by Amy Daws
“I just look young. I’m not.” Her insecurity fades instantly with her sharp and clipped tone like she says that phrase every day and hates it.
A loud shout snaps my attention from the doctor. I look back and see my dad running his hands angrily through his grey hair. He looks haggard and out of control. A shaken Vaughn Harris isn’t a common occurrence. He has two primary emotions: protective and demanding.
The first time I ever saw the man crack any level of emotion was last year when my sister gave him a gift of our mum’s poems. It was a peculiar sight and one he made us swear never to speak of again. So the sight of him flailing at the doctor makes me positively ill.
“They can’t come in here,” the redhead says. I turn back to catch her watching me. Her brows are knit together in sympathy beneath a pair of large cheetah-print glasses.
Disturbed by her perceptiveness and a little by those ridiculous glasses, I narrow my eyes and murmur, “I don’t care.”
She purses her lips, clearly unconvinced by my response. “It was kind of a mess out there, so we brought you to the ICU. Only doctors and patients are allowed in the exam rooms.”
Hearing her say ICU and patients sounds ominous. A sudden burst of panic grips my chest over what all of this could mean for me.
I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready to have a screwed up knee for the rest of my life. I’m not ready to admit this could be the end of my career. I’m not ready for change. I want to be Camden Harris, footballing star and sex god to women. That’s the life I signed up for. That’s the goal I want. Pun intended.
I refuse to feel differently. I refuse to let this injury take over everything I am and everything I represent.
I need a distraction. Now.
I turn back to take in the doctor more fully as she moves toward me. She’s dressed in blue scrubs and bright neon green trainers. Inch by inch, I assess that she’s a shorter frame, probably no more than five foot four. Since I can’t get a good read on her body beneath those annoying scrubs, I focus more intently above her neck as she pushes buttons on the monitor near my bed.
Her face is sweet and innocent, but not necessarily naïve. Her brown eyes are too sharp and confident to be completely clueless. They definitely contradict her cherubic facial features that make me feel a bit soft and funny on the inside. I don’t typically have this reaction to women’s faces. Normally, I’m more interested in their body stats.
Large arse.
Large tits.
Small waist.
Down for a shag.
That’s my checklist when I roll into a club. The logic behind it is that any average-looking girl can look hot with loads of makeup and dark lighting. I’m more concerned about how they look naked and spread out on a bed as I drive into them. I’m not ashamed of my taste and preference in women. Appreciating a soft, luscious bounce beneath my touch is my rite of passage as a bloke.
But this girl before me has little to no makeup on, yet I find my body instinctively reacting to the soft curves of her face. Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I picked up a girl in broad daylight, so this all feels a bit strange to me. Then again, nothing about what’s happening to me today is typical.
Suddenly, I see a rosy hue crawl up her cheeks as she catches me watching her. My brows lift in a “what’d you expect” sort of expression. Her gaze narrows in contemplation, and I swear I see a tiny spark that tells me she’s not all together put off by my perusal.
The side of my mouth tilts up.
Camden Harris, you’ve just found the perfect distraction.
Maybe if I lie still and let this pretty, bare-faced girl invade all of my thoughts and senses, I won’t turn into an emotional ninny over what’s happening to my knee.
I wonder where else she’s bare? I think to myself, desperate to be reminded that I am still me somewhere beneath this mess of a body.
She shuffles closer to my bed and reaches over top of me for something on the wall. The scent of lemons, toothpaste, and fresh rain fan over me in her close proximity. It’s a mouth-watering combination. In the past, I’ve tried to steer clear of redheads because they’re usually the crazy ones. But lord, between this one’s scent and her pretty face, I’m quite certain that won’t be necessary.
She sets a blood pressure cuff on the bed beside me. Then her cool hand touches my bicep to shove up the sleeve of my jersey. A nurse had toweled off some of the mud earlier, but I remain wet and uncomfortable in my kit.
A chill ripples over me from her delicate touch. It could be from the fact that I’m soaked head to foot in muddy rainwater. Or it could be that this bird is affecting me more than I care to admit. I choose the former.
