What? What the fuck did he need her to understand?
Inside, she stood by the stairs.
He took her by the shoulders. His kiss was hard and probably hurt, but she didn’t seem to mind, responding with equal ferocity, her body strong and lithe under his hands, her teeth clashing with his in what might have been anger.
“This what you want, George?” he asked. “You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” she said. “No. I don’t know.”
“I’m a mess.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“You’re not a mess. You’re perfect.”
“Me?” She chuckled, the sound low and sexy. “I’m worse than you are. How messed up is that? Taking advantage of people? Feeling up patients in my care.”
“Patients? You saying I’m not the only one?”
Her green eyes got wide as she stilled and looked up at him. “You’re the only one,” she said. In that moment, he felt like it—the only one. The way she looked at him made him feel huge, whole, important. Like the only one ever.
He couldn’t remember wanting anyone more than this woman in this moment. As messed up as he was, he couldn’t run from her anymore.
“Come on,” she whispered, her voice as eager and full of wanting as he felt.
His hands tightened on her, helpless against her power, and he urged her up the stairs, half walking, half crawling, tripping in their haste and then staying down, the air leaving him with an audible whoosh. Because here was as good a place as any, wasn’t it?
He was stuck, on his knees on the stairs, needy and wanting and ready for whatever she’d give him. He scooted up the two steps to where she was, took in the smile on her face when she turned to look at him, and then kissed it off. Hungry, God, he was hungry for her. He covered her with his body and lost it, grinding against her with blind, animal urgency. Before he could think it through, he pushed her skirt up and shoved two fingers past her panties where they sank into her hot, hot pussy.
* * *
George lay splayed on the stairs, Andrew’s fingers inside of her, his tongue hot in her mouth.
Over the past decade, she’d wanted sex in a vague sort of way. She’d masturbated, but it had always felt physical—the call of hormones—rather than emotional. Even with Tom, there’d been something…practical about the way they’d made love. Here, though, with Andrew, there was more to it. Its roots were deeper. A spirituality or something that she’d never before associated with a man or a relationship. Whatever kind of relationship this was.
Doctor/patient, came the words from a guilty, dark little corner of her brain, quickly tamped down. Lovers, came the second, more honest label, which she chose to embrace.
“Fuck, George,” he said, pulling at her hips, pressing his into her. “I can’t get enough of you.”
She felt the same way, but she couldn’t say it, too busy breathing to talk through this intimacy.
From below, she watched his eyes rove across her body, enjoyed the admiration and fire in them. But he was fully dressed and she lay there with her skirt bunched up, and it felt unbalanced. She wanted to see him, his strength above her, his skin.
She reached a hand up to touch his chest, where even beneath his T-shirt, his nipple beckoned.
“You’re so fucking wet for me.”
“I’ve been like this for days,” she breathed.
“And I’m like this,” he said.
“I want to see it again,” she said, shocked at her brazenness.
With a long, heavy-lidded look, he ordered, “Take me out.”
Oh, that pushed a button she didn’t know she had.
Quickly, she half sat, reached for him, fumbled at the belt and snap, then yanked down the zipper and pulled him out gently, her breath coming hard. Her eyes darted up to meet his before they both turned back to their bodies—his erection stiff between them, angry and red. It almost made her smile—gave her a sharp jolt of power. Here she was, beneath him, open and vulnerable and yet…she could do anything.
