Dr. Perfect: A Contemporary Romance Bundle

by Oliver, J. P.

  Round the corner into the kitchen, I stopped short at the body leaning there against the counter. Almost waiting for me. It was routine, I suppose, for me to grab water before bed and it was his job to know. Still, I jumped a little.

  “Hassan,” I exhaled, touching my chest, heart beating only a little faster at the surprise.

  He looked after me, his face set in an unreadable expression; lately I was getting better at reading him, but there were still exceptions to that. What was he thinking?

  When he didn’t respond, I turned away, moving about the kitchen to get ready anyways. Grabbing a glass, I moved to the sink; the sound of it was unusually loud in the tense kitchen. I could feel Hassan’s eyes on my back, watching. Judging. I sighed, turning to face him, glass in my hands.

  It was a stare-off, neither of us saying anything, waiting for the other to do something. Eventually, he too sighed, deflating a little, his eyes leaving mine. “I hope you feel better now,” he said, and his voice was tight and a little annoyed. “Now that this little stunt is all finished.”

  There it was. The argument I had been waiting for all day. I set the glass down on the island. “It’s to keep them safe, Hassan, and I know you don’t agree—”

  “You think they’re safe here?” Hassan scoffed, his grin more out of amusement (at my naivety, I guessed) than out of happiness. “Fred. Your life in jeopardy. We haven’t contained the threat, and he’s dangerous. Their lives are in danger as long as they stay here. You know that.” His arms crossed firmly over his chest and he looked me square in the eye, voice grave. “How the hell do you intend to keep them safe?”

  I studied him; looking at him, I didn’t feel in danger, though I knew I was. It was hard to understand the gravity of the situation sometimes, whenever Hassan was nearby. My arms traced the swell of his muscles under his shirt, and the hard look in his eye. I lifted my glass slowly to my lips, watching him over the rim. “That’s what I have you for.”

  He held my gaze, and it faltered only slightly. Softening. “Yeah,” he murmured. His tongue darted out to lick over his lips, and I watched the movement closely. “You have me.”

  There was a weight to his words; a double-meaning. I set the glass down, and though it was tempting, to push a little further, to unpack just what he meant, I remembered something else. “Why did you come in limping earlier?” I asked. “When you came back….”

  He shook his head slowly. “I wasn’t.”

  “You were.” I pointed at him. “No lying, Hassan.”

  Hassan shrugged, looking off to the side. “I went to pursue a lead, and….” He looked like he was struggling with the words, or how to put them. “I thought I really had something. It was an address.”

  “That’s—that’s fantastic,” I huffed, feeling a flicker of hope.

  “Yeah, well, don’t get too excited. It wasn’t your stalker.” He paused, tilting his head. “Well. It was. But, he wasn’t there. He laid a nice little trap for me, and I walked right into it.” He clicked his tongue, seemingly annoyed with himself. “Which… I should’ve seen coming.”

  I shook my head, confusion sweeping over me. “A trap?”

  “A bomb,” he told me, and my stomach dropped. He said it so casually, and even had the audacity to shrug. “It went off. Tripwire. A chunk of concrete ceiling nearly fell on me. Missed me by this much.” He showed just how much by creating a tiny space between his fingers—no more than three inches. “Still, it blew me back. Fucked my leg up pretty good.”

  I rounded the island, and took hold of his arms, turning them over; surprisingly, he let me. “What?” I repeated, worry coloring my voice. Sure enough, there were scratches and bruises forming on his arms—how had I missed those? “Jesus, Hassan, you should’ve said something sooner—”

  “And, what?” He grinned down at me, as if it was no big deal. As if it was funny. My grip tightened on his forearm. “Scare those kids you kidnapped half to death.”

  “I didn’t—” I pursed my lips, only a little offended. “I didn’t kidnap them—”

  “Bought them. Kidnapped them. Bribed some foster mom for them.” He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  I scoffed, running a thumb over a particularly red spot on his skin. He made a noise behind his lips, twitching slightly. “Sorry.” It came out of me quickly. “I….” I felt speechless. What was my life becoming? “Accidents on set, freaky gifts, notes, stalkers, bombs and booby traps? It’s crazy.” I shook my head, meeting his eye again, surprised by the affection there, hidden behind his crumbling hard exterior. “This isn’t a movie.”

