Clay awoke the next day a hot, shivering mess on the motel room floor.
Immediately, he remembered what he’d done the night before: stalking Dr. Hadley. Shame weighted his gut, deep and heavy. Man, he was a creepy fucker, watching a woman in her home like that, no matter how good his excuses.
The problem was that he’d liked feeling useful. You weren’t supposed to like a stakeout. You were supposed to be miserable and uncomfortable, not content, the way he’d been—not relieved to have a purpose beyond waiting around for a court date that was still months off.
And, fuck, he was a sick bastard, because he wanted to do it all over again. He wanted to be out there, watching over her. Keeping her safe in a way that he knew was wrong, wrong, wrong.
God, his head. It hurt, like he’d rammed a spike through his eye socket.
Christ, why did he do this to himself? Memories of waking up in the clubhouse, hungover, hurting, and half-clothed with some random woman next to him in his bedroom. He’d complained to his boss, who’d eventually gotten him lined up with an undercover girlfriend. Thank God. The other guys might think he was whipped, but that was nothing compared to the stress of finding ways to avoid fucking those poor women.
Women like Carly.
He screwed his eyes shut against those images.
With a rustle, his hand met paper, and memories from the day before came flooding back—Niko Breadthwaite dead, Clay drinking at the bar, then running into that cop. The man had seen right through him. He’d known something was up.
Had the sheriff made him? Clay wondered, the morning bringing a new perspective on that odd conversation. Fuck, maybe Clay was losing his edge and the sheriff saw right through the civilian charade.
Because that was what this was. A charade. All day, every day, Clay was playing some role, pretending to be something he wasn’t… Yeah, but you do it long enough, you become it. Whatever it is.
Maybe it was the goddamned banner Ape had forced on him—the one that said, Hey! I’m a fuckin’ cop and I’ll never work undercover again, because it’s written on my face!
After a worthless fifteen minutes of he-made-me, he-made-me-not, Clay stopped the internal debate firmly on the side of not.
In fact, he decided, he’d been so damn good at his role of stupid criminal that the man had figured he’d best take him off the streets.
Good. Good.
He stood, let the sweaty sheet fall to the floor, revealing his unexpectedly naked body—he didn’t remember taking his clothes off after returning from his vigil at the doc’s place—and moved to the A/C, pushed a few buttons, waited… Nothing. From polar ice cap, it had turned into a goddamned sauna in here, and he couldn’t get a fucking wheeze of cool air.
In the bathroom, he lifted the toilet seat and vomited, made even more nauseated by the state of the porcelain rim.
Christ, he had to get out of this place. He would have spent the night in the woods if the mosquitoes hadn’t eventually made it unbearable, their bites overlapping, the bumps still texturing his skin. His T-shirt was festooned with grisly smears of blood from crushing them. His blood.
Outside, his mind called again, overlaying the image of the doctor’s house with another place—that mountain overlook where he’d found… What? Himself? Yeah right. His new favorite bird, the vulture? The mirror showed a cynical smile at that thought, but the notion did have an oddly true ring to it. He’d felt a weird kinship with that bird.
After a long, cold shower, a big glass of cloudy water, and his last two wrinkled apples, he made his way back into the world, only to be blinded by the sun. He was yearning for something to soak up the booze, so he headed to Main Street, on foot, avoiding the bad-news diner and going straight to the coffee shop with its hipster baristas—probably the only place in town where he almost fit in.
A pretentious pastry and two tasteless coffees later, he felt slightly better, then caught sight of a clock only to realize it was just a few minutes before noon. He considered his options—back to the motel, where the A/C could no longer even pretend to battle the filthy, moist heat or…
Shit.
He was going to do it, wasn’t he?
Clay took a quick trip to his room to change into his sweatpants, hesitating before slipping into a crappy T-shirt with the arms cut off. At the last minute, he grabbed a long-sleeved shirt to throw over himself, then headed back to the gym beside the clinic.
The clinic. Shit, he’d have to go back at some point. Or maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe he’d just hold on to the tats, like part of his history. Hell, the kids in the coffee shop had looked at him with a sort of awe—who knew a face tattoo would get you quite so much street cred?
He knew. His fake prison tats had gotten him exactly the respect he’d needed to fit into the club.
