Drawn to Him: A Romance Collection

by Willow Winters

  “Where was your first date?”

  “I….well…hmm…Starbucks?” I answer his question with a question. He totally caught me off guard. I bare my teeth, frustration rolling off of my body in waves. “I don’t want you.” I lie. Because the truth is embarrassing and dangerous and, because frankly, I’m dead scared of his soon-to-be ex-wife. Not to mention I feel attached to my head. I’d like to keep it intact.

  “You don’t, huh?” He chuckles when we’re toe-to-toe. His cedar aroma and improbable height make me feel small and delicious. Like a treat to be unwrap and devour. “If I kiss you,” his warm breath tickles my face. I can almost taste his toothpaste in my mouth, “Will you yell at me to stop?” He slides a confident hand under my knee-high dress, bending over slightly. His calloused fingertips skim north—self-assuredly, teasingly, angrily—stealing my breath away and leaving my throat parched and raw. It’s the jolt of electricity that shoots up my spine and makes my whole body warm and slack that makes me give in and let my head fall backwards. His lips are on my collarbone now, warm and soft and so much more intoxicating than I’ve dreamt about when I slipped a hand under my covers every night since we’ve first met. “Or maybe you’ll scream for me to take you, to fuck you. Here. Against this door, against your better judgment, against the fucking rules?”

  Holy hell, even Jesus is not going to help me now. This man has me. He has me and he knows it.

  Dr. Matthews’s hand is now inside my panties. I repeat…inside my panties. And there’s no way to sugarcoat it—I’m soaked. In fact, the sound of him playing with my drenched sex fills the air between us when his fingers finally meet my heated flesh , massaging my clit with the lust he’s borrowed from my panties.

  “Atta girl,” he whispers into the crook of my neck, moving up to tug on my earlobe with his teeth. “Does Noah make you wet and ready and begging?”

  “N—no,” I stutter, throwing my head back, banging it against the door. I ignore the pain and loud thud. As does Rhys. Closing my eyes, it is easy to lose track of time, place, and who I am with in this moment. All I feel is pleasure, exploding from every cell in my body. My panties are so full of his hand they stretch around my waist, and he is working me so thoroughly, I know that an orgasm is about to tear me apart any second now. My first being a prelude to how this one will decimate me both physically and emotionally. I’m sandwiched between him and the door, panting hard, when he grabs the back of my thigh with one hand and wraps it around his midriff.

  “You fucking came when we shook hands.” There’s menace, and a territorial, predator-like lilt in his voice as his lips travel along my long neck to my chin. Another soft, claiming bite, then his hot mouth is on mine, but he is teasing—not kissing. Talking—not giving in. “You got off on Me. Squeezing. Your hand. Imagine how it’d feel when I titty-fuck you to oblivion while I go down on you when we sixty-nine in my McLaren. Ever been fucked in a one-point-five-million-dollar car, Miss Martin?”

  “C…c…can’t say I have.” At this point, I’m pretty sure I neither have no bones nor brain cells left. I am slumped against the door as he works his magic under my dress and fucks me with three fingers, massaging my clit with his thumb at the same time. I groan, grabbing my own breast and kneading it through the fabric of my dress. It’s too much…yet not enough. I need him all over me. I roll my head against the wall.

  “Clench around my fingers,” he orders. I do. He winces, his face twisting in suffocated pleasure. “So fucking tight. I’m going to rip you like a paper doll. And, make no mistakes, Savannah Martin, I will have a lot of fun doing so.”

  “I’m coming,” is all I can say. The rush is too much. I’m burning under his gaze, touch and spell.

  “Did you know, Miss Martin, that my family owns Gevaldi Pharmaceutical? I am a billionaire,” his voice is husky and strained, and it’s happening. It’s actually happening. I’m coming all over his fingers, letting out a long, strained growl. I feel it trickling down, all over his hand. My want for him. My defeat. “And you will be my princess. Am I clear?” he asks. But before I can answer—before I can find my words—his lips attack mine and he gives me a feral kiss of the variety I’ve never had before. His tongue screws my mouth, dancing around, claiming, holding captive, preventing me from breathing.

