“You’re still my patient.”
“I still don’t care.” He paused. “And I’m not for another six weeks, anyway.”
“Maybe sooner,” George said, her voice embarrassingly breathy.
“How much sooner?”
“Depends.”
“On my tats.”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Come here?”
She shook her head. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“You’re probably right. But I sure as hell want to.” He looked at her—straight on. “Do you?”
Did she want to be with this man? Physically? Because that was what they were discussing. George couldn’t lie—not after spending every waking moment—and some sleeping—thinking of him. She could only nod.
“When…” He swallowed, cleared his voice, and looked around, as if for something to do. “You think I could…” He indicated the bottle of wine.
“Oh, of course. Here, I’ll do it.” She grabbed the wine key and the bottle, pushed it in and twisted and broke the darned cork—and almost started crying. But before she could, his hands were there, over hers, carefully pulling the bottle away, inserting the metal into the mangled cork and gently, gently prying it out. He brushed away the few remaining crumbs from the surface of the green glass and set the bottle down. George couldn’t look up at him so close beside her. Too close. Unbearably close.
One ink-covered finger moved up to her face, where it lingered, knuckle-first, at her cheek, then stroked down to nudge her chin up. Her eyes, of course, followed, and she met his gaze and latched on, something swelling hard in her throat. So hard it came out on a big, fat sob, and rather than the kiss she’d anticipated, he pulled her into his arms. Tight and warm against the soft cotton of his shirt.
God, when was the last time she’d been held like this? Just held? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to remember those days when she’d been the one holding a husband who was too frail to hold her back.
She rubbed her face into the shirt and inhaled. The smell of him broke her. It wasn’t her husband’s smell—not even close. And how wrong was it that she wanted more of this warm, masculine scent? She wanted to suck it in and revel in this body—solid and very much alive.
George lost control. It might have been from guilt or sadness or, more likely, the hormones. Whatever it was, she fell apart in a way that should have embarrassed her.
It didn’t, though.
They wound up on the sofa in the parlor, him sitting and her cradled like a baby across his lap, in tears. Weird, so weird this reversal of roles. This man coming to her for some brand of comfort and her leaching it from him instead.
“I’m sorry,” she eventually choked out on a hiccup.
“’S okay,” he said before hunching forward to rub one rough, sandpaper cheek against hers. That, just that, brought a sound to George’s lips—a continuation of her sobbing, perhaps, but altogether different in nature—darker, warmer, and sparking deep inside.
She rubbed him back, her body taking over when her mind told her it was wrong. Her skin prickled where they touched—and not just from his five o’clock shadow. There was electricity in the air that shouldn’t have been there after she’d torn through any attraction with those sobs. Yet, it was still there, a chemical, skin-to-skin reaction that even her outburst hadn’t dampened.
“It’s okay.” The words were soft, placating, spoken as if to a child or a wayward animal. “It’s okay.”
“It isn’t okay.” She moved away, just a bit, because his pull was so darned strong. “You came here because you needed me, you needed—”
“No. I came here because I couldn’t stay away.” He sounded angry, but he kissed her anyway, good and firm so she could feel it deep in her bones, sharp like a chill, only searing hot.
It all happened fast then—no languid explorations for this man. No, he was rough and quick and pushy as hell, and George found herself rising to the challenge, taking it in stride. From his lap, she somehow wound up on her back on the sofa, stretched out with him above. And there was biting. There’d never been biting before for George, but those were distinct nips he was giving her, and instead of stopping him, she opened her mouth and did it back—nothing painful. It couldn’t have hurt, since she’d barely felt the scrape of him under her teeth, but God, there was something powerful in that scrape. Wild and animalistic and perhaps just a little uncontrollable.
I’m out of control, she thought as he dipped his pelvis against hers and she recognized how vulnerable she was in her skirt, with her legs spread and this big body opening her up, grinding. The stiff seam of his jeans rubbed her inner thighs, and she wondered if there’d be burn marks in the morning.
They shouldn’t be doing this. They shouldn’t. George pulled her mouth from Andrew’s, shocked at how out of breath she was, and, avoiding his eyes, said, “We should stop.”
He stilled and watched her, his breath fast and intimate and already so familiar against her mouth. “Okay.” He inhaled loudly—getting himself together, she thought. “You’re right. I can’t do this to you.”
It was her turn to suck in a breath and look him straight in the eye. “What do you mean? Do what to me?”