He hesitated briefly before he pushed into the MMA school. Inside, it was exactly what he’d expected. And at the same time, it wasn’t. Yes, it smelled like sweat and socks, like every other gym in the world, but there was more to it than he’d imagined. It was bigger than it looked from the outside, with mats covering the middle of the room and weight equipment along the sides, a couple of speed bags, and heavy bags in the corners. Nothing particularly high-tech or new. He liked it, which gave him a jolt. It had been a long-ass time since he’d felt right someplace.
Nobody manned the desk, so Clay just walked in, ignored the stares of the two guys lifting, and scanned the room until he spotted Sheriff Mullen in the back. He stood wrapping his hands.
“Made it,” said the sheriff, with a come on back here wave. “Get you suited up.”
“For what?”
With a tilt of his head, the man indicated Clay’s hands. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin all that pretty ink, would we?”
Clay scoffed and unconsciously rubbed his arms. “Yeah.”
“You got more under there?”
After a second, he lifted his chin in acknowledgment.
“That what you been doin’ next door?”
A noncommittal sound was all Clay managed. He wasn’t sure why, but after a brief hesitation, he yanked off the long-sleeved shirt, baring his tats, before wrapping his hands.
It had been a while since he’d geared up like this. The Sultans didn’t believe in protection for a fight. They believed in scars and wounds. Disfigurement was a way of life for those guys—a badge of honor. The more you tainted yourself in the name of the club, the more teeth you had knocked out, the better. He had a bent finger or two to prove it, since drunken brawls were the norm in Naglestown, Maryland. Followed by drunken fucks, of course. Jesus, he missed that part of it—the brawls, not the fucks.
“You gettin’ those taken off?” Sheriff Mullen interrupted Clay’s reminiscing as he pulled out some boxing gloves. He threw a pair at Clay, along with headgear. “Bit late for the doctor to be workin’ last night, wasn’t it?”
“Just makin’ sure she was okay.”
“Hmm,” the small man said, sounding dubious. “What kinda fightin’ you done?”
“Regular kind,” said Clay with a hint of a smirk.
“Yeah? Let’s see what you got.”
Out on the mat, the little guy hit his gloved fists to Clay’s and moved back with a spring in his step. So he’d be fast. That was okay. Clay could handle fast—although maybe not today, all shaky and hungover.
And he was right. The little guy came in quick and low, arms up in a defensive position that was tough as hell to get through. He was tiny, but wiry and strong, and going up against him, Clay felt like a big, slow oaf.
But he felt good too, even as he absorbed a couple of quick, tight little jabs to the head and shoulders. The pain was right. The speed, the adrenaline. Oh, man, what a relief. He ducked and struck with an uppercut that would have stunned if he hadn’t pulled back. His opponent’s eyes were bright—as bright as his, probably—and his excitement ratcheted up a notch or two. Man, this was what it was about—the physical perfection of confronting a worthy opponent.
A jab, roundhouse, push, push, and the other man stumbled, but then, before he knew it, his foot snaked out, and Clay was down, with a crash that sounded loud and hollow in the room. It was quiet, besides their breathing, and he realized the other guys were watching them—the main event.
There was a jangle of bells at the door, and more people came in, their voices fading to nothing as they entered the space and caught sight of the two mismatched fighters in the back. Ah, hell, he’d seen enough fights, where big boxers came out looking like losers on the ground, and here he was, the smaller man’s arm wrapped around his throat like an unbreakable noose. He’d hoped to just fight it straight, maybe a little dumb, but…
His body moved faster than his brain, and before he’d thought it out, his arm rammed into the crook of the guy’s elbow, his hand to his shoulder. God, he loved jiu-jitsu. And he’d missed rolling with someone who knew what he was doing.
The sheriff’s arm remained around Clay’s neck. Christ, he was strong for such a lightweight, but he’d left his ankle out in the open, and Clay went for it—pushed up on his legs, threw the little guy up, up, over his shoulder.
Past the blood rushing through his ears, he heard a murmur in the room. He was providing the entertainment. Fucking Fight Night Challenge over here. Shit. He’d blow his cover if he wasn’t careful.