  We melt into each other against the door. I’m breathless, careless, ruined; I am the remains of the girl I was before I walked into the office this morning. In short, I’m officially his.

  His mouth on mine is a perfect match, and we find our rhythm, a pace that’s only ours. I hold both his cheeks as I kiss him.

  “I didn’t have an arousal stain on my dress,” is all I manage to say when our lips finally disconnect. His mouth looks puffy and sore, so mine must be bleeding.

  “You do now.” He withdraws his hand from under my dress and wipes my juices all over my cheek. Chuckling and shaking his head, he saunters back to his desk, looking as composed as he was when I first came here. Not a hair out of place. His cheeks, unlike mine, are the same human-color of the natural born-predator that he is. Not flushed. Not flustered. No nothing.

  “That would be all, Miss Martin.” The steel in his voice tells me the show is over, and he falls back to his chair, leaving me dazed and confused. “You’re excused.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Speed-Dating

  The next day, I find myself writing Dr. Matthews and Dr. Lerer an email apologizing for not being able to pick up Theodore from school. My car is in the shop—it’s a discard from my parents and it’s around my age—but I give them the option of a respectable taxi service that offers seats with boosters. Both doctors don’t answer. When Rhys walked in today, looking like a human-sized orgasm-provider (which is essentially what he is), he wasn’t even one degree warmer than his usual self.

  “Good morning, Miss Martin,” he said, shutting the door to his office behind him. Dr. Lerer passed by the reception as if I didn’t exist, barking at an unfortunate soul on the other line of her cellphone. I find myself relieved for the lack of eye-contact with her. I feel so guilty I might explode. I’m hyperaware of the fact that Rhys watches my every move through the security camera, so I sit straight and pretend to browse through patients’ files as I mentally wrack my brain to try and remember if I ever picked my nose here by accident.

  I desperately want a repeat of what we shared yesterday, even though I’ve never felt so guilty about anything in my entire life. Sure, Rhys is single. Very single. His recent ex and he are so over, they mostly speak through attorneys. But he is still technically married. And he is still my boss. Add to this the fact that I don’t even know his age and that he is a father—what if Theodore’s parents have a shot at getting back together and I’m ruining this for him? I somehow doubt that. These two shouldn’t be together with the amount of venom they spew on one another. Oil and water. Or at least, that’s what I try to tell myself.

  At two p.m., I grab my belongings and prepare for Linda to take over. Even though I officially end my workday at two, I always make sure to be there for Theodore at three but am unable to today. I always drop him off at the clinic, and after Linda, the evening receptionist, greets him, I head back home. The first check for my employment arrived a few days ago, and they do pay me for the extra hours. So, I’m more than happy to grab a Starbucks and a cupcake on my way to Theodore’s school.

  In fact, I’m a little bummed about not seeing Theodore today. I think he’s starting to warm up to me.

  Linda walks into the clinic—she is a sixty-something, single lady who wears a uniform of cat sweaters and a dated, curly haircut—and we silently exchange romance books under the reception desk like a dealer and an addict.

  “Your last one was fantastic, very steamy,” she winks at me behind her thick reading glasses. I know Linda must be lonely, because every time we meet, she talks my ear off for thirty minutes. I’ve been meaning to ask her if she wants to grab some coffee over the weekend—I could use the company, too. Just seeing her smile ove
r a book gives my heart a warm buzz.

  “Something I definitely can’t say about the historical romance you gave me last week. Oh, well. At least now I know more about World War I.” We both giggle. I grab my bag, about to head out the door when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

  “Stop.”

  I do. Not because I’m obedient—even though I am—but because his voice possesses something no one else’s does. The kind of authority that would make you do virtually anything. I feel my spine vibrating as he takes long steps toward me, but I don’t look back. The anticipation is part of our game. I welcome it.

  I feel his breath tickling the back of my heated neck and my knees give in.

  Not in front of Linda, I think, my breath hitching. Let’s keep our secret ours.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he whispers.

  “Linda is here,” I warn. His hand finds my shoulder and spins me in place.

  “I don’t give a shit. Where are you going without a car? Who is driving you?”