When her eyes zero in on the half sleeve of black ink that covers the area from my elbow up to my shoulder, I wish I could crawl into her head to know what she’s thinking. Is she as intrigued by me as I am by her? Does she want me? Do I make her nervous? Have I ever cared what a girl thought of me before?
I begin to notice the throbbing in my knee once again, so I willfully focus on the female before me. Her nose is small and points slightly upward, and I have a hard time not staring at her pouty lips that seem too heavy to stay closed.
Christ, she’s gorgeous.
She wraps the cuff around my arm and, biting her lip, she turns away to push some buttons on the machine. I take this opportunity to check out her backside. It’s difficult to tell, but I think she might be sporting a seriously sexy arse.
When the cuff begins to automatically tighten, her focus shifts and she catches my lowered gaze on her. Quirking a brow, she steps over to me and grabs my opposite wrist. “Feeling better already?” she inquires while staring at her wristwatch to register my pulse.
My brows arch. “I buggered up my knee. Not my eyes.”
This conversation forces my mind back to the real issue at hand. I glare down at my knee, hot anger coursing through my veins at the seemingly normal-looking limb. On the outside, it looks perfect. On the inside, it’s a stormy mess. Not dissimilar to how my entire body looks and feels.
I was born for football, bred for football, lived for football. Now the only feeling I have inside of me is utter treachery. My body betrayed me today.
A hand reaches out and touches my shoulder, causing me to jump at the touch. My gaze lifts to the redhead, and I watch her expression waver as she takes in my internal brooding. Her features are soft. Sweet. And even more beautiful.
Her brows pull together in a sympathetic way again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I know you’re going through a lot.”
I stare back in utter confusion over how she seems to be reading me so easily. Am I that transparent? My shock over her assessment of me is halted when I catch the first clear shot of her eyes through those big glasses. Her irises are a warm toffee colour—dark and bold with flecks of honey around the edges. They are a sharp almond shape with long, soft lashes fanning out. They look softly into mine with a sense of calmness that I feel everywhere.
Everywhere.
And for the first time in my entire life with a woman, I’m at a loss for words.
Realising I’m in some weird silent trance, I clear my throat and croak out, “Most women like my eyes on them.” It takes more effort than I’m used to, so I shoot her a lascivious Camden Harris knicker-dropping smirk.
Her eyes squint thoughtfully before she says, “Your vitals are good.” Her tone is back to all business. “But I need to check you for internal injuries before I can take you up to radiology.”
My brows lift. Could she possibly be immune to my charms? Redheads, I think.
She lowers the back of my bed. Suddenly, my mind yanks from the moment as the sensation in my knee of bone rubbing on bone sends shivers up my spine.
She glances down to my legs. “Are you experiencing a lot of pain?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I reply, attempting to avoid the faint feeling of nausea casting over me. She’s too beautiful to be looki
ng at me like I’m some weak patient. I want her to look at me like I’m Camden Harris, a star striker for Bethnal Green F.C.
“Well of course you can handle your pain,” she says, her tone laced with annoyance. “Humans can handle a lot of pain when forced to. But since we are inside a Western medicine-practicing hospital, I need you to be more specific. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how bad is it?”
“Three.” Bugger, I’m a liar. My knee throbs! Why do we have to keep talking about it? I don’t notice it when we’re not talking about it and you’re looking at me with those sexy, fuck-me-sideways eyes.
She stops what she’s doing and stares at me incredulously. Her hands reach up and grip the stethoscope around her neck. “You likely tore something in your knee, and you’re telling me your pain is only at a three?”
“I’m a Harris. We’re tougher than most.” I wink at her while clenching my teeth.
She responds with a dramatic eye roll that makes me genuinely smile. Fuck, she’s cute. I can tell I’m affecting her but not in the way I affect most women, which only makes me even more curious.