But it had worked, that move, and he liked it, loved coming out on top in a fight, could see that the sheriff had enjoyed the challenge of being one-upped—and now Clay wanted more.
They shared a painful fist bump before the man pulled him straight into a clinch. “Not just a street thug after all,” he said into Clay’s ear in something just above a whisper. “You ex-military?”
Clay shook his head.
“Hmm. Let’s see some more like that,” he yelled and pushed away, going straight for the feet.
Fuck, he should stop. He had to if he didn’t want the guy to know he wasn’t a civilian. But civilian life was overrated, and this felt good—way too good to put an end to it.
* * *
At the knock on her door, George looked up.
“You’ve got a visitor,” said Purnima.
“Oh?”
Expressionless, as always, the nurse nevertheless managed to convey something with her look. “Andrew Blane.”
She took a big, shaky breath in. “Oh.”
“Shall I…?”
George stood, breathed out. “I’ll be right… No.” She sat back down. “Send him in. Please.”
“All right. You want me to stay with you?”
With a frown, George considered before answering with, “No. No, I’m fine. Go on home.”
Purnima hesitated but finally turned and left the room, returning shortly with Andrew Blane in tow.
“Come in,” George said with what she hoped was placid concern.
He stepped inside, disheveled and sweaty and… Oh, geez. Something else. Not hot, but heated maybe? Intense.
“I’m sorry,” he said, remaining in the doorway.
“It’s okay.”
“No, I mean, I’m…” He looked away. “I shouldn’t have missed yesterday. I had no excuse.”
“All right, well…” She swallowed hard, avoided his eyes, and then, maybe because he’d hurt her and she wanted to hurt him back, she said, “You’ll have to pay for the missed time.”
“Of course.” He waited, just stood there breathing hard, and she couldn’t help but notice his chest beneath his sleeveless T-shirt, moving.
“Can you take me today?”
“Have you put on the cream?”
“No, but…” His smile, dry and cracked, pulled at something deep inside her. “But I can’t reach most of my back anyway, so it’s all the same, isn’t it?”
“Oh. You don’t have anyone who can—”
“No, Doc. Got nobody to rub my back for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” he said with a bigger smile.
“Of course I am. I’ve—” She stopped herself from talking. “Oh.” God, why was she so dense? Was he flirting with her? And if so, why on earth would he bother flirting with someone like her? A swallow failed to wet her throat enough, and her voice, when it came out, was ragged. “I’ve got to finish up some…paperwork here, so…” Another throat clearing.
“Got all the time in the world.”
“Good. Perfect. I’ll just…apply the numbing cream, and we’ll wait for it to take effect.”
“Sounds good.”
“All right, follow me.”
He barely moved back to let her through the door, and that, even that, felt like flirtation, unfamiliar and dangerous, but so, so titillating.
In the examination room, she moved to the sink, washed her hands, and didn’t watch as he settled back on the table. From a cupboard, she grabbed a new tube of cream and a roll of plastic wrap. “I’ll just apply this, and you can wait about half an hour. Have you had issues with the others we’ve worked on?”
He shook his head, eyes steady on hers.
“Take off your shirt and lie down on your front, please. If it’s not too painful.” The words came out close to a whisper. Quickly, she pulled on a pair of latex gloves, waited for him to disrobe, and forced herself to breathe. Deep, slow. Okay, his chest was blistering and starting to scab, she noted before he settled onto the bench. The ink was nearly gone in some areas—the lighter applications—but others were dark. She hoped, for his sake, that they’d eventually disappear.
Although he stiffened at the contact, the first swipe of cream was easy. A thick layer of it, directly over the big, black triangle in the center of his back. If she concentrated on the cream instead of him, it was doable. But it was hard to ignore every line of his perfection—this anatomy book illustration come to life.
She watched as his skin pebbled up into goose bumps. Another swipe, over the spider web on his neck, then across a shoulder blade, and her hand couldn’t help but enjoy the rigid planes, the swell of muscle, the strength. And then there was how he smelled. He’d looked sweaty when he’d come in, but it wasn’t bad. No, it was…
George pulled her hand away as if stung, took a step back, and breathed through her mouth, although even that was intimate. Past the medical odor of the cream, she had smelled soap, maybe some cheap shampoo, and then…sex. He smelled the way she remembered sex smelling. Not the musky odor of genitals, but the scent of desire.