  Hassan licked his lips again, turning his head to laugh. I could suddenly remember the feel of it against my own.

  “What—why are you laughing?” My lips turned up only slightly; just because he was chuckling. I pressed a little harder on the scratch and he hissed, but didn’t bat my hand away.

  “Okay, okay, okay, Fred, quit it.”

  I let up. Hassan stared at me a moment, and his voice was quieter again when he spoke. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Or….” He nodded towards the ceiling. “Those kids.”

  “I know.” I did know it. Most days, I didn’t doubt him or his commitment to keeping me safe. I knew it would extend to the children, as well; he cared too much, under that gruff exterior. I swallowed, looking down at his cuts, as if they were evidence of how much he meant it. “I know.”

  “But, there are methods….” He trailed off, as if not wanting to bring it up. “There are methods we might have to use. Ones you might not like, Fred.”

  I knew that, too. I didn’t want to hear about them, but things were getting worse. Hassan had almost lost his life today, and that fact felt more real now that he was here with me and had been hurt trying to help me. I was happy to be able to touch him. I nodded slowly at what he had said, not in the mood to argue our different ideas on morality. My hand skimmed up his bicep, over his sleeve.

  I could feel him tense underneath my fingers as they traced down over his collarbone, his heart—it was still beating, I reminded myself—and down to the center of his chest. He wasn’t stopping me merely watching his breath slow and deliberate.

  “Hassan, I don’t want to lose you.” I looked up at him. It was nice, I thought, to have someone taller than me. I had never appreciated it before, but his size made me feel that much safer.

  “You won’t.” His voice was deeper with something, a tension.

  Slowly, his hand came to rest over mine on his chest. Keeping it there. It was warm against mine.

  “I haven’t been with anyone,” he said, and the admission felt like a plunge neither of had taken, but had so badly wanted to. “In a long time. Trusting someone….” It was difficult. I could understand and while I wanted to know more of why he felt that, I nodded slowly letting him say only as much as he wanted to.

  “You can’t shut everyone out.”

  Hassan huffed, and his breath ghosted over my cheek. “I can sure as hell try,” the humor there quiet and wry.

  “I trust you.” The words came out of me, like a release. He already knew I trusted him, but I meant it in more ways than one. “You’re… I don’t have to take care of you. I know I can rely on you.” I need something like that. It felt to raw to simply say. I stared at out hands on his chest.

  “I….” And while most things seemed easy for Hassan, this seemed the hardest. Talking about what he was truly thinking or feeling.

  Feeling brave, I glanced up at him again. There was conflicting thought written on his face. In a quiet voice, I asked, “Do you want me?”

  It wasn’t a business proposal or argument. It was a simple question with a simpler answer: either yes or no.

  The truth of it was written on Hassan’s face, as was how it might even scare him a bit. It was funny to imagine him being scared of anything. “Yes,” he said, and his eyes flicked down to my mouth as it curled into a small smile.

  Heat pulsed through my body at the admission. “Prove it.” My
voice was a whisper.

  Hassan groaned, the sound going straight to my cock as his hand found my cheek and he pulled me in, something breaking as if it was suddenly impossible to hold back any kind of desire anymore. That was fine with me; I felt my own walls breaking, any reservations I might have had disappeared as his lips molded to mine once more, this kiss just as bruising and firey as the first.

  I remembered how his body had felt pinning me to the wall; how surrounded I’d felt. I wanted it again. My hands found his hips, gripping them tightly, fingertips threading through the belt loops at the top, and I used what muscle I had to turn us, trapping my body against the counter.

