I wished Sydney came with instructions. How to care for. How to comfort. Was I supposed to take her hand? Pat her shoulder? Or should I keep my distance because she was now a client? Because she was in danger? And because I’d kissed her. I’d kissed her, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The memory of her lips held me hostage. And now, I had to figure out how to do the one thing my brain was designed not to do. Forget. Forget her taste. Forget her softness. Forget the way she wanted more—wanted me. Because I had to protect her.