Man as animal. He smelled solid, real, warm. Right. He smelled right. So right, in fact, that her body did things, perking in places that hadn’t perked in so long she’d thought they were dead. It was cool in the clinic, thank God, because at least she’d have an excuse for her nipples. But not for the slippery weight in her abdomen. Lower.
“Everything okay?” the man asked, craning his neck to look at her, and rather than face those eyes again head-on, she placed her clean hand to the back of his head and pressed. Gently. Firmly.
Oh, crap. I’m not supposed to do that, am I?
Nor was she supposed to like it.
* * *
It was official. The doctor made Clay hard. And now…
Her hand on the back of his head… Fuck.
First, it made him want to fight back, pull away, get up, and take over. Because nobody pushed his head down. Nobody.
But it also made him want to give in—to see what she’d do. Rebel or succumb?
He went for something in between. Light resistance, up and back, into her hand, was all it took to turn things upside down.
She’s not controlling me, he realized with the strangest jolt. She’s holding me. Helping me. His mind flew back, remembering the way she’d held her cat in the dark in front of her house—and then to his embrace with the animal. He’d have held that cat all night long if it hadn’t eventually heard some forest sound and sprung away, ears pricked, tail swishing, its missing limb barely noticeable in attack mode.
But right now, here, the press of her hand against the back of his head was full of something good, something like affection or desire or maybe, just maybe, tenderness. And it was the best thing he’d felt in a lifetime.
So different from recent flashes of memory—flesh smacking, hard fucks, teeth gritted, fist caught up in greasy hair. Toothy blow jobs from nameless women, victims of circumstance—collateral damage as he and Bread did whatever it took not to lose their covers.
Everything he’d taken—bottles to the face, ink, bullets, a loss of honor.
Clay stiffened.
But this—
He heard her breathe, felt the warmth on his nape, and shuddered.
That sent her away, left his back cold and him alone. When she came back, the moment of intimacy was gone. Maybe it’d been imagined anyway. He felt immune to sensation. Lost and empty and hard as nails.
He shut his eyes tight, wanting her to touch him again and so afraid of the mixed-up signals his brain kept sending.
Her gloved hands returned to his skin, warm through the cold cream. She rubbed it in, leaving a trail of goose bumps in her wake, and he wished she’d press his head again, take some of his weight, make him feel something. She walked around the table to the other side, where she stroked him with a fresh layer of cream, and something else skimmed his back when she leaned—her lab coat, maybe? In his fantasies, it was a breast. A mouth.
It was quiet in here, so quiet. He closed his eyes and breathed her in.
* * *
He’d fallen asleep. Either that or he’d gone to that place, wherever it was, that he seemed to go on her table.
Only this time, George’s hands were on him. She felt heavy and warm, and his back was big and strong and supple, but so sweet, laid out for her, waiting, needing…
Dear God, what’s wrong with me?
He was numb by now. He had to be—as numb as the cream would make him, which wasn’t very. Another dip, another swipe, and his flesh rippled beneath her touch. Maybe not asleep?
She wanted to put her hand on his head again and push him down, but there was nowhere to go. She wanted to lean into him and over him and maybe just stretch herself across all that muscle and bone. Desire settled into her pelvis as she stroked his shoulders, ran a hand a little too far down an arm that had absolutely no need of numbing cream. None.
What the hell is wrong with me?
But still, she couldn’t quite convince her body to stop. Slowly, she kneaded her thumbs around those beautiful scapulas, felt him shudder slightly, and pulled away, hyperaware of how strange her actions were—how unethical and wrong, but maybe…maybe just…
“Don’t stop,” he mumbled, and honestly, that was all she needed.
His back—this solid, robust plane—was like the culmination of all of the backs she hadn’t had the pleasure of touching over the years, and goodness, she wanted it. She wanted his back.
Wanted his back?
Was this how it felt to go crazy?
George stepped away, embarrassed and more than a little worried for her sanity. Was she really, truly, going to cave in and do things she might very well—no, would definitely—regret over some stranger’s back?
He grunted—or maybe it was more of a groan—and twisted his neck so one shadowed eye peeked out at her.