“Lying about your pain number doesn’t make your dick any bigger,” she mumbles under her breath. Her eyes fly wide when I let out a hearty bark of a laugh. It’s like she didn’t mean to say those words out loud. She covers her mouth and an honest-to-goodness hoot rumbles all the way into my stomach.
Even if what she said was accidental, it was challenging and funny. An intriguing combo in a female, I have to admit. The birds I run into usually reply to my practised lines with a giggle and a selfie. I never knew injuring myself could be this much fun.
“Believe me, I don’t need any help with my cock size.” I quirk a brow at her.
She barks out her own incredulous laugh this time and that colour appears on the apples of her cheeks again. The same colour that was staining her face when I was checking out her arse a minute ago.
Her smile makes me smile.
Our eyes lock, and I watch the corners of her mouth drop as her chest rises and falls with deep, labourious breaths.
Camden Harris knicker-dropping smirk.
Evidently deciding not to acknowledge my dick size comment, she says, “We’ll get you some pain meds after your scan.” She pauses for a beat, her hands flittering over my white jersey like she’s not sure where to grab it since it’s covered in mud. I help her by grabbing the hem and lifting it up past my pecs. I swear the colour of her eyes turns to lava. She can act all calm and collected, but this reaction is unmistakable.
Rolling her incredibly large pink lips into her mouth, she presses them between her teeth as she places her hands on my mud-streaked stomach. I suck in a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” she croaks, her face twisting up apologetically. “My hands are always cold.”
“It’s okay,” I groan softly against the onslaught. I’m quite certain I’d take loads more pleasure pain from her any day. “I’m always hot. Oil and water can be kind of fun to mix sometimes.”
She closes her eyes for a second, forcing herself to concentrate as she moves her soft, delicate hands along the bumpy planes of my stomach. Watching her, I endeavour to think that she’s a good doctor. She has a skillful touch, and the way her eyes open and inspect as she goes along makes me assume she’s got eighty different facts spinning in her mind as she works.
She’s obviously very focused because she’s completely oblivious to my eyes trained on her, which is…problematic for me because I’m getting half hard from having her hands on me. And problematic because I’m wearing a nut cup that won’t allow my erection the room it needs to stretch out.
As she works, her heavy lips slip out of her mouth and there’s an audible pop in the room. Damn, I’ve never seen lips like hers on an actual human before. They look like those wax lips we used to get as kids from the old-fashioned sweet shop in Manchester. Except those lips were just something my brothers and I wanted to be perverted with. Hers…Oh, who am I kidding? I just want to be perverted with hers as well.
Fuck. Me.
Now all I can picture are those large lips wrapped tightly around my cock. So tightly I have to wrap that wild, red, curly hair around my fist and control every part of her over-eager movements. God, I bet she’d be so eager—
“No signs of internal bleeding,” she states as she pulls my wet jersey back down.
“Good to hear,” I reply, grateful for a second of reprieve to collect myself. “So now that you felt me up, do I get to know your name?” I ask.
She looks adorably confused. “I told you. It’s Dr. Porter.”
“I know you’re a doctor with a fancy title. But you’re also a woman with your hands on a man. A man named Camden. You can call me Cam if you’d like.” I wink again. “Now, why don’t you give me your first name. I don’t mind at all.”
She shakes her head. “I mind, actually. Dr. Porter is all you need to know. We’ll need to get you changed into a gown for your MRI,” she says, interrupting my hot-as-fuck fantasy of playing doctor with the naughty redhead. She strides over and pulls the pale green curtain around to sheath us in complete privacy from the mania I’ve been oblivious to outside of my room. She looks down at my shin pads nervously. “Do you need help changing?”
The side of my mouth tilts up. “Is helping me change all that you’re offering?”
Her eyes slant. “Are all footballers like this?” she asks as she strides back over and unfastens the blood pressure cuff from my arm.
“Like what?” I reply innocently, enjoying the tone of her candour.
“So assuming.” She adjusts her cheetah-print glasses and furrows her brow. “You just assume that I’d be willing to drop to my knees and suck you off right now, don’t you? Gosh, the cheek of you!”
