Dr. Tempt Me

by Hamel, B. B.

  “God, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why I stood up to them. I figured if they wanted to kill me, they would have, and if they wanted to stab me, they would have. Since they came unarmed, I knew I had a chance.”

  “And did you win?” She tilted her head.

  I smirked and shrugged. “Fought them off.”

  “Got a head wound for your trouble.” She sighed, but her expression relaxed, if only slightly. “You still should have run.”

  “You’re right. It’s just, I was angry.”

  She took the syringe and pressed the needle into my forehead. I clenched my jaw as it stung, and she shot some of the numbing solution into the skin. She did it a few more times, covering the area around the gash, until the skin there was completely dead to feeling. She put the needle away, nodded at her work, poked it a couple times to be sure, then began stitching.

  I could feel the skin pull with each swipe of the thread, but otherwise, I felt nothing.

  “What were you so angry about?” she asked softly.

  “They came into your place. They threatened you, threatened both of us. And Maria thinks this is some kind of game, like those mafioso guys aren’t going to try to kill one of us sooner or later.”

  “You say that like they didn’t already try with you.”

  “They didn’t.” She tugged the thread and looked at me. “They didn’t,” I said again, completely sure of it. “They wanted to hurt me and scare me, but not kill me. Not yet.”

  “How are you so damn sure all the time?”

  “If they wanted me dead, they could have killed me. The second I walked out of my place, they could’ve put a bullet in my head and been done with it.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” She did another stitch and tied it off. I admired how steady her hands were, and her technique was very good. I figured I’d have a scar, but she was being gentle, and careful, and precise, so it wouldn’t be too bad. “But I still don’t want you fighting them.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She gave me a look, but continued to work in silence. It took six stitches to close the wound up, which wasn’t many, thankfully. When she finished, and tied off the last, she added a bit of medical glue to ensure it stayed shut, then placed a bandage over top of it all and sat back.

  “You’re going to have to explain this,” she said, cleaning up.

  “I ran into a kitchen cabinet. Very clumsy. Oh, dear.”

  She rolled her eyes and smiled a little. “I doubt anyone will believe it.”

  “Sure they will. What else would they think? I’m getting into street fights with violent thugs?”

  “Good point. Mary’s going to think I did it.”

  I laughed and helped pack the bag back up. I stood, feeling bruised and battered, but not as bad as I expected. Those thugs had wanted to hurt me, but I probably got them much worse—the taller one for sure, at least. I underestimated the smaller guy, but I wouldn’t make that same mistake twice.

  Fiona lingered in the kitchen and watched as I got some water and gulped it down. I grimaced slightly and prodded my ribs. They weren’t broken, but I’d definitely be bruised to hell. I turned and she stepped toward me, something on the tip of her tongue, but she shook her head and swallowed whatever she wanted to say.

  I grabbed her wrist and held it. “Thank you.”

  She looked back at me. “For what?”

  “The stitches. And for coming here.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’d do it for anyone.”

  I tilted my head, a smile on my lips. “Would you?”

  She turned to me and chewed on her cheek. “It’s not often I have to stitch up fight wounds.”

  “But you have to admit, it makes me seem very rugged and dashing.”

  “I was thinking more brittle and old.”

  I gripped her wrist tighter and pulled her closer. “When are you going to stop pretending, Fiona?”

  “When this starts making sense.”

  “It already does, you’re not letting yourself see it.”

  She stared at me and her face took on a hard cast as she turned back toward the door and pulled her wrist away from me. “You’re not the only one with a past, you know.”

  I stared after her as she left, disappearing back outside and down the hall. I went to the door and wanted to call her back, wanted to ask her what she meant—but then the memory of her skin, the scar along her abdomen, so jagged and rough, drifted back into my mind, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that was what she meant. I didn’t know, couldn’t know, and closed the door behind her, before drifting back into my apartment to call the hospital and get someone to cover my shift, then to recuperate the best I could.

  17

  Fiona

  I couldn’t bring myself to stay in that apartment with him, not when he looked so battered and broken, not when all I wanted to do was kiss him and hold him and take care of him.

  I felt like such a piece of crap as I headed into Mercy for my shift, walking fast and keeping my head down, afraid that Aldo and Davide would pop out from behind a car at any moment and steal me away. I kept thinking about that deep cut along his forehead, and how much it bled all over his face and clothes, and how he didn’t even flinch when I pushed the syringe into his skin.

  The story he told, about his father training him as a child—I believed every word. I saw it in his eyes, the anger and the uncertainty, the wish that it hadn’t happened at all. Some part of me wanted to take that away from him, that pain, but I knew that wasn’t how the past worked: it never disappeared, not completely.

  Some days, I forgot about the accident. I could pretend that it never happened and that I was still a whole person, not scarred and broken and stained. Some days I drift through the afternoon with a smile on my face almost like I’m just another normal girl—but then it comes back to me, in one sharp moment, and suddenly I remember it all, the stippled skin on my stomach, the rot inside of me. I’m torn and broken and ruined, and no matter how much I try to forget it, the past never goes away, not completely.