  Holy, possessive, asshole hotness. Another pair of panties bites the dust. I pretend to check my watch. I’m one of the very few people my age who still walks around with a watch—a discard from my grandma. It’s a vintage bracelet-thingy and it reminds me of a more romantic period I wish I had been a part of. I know that Linda is watching our every move, and I hate it…but I also kind of love it. Ridiculous? I agree.

  “Uber,” I jerk my chin out.

  “Get in my car and wait. I’ll be there in five.”

  “I can handle an Uber ride.”

  “No one implied otherwise, Wonder Woman. We’re taking a ride. It’s a statement, not a request. Now move it,” he motions for me to get out with a tilt of his head.

  His car is parked in front of his office window so he can always check on it. It’s at the back of the building, so patients can’t see that their sweet, Dr. Dreamy pediatrician drives a million-dollar monster that is more dangerous than dipping your feet in fire.

  The black sports car is winking at me, all sexy curves and glossy finish. I groan and watch the passenger door slide upwards like the Batmobile, rolling my eyes at the stupid, expensive toy. With any other man, I’d laugh at the small-dick-syndrome vehicle. But with Rhys, I know exactly why he is driving this car. To piss off Stacey. It should, at the very least, make me not want to sleep with him.

  But it doesn’t.

  It doesn’t, because part of me—an impractical, illogical part—is desperate to believe he has his reasons to treat Stacey the way he does.

  It’s surprisingly spacious inside the McLaren. At the same time, it looks a lot like a cockpit. Too many buttons. I cross my arms over my chest and try not to get high on his scent. This place is Fuckable Central. Presumingly, we’re going to pick up Theodore. Where exactly are we going to put him in this car? Maybe Dr. Matthews is planning on dumping me on the side of the highway and moving on.

  My mind works overtime, and I don’t even notice when Rhys ducks his head down and settles in front of the steering wheel.

  Billionaire.

  Gorgeous.

  Doctor.

  He should really be impotent…or a serial killer. Something to dilute all this alpha goodness.

  “I’m legitimately horrified to be driven around in this thing,” I admit, and feel his shoulder shake as he chuckles beside me. It’s the kind of laughter I pray to hear every night before I fall asleep. The kind that has the potential to somehow change your life.

  “I’m a good driver,” he squeezes my thigh.

  “All men say that.”

  “Not all men race professionally.”

  “And this man does?” I quirk an eyebrow up. We catch each other’s stare and his hand slides away from my leg to the center console. Our fingers lace together. They’re like two pieces of an elaborate puzzle. Perfect. Shivers spread throughout my body and I grimace. This man has too much power over me, and I’m still undecided about how he is going to use it.

  “I’m good at everything worth chasing, Miss Martin, and I always get to the finish line before my opponents.”

  “Poor Stacey,” I hear myself saying, and immediately regret it. It’s none of my business.

  “Poor Noah,” he rolls his eyes, referring to my imaginary boyfriend. I laugh when he whispers to my neck, “and lucky you.”

  * * *

  After a ride from hell in which I feel my stomach sticking to my seat (this beast is fast, and Rhys has used two highways during our short journey which I am pretty sure he didn’t need to take), he pulls up to the curb of a tree-lined street.

  There’s a completely remodeled, black-shingled, Colonial house painted in pristine white staring back at us. The front yard is royally manicured. The grass is radioactive green and mowed like a marine haircut. It’s the kind of house I’d dread living in because the floors don’t creak and the paint is not chipped and the countertop doesn’t have a stain that invites a funny memory. The kind of faceless, gorgeous, architectural piece that lacks personality. I cling to my seatbelt like it’s my lifeline and nibble on my lip as I stare out at Dr. Dreamy’s dream house.

  “What are you thinking, Savvy? Let me into that pretty head of yours.”

  “Savvy?” I turn my head, unable to hide my smile. He scoffs.

  “Don’t tell me it doesn’t suit you. It took you two days to takeover the job. You boss us around and made the reception area your own. And you kept that freaky high-five hand, even though it probably gives young children nightmares and will scar them for life. You know what you’re doing.”