All air is sucked from my lungs and my brows shoot through the ceiling. She stated that phrase like she was reading a fact from a textbook, not saying a sexual comment that’s turning my semi into a fully.
I let out a throaty laugh, and her fiery gaze doesn’t seem nearly as amused as she continues to pierce me with a blatant challenge. She’s waiting for an answer. More importantly, she’s surprising the fuck out of me. I’ve always loved surprises.
“Hoped is more like it,” I reply, noting her rigid posture. “Especially now after hearing those dirty words tumble out of those pretty lips. But it’s not all about me. What about your needs, baby? I’m dying to know.” I pull on my jock briefs that are about to cut off circulation.
Her eyes follow my hand and flare anxiously. “This is not the time nor the place for this kind of talk.” Her voice is flustered and high-pitched, but I see a struggle in the deep depths of her eyes. “Mr. Harris, I’m your doctor.”
“That sounds like an excuse, not a rejection.” My adrenaline spikes with an aching need. “Name it, Dr. Porter,” I add quickly, hoping to not lose momentum.
Heat flushes her cheeks again. “Name what?”
“The time and place. I’m all fucking ears, baby.”
“Baby? Seriously?” She rolls her eyes and grips the stethoscope around her neck, clearly affected by the excitement vibrating in the air around us. “You can’t come up with anything more original? The dictionary has lots of choices. It’s even sorted alphabetically for your convenience.”
“Give it time. We’ve just met. And you still haven’t told me your first name so I’m improvising.” My eyes drift up to her hair barely contained on top of her head. I’d kill to see it down around her shoulders. Or better yet, spread across my pillow as I take her from behind. I bet she has the pinkest fucking nipples—
“You do realise you have a serious injury, don’t you?” She shakes her head and begins typing something into the iPad chart alongside the monitor.
I’m completely flabbergasted. Upon first glance, this Dr. Porter looks meek and unassuming, nerdy and maybe even passive. She looks like the kind of bird that when she gets the wrong meal delivered to her at a restaurant, she doesn’t have the cou
rage to tell the waiter. So she sits there and eats whatever they’ve dropped in front of her. Typically, my eyes would roll right past someone like her in a club. You can usually pick them out of a crowd because of how they carry themselves and how they’re dressed. The types that dress for attention are generally a sure thing. But there’s something about this one that makes me need to know more. She might even be a rarity. And, well, she did say “cock” after all.
She chooses that second to lean over top of me and stuff the blood pressure cuff into a metal basket above my bed. She loses her footing slightly and, well, never one to waste an opportunity, my hands reach up to grip her lower back and pull her down on top of me. Her chest hits mine, and I’m assaulted with an orgasmic scent that must be distinctly of the Dr. Porter variety.
I’m not sure what I had planned. Truth be told, I didn’t completely think it through. Most likely I was just going to say something smart and see what else I could get to come out of her gorgeous mouth. But a flurry of excitement rips through me when her eyes flash to my lips and, in that instant, I know what I have to do.
I have to taste her.
Without hesitating, I sample her lips, giving her what her eyes were so quietly begging for. She lets out an audible groan, but it’s not a frightened groan. It’s a “you cheeky sod, I like this” sort of groan. It’s the kind of groan you make when you’re young and trying to fight off an orgasm that comes much too soon because you’re so inexperienced. It’s the kind of groan that makes all the pain in my knee completely dissipate. It’s the kind of groan that gives me the slightest glimpse of how hot she would be in the sack.
I forget all about the fact that I’m kissing my doctor. Right now, she’s simply an incredibly sexy woman who has managed to consume ninety percent of my thoughts since I arrived here over an hour ago. And denial is a dish best served hot and luscious, so I’m eating while I have the chance.
As soon as her soft, luscious lips part, my tongue is in, pulsing against the inside of her mouth like it’s seeking refuge. Like it’s seeking a way to comfort both of us from this burning, almost painful desire coursing between us. God, if I could live in this woman’s mouth, I would. It tastes like lemons, and her body has a fresh dew smell that I could lick off of her.