  “Fred,” and his voice was dripping with desire, rough around its edges as we arched into one another. His leg slid between mind, the friction of my half-hard cock in my jeans grinding against something solid making my mouth water. His tongue slid into my mouth, our kiss open-mouthed and slick; I sucked on it, my fingers digging into his short hair and—

  I made a surprised noise as his hands found my hips, large and rough, and he lifted me just enough to sit me on the counter. I didn’t waste any time in opening my legs wide enough for him to fit into; he didn’t waste any time in putting himself there, calloused fingers squeezing down my thighs, using them as leverage to bring me flush against him.

  It had been so long since anybody had touched me, and, even then, it had been a one-night stand. Nobody I cared deeply about. This was different; I wanted Hassan, for weeks now, but it felt like much longer—felt like I’d known him for so much longer—the craving for him to run his protective hands over my skin mounting with every sidelong look and snarky remark.

  My hands pulled roughly on his shirt, untucking it from his pants; I was free to let my hands explore, tracing the heated skin there—I could feel remnants, the smallish bumps of old scars and of new cuts that were sure to become scars themselves. My finger brushed one scratch, a result of the stalker’s trap, perhaps causing Hassan to hiss into my mouth. His hands flexed on my thighs, so close to where I was straining against my jeans; “Fuck,” fell out of his mouth and into mine and so I pressed into it again just a little harder.

  His hand fisted in my dark locks, pulling my head back with just enough force—the brief hurt of it melted into my pleasure as he exposed my neck, his tongue licking a long, wet stripe up to my ear. I whimpered, clutching him tighter; my legs hooked around his hips, keeping him close. “Has—Hassan,” because I couldn’t think of much else to say, besides his name. Nothing else in that moment existed. “I’ve been waiting for this—”

  I took hold of the hand not busy in my hair, guiding it to my aching cock and the feel of it—his rough palms pressing down on it—drew an animal moan from me. It echoed slightly in the otherwise empty kitchen; I didn’t care. If anyone had heard—if anyone was smart—they’d stay the hell away.

  “Fuck,” Hassan repeated, the razor-edge of his voice, hot and insistent in my ear, made me shiver. “Hard already?” He was teasing me; I could feel his smile forming against my temple as he gave another squeeze through my jeans.

  “What can I say?” My voice quivered and if he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

  Hassan drew away from my ear slowly, open kisses tracing my jaw and cheek, back to my lips, and we melted into one another.

  Between kisses, I asked, “What about you?” My hand snaked between our bodies to palm at the front of his pants. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his cold eyes, since melted, squeezing shut as I traced the outline of his cock. With practiced ease, I purred against his lips, “Hard already?” my finger tracing a line from tip to base.

  His hand fell from my hair, landing with a solid thud on the counter beside me. Satisfied, I drew my hand away, using a finger under his chin to guide him until we were face-to-face. His eyes were dark with a greedy sort of hunger. He looked like he was ready to tear into me, devour me—and I wanted him to do it.

  “Fred,” he breathed, eyes staring with intense concentration at my lips. He shook his head slowly, taking gentle hold of my wrist. “Fred, we….” And, he shook his head once more. “Not yet.”

  It took a moment for his meaning to register. Not yet. I frowned.

  He licked his lips again—which, at this point, was very unfair and entirely criminal—before saying, “Not tonight.” The corner of his mouth pulled into a small and crooked smile. “I just got blown up. Besides….” His thumb traced the plush of my kiss-swollen bottom lip and I darted my tongue out to lick lightly at it. The sigh came out of him was laced with desire. “I want to take you apart properly.”

  The promise struck some sort of erotic fear in me. What was he going to do? What sorts of things had he imagined doing to me? I wanted to find out immediately, but if he wanted to wait….

  I nodded slowly. “I suppose I can wait.” I kissed him again, slow and deliberate. It was heady and only made me want him more. Once my tongue traced his lips asking for entrance, he broke the kiss, shaking his head in amusement.

  “Later,” he insisted.

  I studied his face. “Why?” I wasn’t angry, but I wanted to understand.

  “We should keep things professional,” he said, words slow and thoughtful, though I had a hard time believing that it was his only reason. Whatever else he was thinking, he kept it to himself and gave me a placating kiss. “Also, did I mention I was blown up.”

