“Yessir.”
“I don’t care who you are, where you come from. This is a quiet town. Hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Good. Now get your ass back out there and walk me through those moves.”
* * *
When the knocking started that evening, George knew it was him. Tamping down the swell of excitement that tried to sneak up her throat, she didn’t straighten her clothing or shake out her hair as she walked to the waiting room, slow, calm, and collected, then to the clinic door.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he stepped in. “Again. I’m sorry again.”
“It’s fine.”
“I want…” She watched, fascinated, as his Adam’s apple bobbed, covered in an extra day of growth. He hadn’t shaved in a while. “I haven’t been in this position before.”
“What position?”
“Where I…where I need someone’s help.”
She raised her brows and waited, the hurt she’d felt the night before raising its ugly head and wanting him to suffer just a little.
“Will you be my doctor again?”
“Of course,” she responded, although she’d pictured this. For two days, she’d imagined him coming in and begging. She’d wanted that, wanted the begging and pleading, and in that silly, little-girl fantasy, she’d pictured herself turning away with a tight, little smile to jot down a referral. “Let’s go.”
He hesitated, but rather than wait, George led him into the back, ignoring how bad his limp sounded today, set him up in a different room from last time, and avoided letting herself be too aware of his eyes on her. “What are we doing tonight?” she asked.
“Try the back again?”
“Fine.”
“We’ll, uh…we’ll forego the numbing cream, if you—”
“Right.” She nodded. “No cream.”
He slid onto his front, and George ignored her body’s reactions to the sight of him—the muscles: bigger, stronger, more sensual-looking than anything she’d seen on another human being. The tightening of skin over bones, the oh-so-human prickle of goose bumps in the cool office air.
George switched the machine on and watched his body tense, waiting for his reaction. She approached, non-laser-wielding hand held safely behind her back. No chance for an intimacy that hurt way too much.
“Ready?”
He nodded. “Go ahead.”
George leaned in to guide the laser over his neck, and when his body jolted, she forced her sympathetic reaction down. It hurt. It burned. He’d get over it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his arm tense; his hand, clasped into a fist, shook—all that strength serving nothing but panic, anxiety. Fist squeezed behind her back, she paused.
“Should I stop?”
“No. Got to get it done.”
She leaned in, watching him tighten up again, and before she’d actually made up her mind to touch him, before she’d allowed herself to consider the ramifications, her free hand landed on his shoulder, his head, then back to his shoulder in a soothing caress, the shock of their chemistry buzzing harder than the laser in her hand. Stupid. Stupid.
This time, as she worked, she felt the stress in his body through his skin, and she tried, hard as she could, to soak it up, pull it in, take it from him. Even though he’d hurt her, she wanted him to hurt less. Yep, stupid.
“Okay. Neck’s done. For now, of course.” She stepped away. “Think you can handle the back?”