“’S the best thing that’s happened to me in fu…frickin’ years.” His voice came out low, almost on a whisper.
“This is…” George couldn’t get the words out, she was breathing so fast. “This is weird. I can’t… I don’t—”
“No. Feels good. So damn good.”
“Just…me touching you?”
“Yeah.”
There was hardly any hesitation at all, and then the succubus wearing her skin stepped forward. Closer, until her belly was level with his hand. “Are you numb?” She reached out and stroked him, right on that horribly defacing burn, wondering if he could feel her. Wanting him to.
“No,” he said, even breathier now. “No, the opposite. Numb when I walked in. Now. Shit. Now, it’s all nerves.”
The weight in George’s belly turned liquid, spread out on a wave of shivery sensation that she hadn’t felt since she’d been just a kid, squished in the backseat of Dylan Dean’s bright-red Mustang with nothing between her legs but his hand, and nothing in her head but blind teenage lust.
“Here?” Her fingers caressed him where his skin had melted into unsightly whorls, tracing the jagged surface and wishing he’d let her do more. Although, even as she thought that, she wasn’t sure if she meant more as in treatment for the burn, or more right now, to his body. To him.
“Yeah. There. Just…” He groaned, then begged, “Please.”
Possessed, she caressed him, up his side, almost to his armpit and its tuft of dark hair. It looked sexual, that hair, like something she wasn’t supposed to see. Then tracing along the top of his shoulder to the back of his neck and down, down, down his spine, the bumps adding texture along the way, the rocky road of his body the most enticing thing George had ever seen.
More sounds escaped him, little grunts that said he liked what she did, and those fueled her even more. Lord, she wanted to flatten herself on top of the man, to cover him, and… What? Hump him? No. Not really. Make him feel good? Touch every little bit of him? Heal him? Protect him from whatever hell he’d been through?
With a snap that surprised even her, she removed the glove that separated his skin from hers and lightly—oh so lightly—felt the reality of his flesh without the barrier of Nitrile in between. The noises were hers this time, and the contact was kinetic, burned the air, turned the heat up, ate out her brain.
His hand, right there on the edge of the table, somehow turned until his palm rested flat against her belly—not pushing, just…absorbing, fingers taking in her softness, exploring her the way she was him.
Before she knew it, she’d curled her palm around that hunk of a shoulder, leaned in until more than her lab coat pressed against the man, her breathing shaky and short. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, in a dream. The bridge of her nose skimmed his hairline, and she took him in, smelled him, got a bigger dose of what she’d only guessed at until now. And it was good, elementally good, unexplainably, animalistically perfect. A smell she could dive into and live off of.
She pulled back. “Got to stop. I’ve got to stop.”
“Hang on.” His hand reached for hers, grasped it, skin to skin, and held on tight. “Don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me, but it’s making me crazy.”
“I don’t know; I don’t know. I’m not… This isn’t me,” George muttered, eyes clearing. She pulled hard at her hand, blinked hazily at the man laid out before her, and moved toward the door. “I’ll be…I’ll be right back.”
* * *
Tea. The woman brought him tea.
She’d touched him so he’d almost cried on her table like a goddamned baby, and after running away, she came back in with tea. One for him and one for her. And not sweet iced tea, like people here guzzled by the gallon. No, mugs full of the hot stuff. In the middle of July.
“Maybe we’ll wait on your back” was the first thing he actually understood after his complete and total whatever-that-was in her office. Jesus, had he nearly come at a medical back massage? Almost come and then come close to passing out on the exam table.
“Yeah,” he managed through a throat that was raw, an open wound. He felt like that. Not just his throat, but his… What? His psyche, maybe. His very being chafed. He hurt where she’d touched him, like he’d scarred or scabbed over, and she’d come along and opened him up again—with nothing but tenderness. It scared the hell out of him, the way he’d disappeared into her, made him want to grab her and fuck her. Or maybe hide beneath her lab coat.
He swung up to sitting and accepted the tea, blinking like a newborn baby, exposed, his cock semihard and heavy in his underwear.
“You okay?” she asked, sounding pretty choked up herself.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He took a sip, just to give himself something to do. It tasted good, spicy.
