my eyes. “I’ve never…not with a client.” But how can I know that’s true. I fuck with anonymity. It could be anyone ramming their cock into me. And for the past year and a half, it’s been my new client. “My license.”

My livelihood.

My sanity.

My carefully constructed life.

I see the pieces slipping through my fingers.

I see the blood pooling on the floor. I see the blood splattered across the walls. I see the blood staining my pants. I see death and destruction.

Then the bulldozer comes to collect my broken bits.

Air rushes in and out of my lungs too fast, but I can’t grab enough oxygen. My chest feels tight, and the fear I’ve just acknowledged presses in close.

“Put your head between your legs.”

“Fuck you,” I snarl, but it comes out as a wheeze. This man has taken my neatly formed life and shaken the foundation.

Suddenly, I’m back in my parents’ house. I’m drenched in blood and overrun by fear. And the room goes dark around the edges.

A hand clamps the back of my neck and hauls my head down between my legs.

“Breathe,” Arlo demands.

I try to obey, but the air won’t come.

His knees hit the floor in front of me. His lips graze the shell of my ear. “In. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Out. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” He repeats the cadence until my body responds, sucking in air like it doesn’t know how without his help.

That scares me more than anything else. Not losing my career. Not losing my home. But losing myself to him, to needing him.

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