"What are some of the possibilities?" he asked.
"I'm not sure, but I can't promise that going back home to Boston is an option," I said. "Let's not forget that Ilikefieldwork. I don't want to be closed up in a windowless lab all day, and I'm not meant to be a professor."
Nick murmured in agreement. "That's fine," he said. "When you're finished at Oxford, you decide where we're going. That's what we'll do."
I started tapping again. "That's not fair to you," I said. "I don't want this to be all about me. I don't want you leaving Mass Gen because I find a research position in, I don't know, Madagascar."
"But we can't keep doing this, darlin'," he said quietly. "You need to finish your research here, and then we figure out whereweare going."
"No, Nick," I protested. I sat up, wanting to have this discussion face-to-face instead of face-to-beautifully-carved-pecs. "You can't throw away your training and fellowships and board certifications because I end up in Madagascar. That's absurd, and I'm not letting you do that. You're too talented to give it all up to follow me around."
He pushed up from the mattress and settled against the headboard, his arms crossed over his chest. "Would you rather we continue living on different continents, wife?"
I leaned over, reaching for the glass of water on the table beside the bed. It bought me a moment to deal with the defensiveness that sprang to life every time someone suggested that I make my way back to Boston. When it was empty, I slammed the glass down. The water didn't help.
Then I pushed my hair away from my face, out of my eyes. It was getting too long, and I hated long hair. It didn't look right on me, and it started looking dreadfully flat when it was even a millimeter past my shoulders. Since I'd been spending all of my free time with Nick—either he was in my bed, on my computer screen, or blowing up my email inbox—I'd neglected my hair. Now it was long and flat and horrible.
"I see what you're doing over there," he murmured, pointing at me. "You have that mad pout going, and you're shaking your head like you're winning a hot little argument with yourself."
Fuck. I wanted to yell at him more than anything. I wanted to push him the hell away and remind him that I needed wide-open spaces and adventures and choice. Too many people had taken my choice away from me at too many turns, and I was protective of it now. Territorial even. I stared at him, letting all that frustration boil right at the surface.
But then he lifted his shoulders with a lopsided grin, sweet as that motherfucking cherry pie again, and I burst out laughing. "How do you do this to me?" I asked, my words tangling and drowning in my giggles. "How are you always taking the wind out of my pissed-off sails?"
"It's a gift," Nick said. He wrapped me in his arms and eased me down on to the bed. "Much like my abnormally thick cock."
He ran his hand up my leg and between my thighs, and stroked me there. I blinked, realizing that he'd touched my scars and I wasn't drowning in panic. I wasn't screaming for him to stop. Pressing my palm to my mouth, I scrolled back through all the times we'd been together and sure enough, this wasn't the first time. He'd never asked but I was certain he knew they were self-inflicted. He wasn't disgusted, he didn't treat me like a fragile little psycho who shouldn't be trusted around sharp objects, and he didn't drop any well-intentioned-but-totally-painful suggestions that I get professional help because I obviously needed it.
Nope, he didn't do any of that. He loved me the way I was, and he let me love him in my scraggly way.
"I hate this, too," I said, and that had Nick looking up at me, concerned. Of course he was concerned. I was telling him I hated something while he kissed my thighs and rubbed my clit. No one could ever tell me I wasn't awkward as all hell. "I hate being apart from you. I don't want us living on different continents."
"But Boston isn't an option yet," he said.
I shook my head. "For now, no."
He hooked his arm under my knee as he nodded. Cock—the abnormally thick one—in hand, he pushed into me, and we groaned "Oh fuck" simultaneously.
"I can live with that," Nick said as he drove into me. "For now."
Chapter Twenty-One
Nick
Nick:Hey. Fucker.
Riley:Is that what we're calling me now?
Nick:Just got home from biking with Matt. Funny conversation we had this morning.
Nick:He wants to know why he should keep a SHOTGUN handy around me
Riley:Yeah…
Nick:And…?
Nick:What the hell did you say to him?
Riley:He would never actually suspect anything. He thinks I'm just riding your ass.
