“Do you think you still need my help?”
She blinks, caught off guard by the question.
“I guess… not as much. Ever since finding out Kai is the father, it’s like I’ve finally been able to put Nikolai’s ghost to rest.”
I nod, pleased. “That’s good to hear. Maybe it’s time to scale back. What if we move to monthly sessions instead of weekly, and see how that goes?”
“I’d like that,” she says, smiling warmly. “Thank you.”
By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. I toe off my heels by the front door, immediately stripping out of my clothes and pulling on my Oodie. I’ve never understood people who wear outdoor clothes inside. Why would I want to be uncomfortablein my own home?
No, I’ll wear my fuzzy socks and blanket hoodie with pride. Well…pridemight be a bit strong, considering I can’t even look at myself in the mirror most days.
I collapse onto the couch, ready to begin my usual evening routine of reading psychology books and eating my weight in crisps—when something on the coffee table catches my eye.
Another present.
This one is rectangular, wrapped in brown paper with a bow on top. I hesitate for half a second, then curiosity gets the better of me. I snatch it up and tear the paper away to reveal a book.
But not one of my usual kind. I prefer self-help or educational reads. This… is a romance.
As I slide the rest of the paper off, a small note flutters out:
I’m sorry I made you cry with my last gift. I hope this one brings you more joy. I noticed you like to read—perhaps you’ll find this more interesting than your usual tastes. Always yours x
My eyes dart around the room, searching for… something. Am I being watched right now?
Why doesn’t that terrify me the way it should?
I set the book down on the sofa beside me, ignoring it as I pick up my current read:The Myth of Normal.
Most people would probably find it dull, but I enjoy it. I'm a trauma specialist—I focus on talk therapy, helping patients work through the lasting effects of traumatic experiences.
Not every client comes to me for trauma, of course. Eli, for example. But I’d be willing to bet he didn’t just wake up one day and decide to become a stalker. Something triggered it. Something buried. Trauma.
Still, tonight I can't seem to get in the right headspace. My gaze keeps drifting to the other book, like it’s taunting me—begging me to give it a chance.
Screw it.
And just like that, I spend the next two hours completely absorbed, devouring the story, barely daring to breathe forfear I’ll miss something.
My stomach growls.
I freeze.
It’s been a long time since I felt actual hunger pangs. I usually graze—snacks throughout the day, followed by one oversized meal at dinner. The fact that hunger crept in without me noticing? That’s... new.
Carefully, I set the book down to save my place and pad into the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients for beans on toast. I can’t be bothered to make anything fancier—I just want to get back to the story.
I keep reading on the sofa for a while after dinner, then slip into bed, eager to continue beneath the covers.
The chemistry between the characters has me squirming, thighs clenching with need.
The wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of my pussy—
Oh god.
Arousal slicks my thighs as I turn the page.