  He couldn’t outrun his past any more than I could outrun mine. There was nothing I could do for him, and that hurt almost as much as seeing him beaten and bloody and bruised.

  I drifted through my shift like a ghost. I hated moving on autopilot, like the world was passing me on a conveyor belt, but I couldn’t figure out how to concentrate. The acidic stink of body odor, the musky scent of blood and death couldn’t penetrate my yards-long stare, and as I sat behind the desk surrounded by old pens, the black keyboard marked with finger oil, some of the letter keys beginning to fade into nothing, the screen marked and scratched from years of impatient and annoyed nurses, I barely managed to hold myself together, like the stitches I’d given Dean were really meant for my chest to hold everything inside.

  And as soon as it began, it was over, and another day was lost to me, gone forever. I wandered into the lobby in a daze, thinking about Dean, about the stitches, about the pain he must’ve felt when he was attacked on the street in broad daylight, about the anger he held inside for his father—and there he was, standing near the exit, leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, Dean with his lopsided smile, a fresh bandage on his head, wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. I walked to him, tilting my head, unable to stop the smile.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “You need a ride home, right?”

  I laughed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He held out a hand. I hesitated, but took it, suddenly not caring who saw or thought or talked. “I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. I feel bad for not driving you in.”

  We walked out together, and I dropped his hand as soon as we hit the sidewalk. I didn’t know why—it felt good, walking hand in hand with him, but I didn’t want him to think there was something more than the pleasure of touching another person, and anyway, he took me right to his car
. I sat leaning back, staring up at the roof and wondered why I kept pushing him away, why I let the past define everything I did, every motion, every step and thought. A tree of heaven grew up in an abandoned lot beside a rowhouse, the long tear-dropped leaves glistening with its oils, and I wondered how many of those grew in the city, hundreds, maybe thousands, an invasive species, impossible to root out, like the city itself.

  “You should come up with me,” I said, turning to look at him.

  He gazed back and didn’t smile. “Are you sure?” There was no ambiguity in his voice, no questioning in his eyes.

  “I’m sure.”

  He nodded once and found a spot a few doors down from my place. He followed me up and inside, and I shut the door behind him, locking it tight.

  I took two steps before he swept me into his arms then pinned me back against the wall. I sucked in a breath as his lips found my neck, his hands already lifting my scrubs up over my head. I let him strip me down, glad to be out of my work clothes, as his hands moved along my skin like he was questing for something, searching for a truth somewhere—and god, I wanted him to find it.

  He kissed me then, bit my lower lip, teased my breasts, took off my bra. I loved his warm, powerful body, the way he took, and took, and took, without hesitation, so long as I was willing to give, and in this moment, I was willing.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  All afternoon, I kept thinking about his injuries, about him getting into that fight, about the pain he must have felt when I stitched him back together, but he didn’t show it, not once.

  And above all, I thought of what it would be like to lose him, and I realized I couldn’t handle it, not really, couldn’t live with the thought of him gone, out of my life, out of the world. I’d be gone too, sooner or later, a wreck of myself, nothing at all. It wasn’t only because of the mafia, though they were still a threat, lingering and looming in my mind, but it was also that he’d woken something inside of me, made me want something more than the mindless days I’d been drifting through.

  I realized as his fingers slipped between my legs, as he teased my clit and made my moan into his ear, that I’d been drifting a lot, moving through my weeks like I barely existed, like I was hardly even there. I hadn’t realized, not really, not until he showed me what it felt like to be alive, and I wanted that all the time.

  I bit his lip and kissed him deep, then tugged at his shirt until it came off.

  I didn’t care about my rules, about my fears. His fingers felt like heaven, his mouth made sparks run down my spine, and none of it mattered. He licked my nipples, made them hard, my skin stubbled with goosebumps, as I tugged down his jeans and took his hard shaft in my hands. He groaned his pleasure and I pushed back against him as he slipped his fingers inside of me.

  He turned me around and pinned me to the wall. I gasped and whispered his name, wanting him to take me, take over. His hands gripped my hair as he pressed his cock against my ass, then he knelt down and peeled my panties off, pulling them to the floor. I stood there naked in front of him, legs spread, pussy wet, mouth hanging open. He looked at me, his boxer briefs coming off, his cock long and thick and hard, his muscular chest and stomach gorgeous. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, but I wouldn’t move, not until he told me.

  His fingers slid inside of me again as he gripped my hair. “I’ve been dreaming about this,” he whispered. “Your tight body, your beautiful ass.”

  “I bet you have,” I gasped as his fingers teased me, pleasure rocketing through my spine. “Your bruises look nasty.”

  He laughed as I turned to stare back at him. I wasn’t kidding: blue-black bloomed on his ribs, and I guessed one was broken, or at least cracked.

  He didn’t seem to mind, though.

  “Nasty, or manly, it doesn’t matter.” He pulled my hair tighter and I gasped as his fingers pushed deeper. “I’d take a hundred beatings if it meant you finally let me taste you.”

  “You think I’m fucking you out of pity?”

  “I think you realized how much you want me, and you’re finally letting down your guard.”

