Page 21 of Taken Online

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.

---