After a couple of minutes, the fuzz cleared slightly, and he noted what he held in his fist with a strange jolt of hilarity. It was a mug, brown, with the words Coffee makes me poop written in big, white caps.
“Wow, that’s…”
“Disgusting?” She smiled at him, and he breathed, deep and cleansing.
“Do that again.”
“What?” She frowned, and he reached out to smooth the wrinkle between her brows.
“Smile.”
His request had the opposite effect, of course, deepening those lines. But that only made him want to see them gone all the more. He leaned in from his perch, pressed his lips to the spot, to smooth them, to taste them, to drink her in or…or something.
The connection sent a jolt through him—just like when she’d touched him on the table. Rather than numb, he’d felt sensation: sweet and unfamiliar after so many months of nothing. And he could smell her—clean, with a hint of lady sweat, which seemed only fitting for the end of a day’s work. No, not sweat on Dr. Hadley, he reminded himself, like he had that very first day—perspiration. He breathed in again—his nose to her forehead—weird, in theory, but in fact the most sensual thing he’d ever done. His skin crackled at the contact.
She let out a noise, long and low and full of frustration, and he knew he should pull back. He should, since he was probably freaking her out now, but instead, he slid off the table and leaned down, down to where her lips were a little bit open, poised and waiting. He put his mouth to hers and it felt…fuck, it felt unreal. It was a miracle that it felt like something.
This is a dream, he thought, and let his mouth move with the words, closing his eyes.
Her sounds grew louder, lazier, and he sipped at them, his mouth to hers, his dick at full mast now, which was another miracle, since it’d lain dormant since the shooting. Before the shooting, if he was honest with himself.
This. This was medicine. This was—
She pulled away. “I can’t,” she said through a gasp.
“Why not?” he asked, idiot that he was.
“You’re my patient. What I already did, I should be… I could lose my license. I should lose my license.”
“I’m your…” He blinked. Her patient? That was her excuse? Not “You’re disgusting” or “You scare me” or “You’re not my type”?
“Yes. You’re my patient.” She swallowed, and those big, black pupils moved to his mouth and stayed there. He watched them watch him, watched them blow up wide, her lips wet, pink, primed. “I can’t get involved with patients. It’s completely unethical. I… You need to go.”
“Okay.” She was right. He needed to go and get his head on straight. “Okay.” He rocked back a little and took her in, so serious in that lab coat. Always with that fucking lab coat—sexy, but way too much of a barrier. “You’re fired,” he said before he’d even thought it through.
“Oh.” Her gaze was bleary and so, so cute. Innocent. Too innocent, probably, but he couldn’t help wanting to taste that too. “Excuse me?”
“You’re no longer my doctor, and I’m not your patient. So why don’t you come back here and let me do that again?”
* * *
It had been ten years since George Hadley had done the sex thing. A full decade since she’d lost her husband and, with him, any chance she had of finding love. For ten long years, she’d missed sex, the contact, the skin on skin.
Oh, she’d had minor opportunities. A date here and there. Moments when a look told her there might be interest. In med school, she’d almost given in once or twice, but it had never quite caught. Never seemed worth the effort.
Until now.
But no, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t that she wanted sex right now, exactly—though her body did, for sure. It was more like the need for some deeper contact had come to the surface for the first time in a decade. She could feel the need, whereas for years, she’d pushed it back, suppressed it, let herself wallow in layers and layers of cotton wool.
A protective covering, probably. It had formed after losing Tom. She’d put so much into that marriage and then lost him. Lost that precious connection and, with it, everything. After that, it seemed better not to have connections at all.
As to why it all came barreling back now, George wasn’t entirely sure, but she accepted it in the way life often forced you to accept the inevitable. She let the need, the desire, the vulnerability take over, and following some deeper instinct, she rocked forward until her knees bumped his legs, gently pried the ridiculous mug from his hand and set it aside, and then turned back to concentrate on this man.
She took his face in her hands. What am I doing?
He blinked slowly, and her thumbs moved up to sweep over those poor eyelids, the scars on his face making her want to weep.
“How does it feel?”
He blinked again, confusion muddling features that were lovely, really, beneath that stupid, stupid destruction. “This?” he asked, taking her in with a flick of the eyes. “Fucking beautiful.”
“Your eyelids.”
“Oh.” He swallowed. “They’re fine.”