  “I don’t have a guard.”

  “That’s the lie of the century.” He kissed me and I moaned into that—then felt him press himself against me, and slowly sink inside.

  I gasped as he filled me and a shiver ran down my skin. Oh, god, it was incredible, he fit me deep, spread me wide, and he took me, slowly at first, so slowly, my hips rocking back against him, riding along him, moving in rhythm with him, but it went faster, as my pants turned into moans, and faster, and harder, as we lost ourselves in the moment, and there was only him and pleasure.

  His hand hit my ass hard, the palm making a loud slap, and he pulled my hair, rough and desperate, and I pushed back along his shaft, wanting more, feeling so greedy and wild for it, feeling so awake and alive for the first time in a long time.

  “I love the way you look at me,” he whispered, “when I sink inside of you. It’s like you can’t believe how it feels, how I fit, and I want more of that look.”

  I stared at him over my shoulder and he growled, taking me rough, and I gasped as his hands teased my breasts. “As much as you want,” I whispered.

  He pulled me away from the wall and we tumbled onto the couch. I straddled him, and his hands guided my hips back, then down, and I rode him like that, biting down against his shoulder. I felt sweat drip along my skin as I went faster, faster, building momentum. He grunted his pleasure, his hands on my body, on every inch of my skin, my breasts, my ass, my legs, my lower back, my hair and cheeks and lips. I sucked his finger and stared into his eyes, working my hips faster, faster, getting so close, moaning, gasping, biting.

  “Come on, Fiona,” he said, fingers dimpling my hips. “Come on, girl. I want to see it, I want to feel it. You hide so much from me, and now I want to taste it all.”

  “Oh, fuck,” I said, curling my spine, leaning toward him, kissing him hard as I rode faster, rolling forward and around.

  “I can’t get enough of your hips, your mouth, your hands. I love the way you gasp, and moan, and whisper my name. Goddamn, Fiona, you drive me insane.”

  I kept going, faster, staring into his eyes, and I felt it there, blooming between us, and it overtook me suddenly without warning. I came then, gasping, sweating, shivering, and he held me, buried between my legs, held me and took me. As I finished, he turned me, put me down on the couch, and pinned me with his gorgeous body. I wrapped my legs around him and felt him shudder, and moan into my ear, then fill me, fill me up, his back stiffened, a moan on his lips.

  We finished together, sweating and dizzy. I lay there staring up at him, legs in his lap, as he sat sprawled with his legs open and his arms up above his head.

  “Well, shit,” I said. “How about that.”

  He laughed and looked at me. “How about it.”

  “I didn’t expect—” I stopped myself and shook my head. “Okay, I expected it.”

  “We both know what you meant when you asked me up.”

  “I guess you’re right. I mean, seeing you like that— beaten up—” I stopped myself.

  He smiled a little, and his fingers traced a line down my collarbone, down my breasts, along my hard nipples, and down to my stomach. I grimaced as he touched my scar, and I pushed his hand away.

  He hesitated and watched me. “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “No.” I covered it with both hands and turned my face away. I wished he’d stop looking at me.

  “It was an accident, right?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Dean. Please.”

  He grunted softly. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it, but I want to. Just so you know. I want to know what’s been keeping you so far from me.”

  I shifted and rolled away, getting off the couch. He watched me, his eyes tracking my movements, and I felt so exposed. I grabbed my clothes, my dirty old scrubs, and pulled them on, desperate to cover myself. I lingered near the door, bitin
g my lip, angry with myself for letting that ruin the moment and angry with him for bringing it up.

  “Maybe we should—” I started, but he stood and shook his head.

  “No, you’re not closing down on me now.”

  I smiled a little and looked to the side. “I’m not sure you have much say in that.”

  “Fiona.” He stalked across the room to me and pressed a hand against my cheek.

  I shrugged him away. “Let’s just leave it, okay? That was good and I don’t want to… complicate things.”

  He let out a frustrated breath. “I know you don’t.”

  “Then let’s leave it.”

  He nodded. “All right, I’ll let it go, but I don’t want to leave.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “No, I shouldn’t. I’ll cook you dinner. Go take a shower, clean off the hospital, and when you get out, I’ll pour you some wine, and we’ll eat.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him to get out, that he’d crossed a line and there was no going back, but stopped myself.

  That was the old Fiona, the version of myself that drifted, and I wanted to be better.

  “All right,” I said. “But it better be good.”

  “I’ll do what I can with your meager options.”

  I smiled a little and he touched my cheek. I turned into it and kissed his fingers, then pulled away and walked back to my bathroom. I glanced back and caught him staring at me with a strange look on his face, half smile, half concern. I shut the door, locked it, and turned on the water.

  Then I sat on the edge of the shower and mourned the girl I used to be before becoming broken, the girl that could’ve simply been happy in this moment with a man like him, but instead ended up alone and unable to keep anyone around, constantly pushing people away.

  But I’d be better. I’d shower, and go out there, eat and drink, and maybe he’d sleep over, and maybe we’d fuck again—and maybe things would be okay in the morning.