“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 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?”
* * *
It had been ten years since George Hadley had done the sex thing. A full decade since she’d lost her husband and, with him, any chance she had of finding love. For ten long years, she’d missed sex, the contact, the skin on skin.
Oh, she’d had minor opportunities. A date here and there. Moments when a look told her there might be interest. In med school, she’d almost given in once or twice, but it had never quite caught. Never seemed worth the effort.
Until now.
But no, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t that she wanted sex right now, exactly—though her body did, for sure. It was more like the need for some deeper contact had come to the surface for the first time in a decade. She could feel the need, whereas for years, she’d pushed it back, suppressed it, let herself wallow in layers and layers of cotton wool.
A protective covering, probably. It had formed after losing Tom. She’d put so much into that marriage and then lost him. Lost that precious connection and, with it, everything. After that, it seemed better not to have connections at all.
As to why it all came barreling back now, George wasn’t entirely sure, but she accepted it in the way life often forced you to accept the inevitable. She let the need, the desire, the vulnerability take over, and following some deeper instinct, she rocked forward until her knees bumped his legs, gently pried the ridiculous mug from his hand and set it aside, and then turned back to concentrate on this man.
She took his face in her hands. What am I doing?
He blinked slowly, and her thumbs moved up to sweep over those poor eyelids, the scars on his face making her want to weep.
“How does it feel?”
He blinked again, confusion muddling features that were lovely, really, beneath that stupid, stupid destruction. “This?” he asked, taking her in with a flick of the eyes. “Fucking beautiful.”
“Your eyelids.”
“Oh.” He swallowed. “They’re fine.”
“Healing okay?”
“I…I can’t feel anything with your hands on me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for.
“Don’t be. I can’t feel anything bad. Just you, Doc.”
That brought things screeching to a halt. Doc. What am I doing? Her brain screamed again, while her lips said, “Call me George.”
“Don’t be sorry, George. I’m not.”
“No?”
He smirked. “Oh, I’m sorry about a lotta shit, but not this. Not coming here. Not you.” He covered one of her hands with his and, with the other, reached out, around her, to circle her back and pull her tighter to him, and that, that set her on fire.
Nerve endings waking up like wavy little sea anemones, heads prickling painfully along skin that had gone dead from disuse.
“Give me a kiss,” he demanded, and as she watched, he softened, his gaze running a tender path from her lips to her eyes and back again. “Please kiss me.”
In a dream, nowhere near herself, she did.
It was gentle at first, despite the raging fire inside. A touch of lips, dry but soft—feverish, almost. There were smells mingled with that contact, new scents that shouldn’t feel so intimate. A face, a cheek, a jaw. A confusion of sensations with just one touch. His tongue was sensual and slow. She gave in to her urge to open her eyes, and when she did, she met his, the dark brown almost gone, eaten up by his pupils despite the bright, sterile light.
Lips, teeth, tongue, the slide of chins and noses—it was the purest, cleanest, rightest thing she’d felt in her life.
How odd, in the midst of so much unfamiliar sensation, that her mind should wander again to her marriage—her first kiss with Tom. She’d been clammy back then, with desire, which was such an odd contrast, such a strange thing to recognize. But here, this man, was heat, scorching heat, urgency so hot it cauterized the guilt.
With a growl, he sank back, nudged and pulled until somehow she wound up in his lap on the exam table, straddling him. Closeness, new and unexpected, sent a searing flush to the surface of her skin. She remembered the last time she’d done this, the last time she’d kissed someone with intent to do more, and it brought a wave of unwanted emotions. Regret, sadness, worry that whatever this was, it was wrong—cheating on a husband long gone.
George sucked in a hiccuping breath and realized, belatedly, that he’d stopped.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I’m…”
“You don’t want this.” It wasn’t a question. His voice, rich and dark before, was flat now, defeated.
“I…” How to respond to that? How on earth did you tell a man that yes you wanted him, but he was too much for you? How did you let him know that his intensity, his beauty, the smell of his skin, all made you hungry for something you’d given up on entirely? Something you probably didn’t deserve.
How could you say that to the tattooed criminal you’d straddled on an exam table? Not exactly first-kiss banter, was it?
She looked up to find him eyeing her, to feel a rough thumb swipe away a tear she hadn’t been conscious of crying.
“You want to tell me?”
“No,” she answered.
He nodded.
“You want me to go?”
This time she shook her head, and he tightened his arm around her back, slid his hand up from her bottom to her shoulder blade. He could probably have spanned both with one of his enormous palms.
“I scare you.”
“No, Mr.…” Oh God. What was she supposed to call him now? This was so messed up, so against every ounce of decency ingrained in her, that she cringed and looked away.
