Nor was she supposed to like it.
* * *
It was official. The doctor made Clay hard. And now…
Her hand on the back of his head… Fuck.
First, it made him want to fight back, pull away, get up, and take over. Because nobody pushed his head down. Nobody.
But it also made him want to give in—to see what she’d do. Rebel or succumb?
He went for something in between. Light resistance, up and back, into her hand, was all it took to turn things upside down.
She’s not controlling me, he realized with the strangest jolt. She’s holding me. Helping me. His mind flew back, remembering the way she’d held her cat in the dark in front of her house—and then to his embrace with the animal. He’d have held that cat all night long if it hadn’t eventually perked up at some forest sound and sprung away, ears pricked, tail swishing, its missing limb barely noticeable in attack mode.
But right now, here, the press of her hand against the back of his head was full of something good, something like affection or desire or maybe, just maybe, tenderness. And it was the best thing he’d felt in a lifetime.
So different from recent flashes of memory—flesh smacking, hard fucks, teeth gritted, fist caught up in greasy hair. Toothy blow jobs from nameless women, victims of circumstance—collateral damage as he and Bread did whatever it took not to lose their covers.
Everything he’d taken—bottles to the face, ink, bullets, a loss of honor.
Clay stiffened.
But this—
He heard her breathe, felt the warmth on his nape, and shuddered.
That sent her away, left his back cold and him alone. When she came back, the moment of intimacy was gone. Maybe it’d been imagined anyway. How the hell should he know what was what anymore? He felt immune to sensation. Lost and empty and hard as nails.
He shut his eyes tight, wanting her to touch him again and so afraid of the mixed-up signals his brain kept sending.
Her gloved hands returned to his skin, warm through the cold cream. She rubbed it in, leaving a trail of goose bumps in her wake, and he wished she’d press his head again, take some of his weight, make him feel something. She walked around the table to the other side, where she stroked him with a fresh layer of cream, and something else skimmed his back when she leaned—her lab coat, maybe? In his fantasies, it was a breast. A mouth.
It was quiet in here, so quiet. He closed his eyes and breathed her in.
* * *
He’d fallen asleep. Either that or he’d gone to that place, wherever it was, that he seemed to go on her table.
Only this time, George’s hands were on him. She felt heavy and warm, and his back was big and strong and supple, but so sweet, laid out for her, waiting, needing…
Dear God, what’s wrong with me?
He was numb by now. He had to be—as numb as the cream would make him, which wasn’t very. Another dip, another swipe, and his flesh rippled beneath her touch. Maybe not asleep?
She wanted to put her hand on his head again and push him down, but there was nowhere to go. She wanted to lean into him and over him and maybe just stretch herself across all that muscle and bone. Desire settled into her pelvis as she stroked his shoulders, ran a hand a little too far down an arm that had absolutely no need of numbing cream. None.
What the hell is wrong with me?
But still, she couldn’t quite convince her body to stop. Slowly, she kneaded her thumbs around those beautiful scapulas, felt him shudder slightly, and pulled away, hyperaware of how strange her actions were—how unethical and wrong, but maybe…maybe just…
“Don’t stop,” he mumbled, and honestly, that was all she needed.
His back—this solid, robust plane—was like the culmination of all of the backs she hadn’t had the pleasure of touching over the years, and goodness, she wanted it. She wanted his back.
Wanted his back?
Was this how it felt to go crazy?
George stepped away, embarrassed and more than a little worried for her sanity. Was she really, truly, going to cave in and do things she might very well—no, would definitely—regret over some stranger’s back?
He grunted—or maybe it was more of a groan—and twisted his neck so one shadowed eye peeked out at her.
“’S the best thing that’s happened to me in fu…frickin’ years.” His voice came out low, almost on a whisper.
“This is…” George couldn’t get the words out, she was breathing so fast. “This is weird. I can’t… I don’t—”
“No. Feels good. So damn good.”
“Just…me touching you?”
“Yeah.”
There was hardly any hesitation at all, and then the succubus wearing her skin stepped forward. Closer, until her belly was level with his hand. “Are you numb?” She reached out and stroked him, right on that horribly defacing burn, wondering if he could feel her. Wanting him to.
“No,” he said, even breathier now. “No, the opposite. Numb when I walked in. Now. Shit. Now, it’s all nerves.”
The weight in George’s belly turned liquid, spread out on a wave of shivery sensation that she hadn’t felt since she’d been just a kid, squished in the backseat of Calvin Dean’s bright-red Mustang with nothing between her legs but his hand, and nothing in her head but blind teenage lust.
“Here?” Her fingers caressed him where his skin had melted into unsightly whorls, tracing the jagged surface and wishing he’d let her do more. Although, even as she thought that, she wasn’t sure if she meant more as in treatment for the burn, or more right now, to his body. To him.
“Yeah. There. Just…” He groaned, then begged, “Please.”
Possessed, she caressed him, up his side, almost to his armpit and its tuft of dark hair. It looked sexual, that hair, like something she wasn’t supposed to see. Then tracing along the top of his shoulder to the back of his neck and down, down, down his spine, the bumps adding texture along the way, the rocky road of his body the most enticing thing George had ever seen.
More sounds escaped him, little grunts that said he liked what she did, and those fueled her even more. Lord, she wanted to flatten herself on top of the man, to cover him, and… What? Hump him? No. Not really. Make him feel good? Touch every little bit of him? Heal him? Protect him from whatever hell he’d been through?