  “Guess I am savvy,” I tuck a piece of pale hair behind my ear and shrug, savoring the compliment. I’m not particularly shy, but Rhys brings out something timid in me. Then again, whatever it is that happened between us, it happened fast. One minute I was packing up to move away from Sacramento, the next I was propped against a door in my new boss’s office while he vaginally examined me…catching me by quite the surprise, seeing as he is not a OB-GYN.

  “You’re a resourceful girl,” Rhys licks his lower lip, his blue eyes dropping to my mouth.

  “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “No. It’s not. You’re here because I like your Grace Kelly dresses, and I cannot wait to see what’s hiding underneath them. You’re here because you let kids play with cookie dough you bring from home even though it’s breaking approximately ten thousand rules of health and safety regulations. You’re here because you feed my son frozen yogurt at your own expense simply because it makes him happy, and give Lonely Linda romance books to keep her company,” he takes a deep breath, and so do I, because I didn’t know Linda was dubbed Lonely Linda. Now that I do, I feel even worse about not proposing our coffee date yet. “In short, you’re here because you’re utterly impossible to dislike, even though I’ve tried to hate you, trust me.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” I mumble.

  “No need. If it was up to me, your quirky ass would be out of here in a second.”

  A giggle escapes me. I can’t help it. There’s something incredibly sexy and spicy about a man so much older than you who cannot resist your charm. The fact that he spent years learning about every curve and cell in the human anatomy and knows how to work each and every atom is definitely a bonus.

  “I don’t know why, but I like you, too,” I admit, painfully aware of the awkward setting we’ve found ourselves in. We’re in his car, in front of his house, with the engine dead and people ogling his flashy car as they walk by. “Regardless of how I feel about you, you’re still married, and we can’t do what we did yesterday again. That is not the kind of person that I am.”

  I don’t even know what I am, a twinge of sadness impales my heart. But I’m definitely in trouble.

  “Just on paper. We’re finalizing the divorce, hopefully by the end of next month.”

  “I don’t want to be responsible for a breakdown of a marriage.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We’d broken up long before I knew of your exist
ence.”

  “She’s trying to keep things civilized,” I say, even though I’m not sure whether Stacey is being nice to every morning Rhys because she is scared of him or because she wants to keep things civilized.

  He sinks back into his seat and runs a finger over his raven hair, sighing.

  “It’s a complicated case.”

  “Because there’s a lot of money involved?” I tilt my head sideways, inspecting him.

  “Because there’s a lot of shit involved. But, yes, the money part doesn’t make it any easier. When Stacey and I got married after we graduated from medical school, she signed a pre-nup. She’s only supposed to walk away with half of what we earned over the years, but of course she wants more.”

  I keep quiet, staring down at my thighs. The playful mood is gone, but I somehow feel relieved. The fact that we’ve addressed the elephant in the room reminds me that there is an elephant, and it can wreak a great deal of havoc in the china shop that is my heart.

  “I’m a divorced man,” he says.

  “Not on paper,” I retort. “And you’re my boss. And your wife hates me.

  “Ex-wife,” he enunciates. “And she hates everyone. I don’t care about her, Savannah. I only care about Theodore. Don’t make a non-issue an issue. It’s not one of those cases where a man says he will divorce his wife and ends up staying with her. I think it’s pretty clear that hell will freeze over a million times before Stacey and I will be civil with one another.”

  “She threatened me,” I point out. “Told me not to…be with you.” I feel like a snitch, but he needs to know there will be consequences if she finds out. Rhys throws his head back and laughs.

  “Don’t worry about her.”

  “I do.”

  “Don’t.”

  I mull this over in my head as Rhys reaches over to my seatbelt and unbuckles it. “Come. I want to show you something.”

  My feet are as heavy as rocks as we make our way into his house. Inside, the interior design is just as gorgeous as the outside. Minimal. Classic. Understated. Wood flooring throughout, heavy oak and soft blue tones all over. I’m falling in love with this person, hard, and I thirstily gulp at any hint of his personality in this place. The golf clubs resting against the wall of the cloakroom. The little race cars lined up on the shelves of his living room library. The aged scotch by his recliner overlooking the window.