  I wasn’t going to force him, obviously. No matter how badly I wanted him to finish me off, I supposed I would have to take care of it myself. The idea of inviting him to watch crossed my mind, but considering how romantic I was feeling, it seemed a little crass. For a first time, anyway. “Okay.” I rolled my eyes, grinning a little as I nudged him away playfully, sliding off the counter. “Later.”

  I stepped around him to fetch my forgotten glass of water, sure to pop my ass out just a little bit.

  When I turned back to him, I was happy to find his eyes lingering there, snapping up to meet mine quickly. “You’re going to bed?” he asked.

  You can come with me, I thought, before scolding myself for being too enthusiastic. Calm down; you’re not some horny teenager. “I am.” I turned on my heel, making for the door. “Are you?”

  “Duty calls. My shift starts in ten minutes,” he insisted, straightening his back trying to keep a suddenly professional air. I paused, turning to rake my eyes over Hassan appraisingly. His fairer skin was slightly flushed, and his little problem (or, not so little, I noted) was still very obvious in his pants. “You might want to take care of that first.”

  The professional mask broke and his head shook with an exasperated chuckle. “Duly noted. Go to bed.”

  I grinned. “Goodnight, Hassan.”

  He cleared his throat, that collected, gruff exterior reappearing, albeit weakly. “Goodnight, Fred.”

  13

  Fred

  After properly taking care of myself, I fell asleep and dreamed of Hassan.

  It was an abstract kind of dream, none of the details very clear, but the result was me waking sharply and suddenly with a ringing in my ears, thoroughly twisted into my sheets. My stomach held that dull sort of pleasure—the kind that made it clear where the dream had been heading if I hadn’t been interrupted by—

  The telephone. That’s what the ringing was, I realized as the drowsiness fell away in progressive layers. I felt along my nightstand for the phone, pressing it to my ear and answering with a sleep-bogged, “Hello?”

  “Frederic.” The voice on the other end was ragged, distorted. There was an almost inhuman quality to it. Almost man, but not quite fully. Whatever desire I had to crawl back to sleep was gone, my frown growing deeper as whoever it was sighed. “Frederic—what can I say? I’m disappointed. You’re getting closer to him, Fred, I can tell—”

  “Who is this?” I sat up in bed sharply. I had a hunch as to who.

  He laughed into the receiver, slowly; it turned my stomach. Outside my bedroom door, I could hear footsteps coming up the stair
case. I stumbled across the room and flipped on the light.

  “Fred, Fred, Fred. Really? I thought you’d know me by now?” The man sighed again. “But, I guess my letters wouldn’t do my voice justice, right?”

  My bedroom door opened suddenly, Hassan standing in the threshold, suddenly on-edge and concerned.. “Why are you calling?”

  “Keep him on the line,” Hassan directed quietly, as he sat on the edge of my bed pulling the rest of the telephone into his lap. My stalker had dialed my landline, which was fine; it gave Hassan something physical to work with and within a minute, the recording device was set up, effectively bugging the call. He made a motion to keep talking.

  “You—you never signed your name on any of those notes,” I told him, pacing. My eyes met Hassan’s; he was a rock, nodding once for me to continue.

  “I couldn’t. I—I couldn’t.” The voice sounded resigned. “That’s—don’t distract me, Fred. That isn’t why I’m calling.”

  I swallowed. “Why are you calling?”

  “I approve of your… compassion, Frederic. I admire it. It’s an amazing quality.”

  It didn’t feel like a compliment. “Thank you.”

  “It’s one of the best parts about you. So kind. Open. Generous.” He paused; I felt like food, being played with, about to be eaten. “It’s gonna get you into trouble, Frederic.”

  Hassan and I both frowned. “Is it?”

  “It is. It is, it is—that… Hassan. He’s dangerous. He’s no good for you, Frederic and you can’t keep pitying him, it’s—you’re going to get yourself hurt because of it.”

  “Why is he dangerous?” Hassan was listening to our conversation. Looking at him, his troubled face, how intently he was focused, I knew whoever was talking to me was wrong. It was a gut feeling. “Tell me.”