With a snap that surprised even her, she removed the glove that separated his skin from hers and lightly—oh so lightly—felt the reality of his flesh without the barrier of Nitrile in between. The noises were hers this time, and the contact was kinetic, burned the air, turned the heat up, ate out her brain.
His hand, right there on the edge of the table, somehow turned until his palm rested flat against her belly—not pushing, just…absorbing, fingers taking in her softness, exploring her the way she was him.
Before she knew it, she’d curled her palm around that hunk of a shoulder, leaned in until more than her lab coat pressed against the man, her breathing shaky and short. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, in a dream. The bridge of her nose skimmed his hairline, and she took him in, smelled him, got a bigger dose of what she’d only guessed at up until now. And it was good, elementally good, unexplainably, animalistically perfect. A smell she could dive into and live off of.
She pulled back. “Got to stop. I’ve got to stop.”
“Hang on.” His hand reached for hers, grasped it, skin to skin, and held on tight. “Don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me, but it’s making me crazy.”
“I don’t know; I don’t know. I’m not… This isn’t me,” George muttered, eyes clearing. She pulled hard at her hand, blinked hazily at the man laid out before her, and moved toward the door. “I’ll be…I’ll be right back.”
* * *
Tea. The woman brought him tea.
Sh
e’d touched him so he’d almost cried on her table like a goddamned baby, and after running away, she came back in with tea. One for him and one for her. And not sweet iced tea, like people here guzzled by the gallon. No, mugs full of the hot stuff. In the middle of July.
“Maybe we’ll wait on your back” was the first thing he actually understood after his complete and total whatever-that-was in her office. Jesus, had he nearly come at a medical back massage? Almost come and then come close to passing out on the exam table.
“Yeah,” he managed through a throat that was raw, an open wound. He felt like that. Not just his throat, but his… What? His psyche, maybe. His very being chafed. He hurt where she’d touched him, like he’d scarred or scabbed over, and she’d come along and opened him up again—with nothing but tenderness. It scared the hell out of him, the way he’d disappeared into her, made him want to grab her and fuck her. Or maybe hide beneath her lab coat.
He swung up to sitting and accepted the tea, blinking like a newborn baby, exposed, his cock semihard and heavy in his underwear.
“You okay?” she asked, sounding close to tears herself.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He took a sip, just to give himself something to do. It tasted good, spicy.
After a couple of minutes, the fuzz cleared slightly, and he noted what he held in his fist with a strange jolt of hilarity. It was a mug, brown, with the words Coffee makes me poop written in big, white caps.
“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 numb 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 a little 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?”
Order Adriana Anders’s next book
in the Blank Canvas series
By Her Touch
On sale April 2017
Acknowledgments
When you first start writing a book, you might think it will be a solitary venture. And while there are certainly moments alone, by the time the book is out and the process is over, you look back, and what you see is an army of helpers strewn along the path to publication. A team so vast that you don’t even know the name of everybody involved.
For me, it started off with teary phone calls to friends, whose only job was to tell me I didn’t suck. To those friends—Abby, Radha, Marisa, and my patient husband—I send out a huge thanks. I’d never have gotten here without you.
Next, I have to thank my incredible beta readers, whose feedback made all the difference: Radha and Corey Jo, Callie Russell, Sara and Melissa. You guys rock. You helped make this book what it is today. Also, to Meredith Cole, whose advice on publishing and writing was always spot-on, as well as the multitudes of fabulous writer friends I’ve made along the way—Madeline Iva, Joanna Bourne, Kasey Lane, Sheila Grice, Alleyne Dickens, Chan Cox Elder, Elizabeth Safleur, and Callie Russell, to name a few. Your support means the world to me!
Next, there are the unsung heroes, the contest judges, who took the time to read my work and provide valuable criticism. I learned so much from you. Thank you for the time and energy you put into other people’s work. It really does make a difference.
This book no doubt has many errors, but none of them can be blamed on the amazing folks I had the pleasure of talking to along the way. Thank you to Stephanie Snell from Charlottesville Skin & Laser for sharing her vast knowledge of laser tattoo removal. You gave me so much more than facts! Also, a huge thanks to Gordon Emery of Charlottesville Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, whose knowledge of Jiu-Jitsu and other martial arts is vast and profound and so inspiring. Also, to Joe P.: thank you for your insight into the life of a prosecutor. The character in this book is in no way based on you.
Thanks to Allison, the most supportive boss in the world.
To my agent, Laura Bradford: you are a superstar. Thank you for believing in this book.
This book would be a different creature if not for the tender attention of my fabulous editor, Mary Altman, whose thoughtful suggestions and praise were equally delightful to receive. I can’t imagine a better partner in this process! And to the editors who polished up my prose: you are amazing.
Finally, thank you to my parents, Le Husband, and my kids, who supported this wild dream in more ways than I can count. I love you all.
About the Author
Adriana Anders has acted and sung, slung cocktails, and corrected copy. She’s worked for start-ups, multinationals, and small nonprofits, but it wasn’t until she returned to her first love—writing romance—that she finally felt like she’d come home. Today, she resides with her tall French husband, two small children, and a fat French cat in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where she writes the dark, emotional love stories of her heart.
Visit Adriana at www.adrianaanders.com.
Like Adriana on Facebook: www.facebook.com/adrianaandersauthor.
Follow Adriana on Twitter @AdrianasBoudoir and Instagram at www.instagram.com/adriana.anders.
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Under Her Skin Page 42