“Healing okay?”
“I…I can’t feel anything with your hands on me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for.
“Don’t be. I can’t feel anything bad. Just you, Doc.”
That brought things screeching to a halt. Doc. What am I doing? Her brain screamed again, while her lips said, “Call me George.”
“Don’t be sorry, George. I’m not.”
“No?”
He smirked. “Oh, I’m sorry about a lotta shit, but not this. Not coming here. Not you.” He covered one of her hands with his and, with the other, reached out, around her, to circle her back and pull her tighter to him, and that, that set her on fire.
Nerve endings waking up like wavy little sea anemones, heads prickling painfully along skin that had gone dead from disuse.
“Give me a kiss,” he demanded, and as she watched, he softened, his gaze running a tender path from her lips to her eyes and back again. “Please kiss me.”
In a dream, nowhere near herself, she did.
It was gentle at first, despite the raging fire inside. A touch of lips, dry but soft—feverish, almost. There were smells mingled with that contact, new scents that shouldn’t feel so intimate. A face, a cheek, a jaw. A confusion of sensations with just one touch. His tongue was sensual and slow. She gave in to her urge to open her eyes, and when she did, she met his, the dark brown almost gone, eaten up by his pupils despite the bright, sterile light.
Lips, teeth, tongue, the slide of chins and noses—it was the purest, cleanest, rightest thing she’d felt in her life.
How odd, in the midst of so much unfamiliar sensation, that her mind should wander again to her marriage—her first kiss with Tom. She’d been clammy back then, with desire, which was such an odd contrast, such a strange thing to recognize. But here, this man, was heat, scorching heat, urgency so hot it cauterized the guilt.
With a growl, he sank back, nudged and pulled until somehow she wound up in his lap on the exam table, straddling him. Closeness, new and unexpected, sent a searing flush to the surface of her skin. She remembered the last time she’d done this, the last time she’d kissed someone with intent to do more, and it brought a wave of unwanted emotions. Regret, sadness, worry that whatever this was, it was wrong—cheating on a husband long gone.
George sucked in a hiccuping breath and realized, belatedly, that he’d stopped.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I’m…”
“You don’t want this.” It wasn’t a question. His voice, rich and dark before, was flat now, defeated.
“I…” How to respond to that? How on earth did you tell a man that yes you wanted him, but he was too much for you? How did you let him know that his intensity, his beauty, the smell of his skin, all made you hungry for something you’d given up on entirely? Something you probably didn’t deserve.
How could you say that to the tattooed criminal you’d straddled on an exam table? Not exactly first-kiss banter, was it?
She looked up to find him eyeing her, to feel a rough thumb swipe away a tear she hadn’t been conscious of crying.
“You want to tell me?”
“No,” she answered.
He nodded.
“You want me to go?”
This time she shook her head, and he tightened his arm around her back, slid his hand up from her bottom to her shoulder blade. He could probably have spanned both with one of his enormous palms.
“I scare you.”
“No, Mr.…” Oh God. What was she supposed to call him now? This was so messed up, so against every ounce of decency ingrained in her, that she cringed and looked away.
“Call me…” He stopped, blinked hard, and cleared his throat. “Andrew. Call me Andrew.”
“No, you don’t scare me, Andrew. Although…” She looked at him askance.
“I should.”
That made her smile. “Yes, you probably should.”
“Not as smart as you look, I guess,” he said, and that broke through whatever this was, this shell of fear or regret that had hardened around her. She laughed.
“Definitely not.”
“Come here,” Andrew said.
With a sigh, she leaned her head in, set it on his shoulder, and sucked in his strength. His arms stayed warm and close, and through it all, she felt the beating of his heart, steady and slow. He was comforting her, she knew, but she couldn’t rid herself of the guilty evidence of arousal or the nervy need thrumming through her overheated veins. She needed to stay here, in his embrace, for just a little while longer and pretend everything was as it should be, wishing she could memorize his smell.
After a bit, George pulled back, hating herself for doing it. “I think we should go.”
“Oh. Sure. Of course,” he said and, after helping her down, rose with a grimace that made her wonder, again, about his limp. “I’ll wait for you and walk you to your car.”
And just like that, their moment of folly was over.