“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.”