“Call me…” He stopped, blinked hard, and cleared his throat. “Andrew. Call me Andrew.”
“No, you don’t scare me, Andrew. Although…” She looked at him askance.
“I should.”
That made her smile. “Yes, you probably should.”
“Not as smart as you look, I guess,” he said, and that broke through whatever this was, this shell of fear or regret that had hardened around her. She laughed.
“Definitely not.”
“Come here,” Andrew said.
With a sigh, she leaned her head in, set it on his shoulder, and sucked in his strength. His arms stayed warm and close, and through it all, she felt the beating of his heart, steady and slow. He was comforting her, she knew, but she couldn’t rid herself of the guilty evidence of arousal or the nervy need thrumming through her overheated veins. She needed to stay here, in his embrace, for just a little while longer and pretend everything was as it should be, wishing she could memorize his smell.
After a bit, George pulled back, hating herself for doing it. “I think we should go.”
“Oh. Sure. Of course,” he said and, after helping her down, rose with a grimace that made her
wonder, again, about his limp. “I’ll wait for you and walk you to your car.”
And just like that, their moment of folly was over.
9
“So, Doc,” Clay said as she led him out front, “you know of a good place where I can get my tattoos removed?”
“Wh—” She turned to him, then cut herself off, and he saw, with regret, her body loosen, sink in on itself a little. “You’d have to go to Richmond.”
“All right.” He nodded, wondering what the shit he was doing. He had that weird sensation that he sometimes got of being just a shell, with nothing on the inside but hollow space. It was a feeling a lot like regret, except it couldn’t be—not for this, not for what they’d begun in that exam room. But maybe, just possibly, he was feeling it for her. Empathic regret. Like she hadn’t meant to take up with someone like him.
“I’m sorry, Andrew.”
“Don’t be.” He looked around and saw her car, parked alone up ahead under that fucking unlit streetlamp. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Oh, you don’t nee—”
His expression must have stopped her, because she just shrugged and let him walk beside her to her door, which was—surprise—unlocked.
“Got to start locking your door, George.”
“Why?”
“Don’t remember what happened last weekend?”
“How would locking my door change what happened?”
He shook his head and smiled. “You people and your small-town delusions.”
She ignored that and asked, “You hungry?”
“I’m…” He hesitated, taking in all the shit crowding his insides, and realized that, yes, there was, in fact, a big, yawning hole there. When had he last eaten? “Yeah,” he finished with a smile. “Wanna go to the Nook?”
“Come home with me,” she said, probably with more of an undertone than intended, and his pulse hitched back up a notch.
“Yeah?” he asked in something close to a whisper.
Her eyes took an age to get to his, but when they did, any misgivings he might have had dissipated. She was an adult. A woman, not a kid, and not one of the MC hangers-on who’d been coerced or forced by necessity to mingle with the bikers. To put out for the bikers.
“Let me make you dinner,” she said, and right there, in the middle of Main Street, where anybody in the whole world could see him, Clay Navarro came dangerously close to crying his eyes out like a little boy.
“No, I… Thanks, George. Thank you, but you don’t want—”
“Shut up, Andrew,” she said, knocking the air out of his sails. “Get in.”
“I’ll meet you there,” he said. “I should get my truck and a shower.”
“You remember where it is?” she asked.
Oh, I know, he thought, half listening to her directions before heading back to his room at a jog, anxious and excited with a good dose of guilty.
The guilt grew as he showered and changed, taking in his grim surroundings. George Hadley was a good woman, a clean woman, and the last thing she needed in her life was Clay’s brand of filth. What the hell had he been thinking?
He considered not going but went anyway, telling himself it was because he didn’t like to keep a woman waiting, but underneath he knew that wasn’t it—not really. He wanted to go, damn it. He wanted a little of her pristine existence to rub off on him, polish him up, and get rid of some of his grime. It was selfish, especially considering how dangerous his situation was, but…but he’d tell her in person. He’d tell her he couldn’t, and then he’d stop by the store for another bottle of booze and come back to this shithole, where he’d drink and maybe even jerk off for the first time in months.
He’d get through this, just like he always did—and he’d do it without dragging her with him.
* * *
George put down her empty glass and looked at the clock—an hour had passed since she’d left Andrew Blane in the street in front of the clinic. An hour in which he’d no doubt gone back to his place and decided not to reemerge. She’d even stopped off on the way for beer and a bottle of wine. She’d panfried a couple of trout from up the road in Madison and steamed some green beans from the garden—then, considering his size, made the whole package of rice. Would four cups be enough?
Only now it was an hour later and he still wasn’t here, which meant he wasn’t coming, and all the anticipation had fizzled into something hollow and tight and much too large for her chest.
That was the problem with removing the layers and layers of protection she’d built up over the years—things hurt.
George sat in her kitchen on one of the overstuffed armchairs beside the cold wood stove and let herself tear up for about thirty seconds before nipping the self-pity in the bud. Whatever the man was, whoever he was, he was messed up in ways George wasn’t equipped to handle.
She’d do best to forget about him entirely. Maybe she’d run into him in town and tell him to come back to her practice, because they were better off as doctor and patient. He needed the job done, and she was qualified, so she might as well be the one to do it.
With a satisfied nod, she moved to the front door to turn off the porch light. Just as it flicked off, she saw it again—the movement she’d seen, or rather felt, in the woods across the street last night. She narrowed her eyes at whatever it was and then, without conscious thought, pulled open the screen door, letting it slam behind her, and marched down the steps, straight across the street, and right to the man who slid out of the shadows.
“George.”
“Andrew,” she said without a hint of surprise. She’d known it, hadn’t she? “Too scared to come in?”
“Something like that.”
“I won’t bite.”
“No?” he asked, sounding a little disappointed.
“You change your mind, then?”
“Still thinking about it.”
“Well, it’s last call, so you’d better decide.”
She saw the shine of his white teeth before turning back to her house and tromping back up the stairs. With a last, disappointed huff, she pulled open the screen and let it fall behind her.
Only it didn’t slam as expected. Which meant… She sucked in a nervous, edgy breath at the sound of his footfalls, followed by the quiet thud of the door shutting, then the snick of the lock being turned into place. Andrew Blane and his obsession with locks.
* * *
“I hope you like fish. I made trout.”
“Sounds good.”
“Come on through.”
Christ, it was hot in here. “No A/C?”
“In this old house?” She laughed. “No. Ceiling fans are about as good as it gets. I’m too stubborn for window units.”
“Stubborn?”
“No way I’m giving up beautiful, precious natural light in exchange for recycled air, no matter how cool it is. I’d rather be hot and watch the sky out my window.”
“Wow. A purist.”
“Or stupid. Whatever you want to call it.”
After a pause, during which she could feel him look around, taking in their surroundings, he said, “Nice place.”
“Thank you. It needs work, though.”
“Yeah, saw some of your clapboard needs replacing.”
“You haven’t seen the garden yet,” she said.
Oh, but I have, Clay thought as she went on. “I can hardly keep up. The fence is a mess, and the chickens had an unwanted visitor last week. I performed emergency surgery with chicken wire, and it’s ugly.”
Soft music flowed from the back of the house—some kind of girlie folk music, a little high, a little light and slow for his taste, but it suited the place. He followed George through an open hall, beside a nice-sized staircase. He’d seen some of it from outside, but he took it in with a new perspective: hardwood floors, high
ceilings, paint that had seen better days, and colorful, threadbare rugs scattered here and there. The farmhouse was loved—he could see that—but it sure needed work. Bits of crown molding were missing, and floorboards whined beneath his feet. She led him back to a big kitchen that spanned the entire rear of the house.
He was shamed by the plates of food waiting for them on the scarred wooden table. He’d stood out there for at least half an hour, watching the house, waiting and debating, sick with doubt at what he was starting with this woman. Starting something he wouldn’t be around to finish.
“Sorry I made you wait.”
“No problem.” She glanced at him, caught his eye, and raised her brows in a way that said she knew more about what he’d been doing out there than she let on. “Beer or wine?”
“Beer, please.”
“It’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”
He turned to the old-fashioned-looking appliance, pulled out a bottle of beer—a local brand; what was it with people around here and their locally made crap?—and twisted it open.
“You want one?” She shook her head, and he took a turn around the room, bypassing the open door leading to a big screened-in porch and ending up at the wide back window, which overlooked the yard, where green things fought for supremacy. “Cozy.”
“You think?”
He nodded, taking in the layers of stuff everywhere, so much like the plants out back in their cheerful disarray. Not like one of those hoarder houses, not suffocating. More artfully arranged. Flowers, tons of them, some in vases, some in pots; a couple of lamps, cool-looking marble with ornate, colorful shades; wooden chairs, worn like the rest of the place, with cushions on them—no two prints alike, but all somehow belonging together. A happy chaos.
“Have a seat,” she said, and he looked at his choices—two big armchairs by a wood stove or four wooden chairs flanking a big, scarred table by the window. He opted for the latter, pulling out one of the chairs and nearly screaming like a little girl at the animal who stared up at him, one-eyed and three-legged.
George laughed at his shocked, “Oh Jesus,” and moved to shoo away the cat, who wanted absolutely none of it.
By Her Touch Page 15
