More Than Words: More Than, Book 3

by Jess Dee

  “Molly—”

  Ruth cut him off. “You don’t surf, do you?”

  “God, no.” Molly returned her gaze to Ruth. “I’d drown if I ever tried.”

  Damn, Molly was upset. And livid. All the talk about Sarah—a woman Sam had no interest in—had understandably thrown her, but she was trying her best to hide it.

  “Me too,” Ruth agreed. “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think I’m going to buy the blue shoes now. If Sarah doesn’t choose blue for the retinue, I’ll wear them to the engagement party.”

  Whatever color had returned to Molly’s cheeks leached out again. “There’s an engagement party?”

  No, for fuck’s sake. There isn’t an engagement party.

  “There will be, if I have anything to say about it. And Sam knows, I always have to have my say.”

  Okay, enough. “Ruth.” Sam’s tone demanded his sister pay attention. “I’m not marrying Sarah.”

  This time his sister heard him. Kind of. “Yet. I know. But soon. I heard the way you spoke about her, saw that look in your eye.”

  Yeah, he may have had a special tone to his voice and a sparkle in his eye, but it had nothing to do with Sarah. Nothing whatsoever. “Ruth—”

  “Sarah wants to marry your brother,” Molly spoke over him. “She told me as much when I met her on Monday.”

  Fuck, the whole marriage idea had been a joke, something he and Sarah had laughed about when he’d offered her his board. It hadn’t been real. But from the look on Molly’s face, from her pale skin and the way she refused to meet his gaze, Sam knew she thought it was very, very genuine.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  He needed to set the record straight, now. Needed to shut Ruth up and tell her flat-out he was not marrying Sarah. Not now, not ever.

  Before he could say another word, the door opened, and his first patient of the afternoon walked in. The second young Ava Mendel spotted Sam, she had her arms wrapped around his legs and was hugging him for all her worth, leaving the words stuck on his tongue. He plucked the child up and propped her on his arm, against his side.

  Molly’s entire demeanor changed. She dropped all pretense of holding a personal conversation and switched gears to being the ultimate professional receptionist. She greeted the dad, Syd, by name, said a cheery hello to Ava, and just like that the conversation with his sister was over.

  Ruth kissed his cheek, waved to Molly and left, and Sam had no chance to set the record straight.

  He didn’t find a chance for the rest of the afternoon. Patients kept him busy constantly until an urgent call from CCU had him racing downstairs.

  Greg Avery had regained consciousness.

  While this should have been good news, the child’s ability to speak coherently seemed to have not received the memo that the rest of his body was awake. Sam hoped to God the aphasia was transient and Greg would regain his ability to comprehend language and pronounce his words quickly.

  Sam spent a long time with the overwhelmed child and his devastated father, and by the time he returned to his office, Molly had left for the day.

  Other than the necessary conversations about the patients, which had all taken place right beside the full waiting room, she hadn’t said a word to him since Ruth had left. Hadn’t acknowledged him in any way. Even though he’d tried a couple of times to tell her the truth, she’d cut him short, distracting him with details of some other vital issue.

  The only thing that gave Sam hope was the email he’d found in his inbox when he’d returned to his office. Molly must have written it during lunch, before Ruth dropped by. Or maybe while Ruth was in his office.

  There was less than no chance Sam would wait until he got home tonight to read her letter.

  Hell, no.

  Soon as his ass was in his chair he was opening it.

  He was, however, determined to speak to Molly first. No way could he let her go another minute believing he was involved with Sarah—or worse, getting married. Hell, Molly must think him the biggest asshole on earth. Supposedly engaged to one woman yet sharing hot, shameless emails with another.

  What kind of idiot did that?

  He grabbed his mobile, scrolled down to Molly’s home number and phoned. The call went straight to her machine. He left a message. A simple one, in case Mickey heard it.

  Next he tried her mobile, hoping against hope she’d answer.

  Molly was the one, and he’d suspected as much that first day he’d seen her at the hospital. When she’d been at Mickey’s bedside, desolation, worry and sheer determination blazing from her eyes.

  The phone rang until a mechanized voice informed him the number he was trying was not available.

  Alarm bells clanged. Molly never let a call from him go unanswered.

  Sam shoved his fear aside. He’d try again in a couple of minutes—as soon as he’d read her letter.

  Dear Sam,

  Your last letter and your honesty blew me clean away. It took my breath and brought tears to my eyes. I spent the whole night lying in bed, thinking about your words. And your desires. Truth be told, I’ve thought of little else since.

  Sam rubbed his hand over his brow and eyes. So absorbed had he been in needing to set Molly straight, he’d almost forgotten how open his email had been. What he hadn’t forgotten was the intensity of his reaction to her in the kitchen yesterday. How desperately he’d wanted—no, needed—her.

  Which probably explains why I’m sitting in my office, burning up with desire for you. I’m just going to come out and say this. I’m going to tell you what I want, right here and right now.

  Forget that either of us have work to do, Sam. Lock the door to your rooms, head on over here and fuck me until neither of us can walk straight.

  Today I’m not interested in the slow seduction of your mouth trailing along my neck and body. I’m not interested in your hands exploring my breasts and pussy. Forget taking your time tasting every square inch of my skin.

  Just fuck me.

  That’s what your words did to me, Sam. They reached inside and touched me. They set my heart and body on fire. Your honesty has me turned on to a point where foreplay of any kind would only leave me frustrated. I want you hard, I want you ready and I want you now.

  Sweep the papers off my desk, throw me over it and take me. From behind or from the front. Either. Both—as long as you fuck me. Make it fast and furious. No time for thought or for pleasantries, no time for soft beds or silk sheets.

  Truth is, I don’t think I’d last five seconds if you did fuck me. I’ve wanted this for so long, the reality of feeling you inside me would probably trigger an instant orgasm.

  Don’t worry, I have staying power. So long as you give me a minute or so recovery time, I’ll be good to carry on. More than good. Desperate. A quick orgasm would never be enough for me.

  God, I want you to go deep. Want to be stuffed so full of your cock, your balls slap against my ass.

  Ah, my ass.

  I haven’t mentioned that yet. Haven’t told you how sensitive I am to being…touched there. Perhaps I’ll leave that for another day, another email. For now let’s go back to you fucking me.

  Sam began to sweat. A bead of perspiration rolled down his back.

  Had Molly alluded to the fact that she liked a little ass play?

  It sounds crass, doesn’t it? Fucking. But it’s the most appropriate word I can think of. Because what I want now isn’t tender and sweet. Not by a long shot. It’s raw, and it’s basic, animalistic even, but damn, Sam—it’s passionate as hell.

  You know what’s funny? That old adage that reality can never live up to the fantasy. You know how when you build something up in your mind, when it finally happens, it’s not quite as special as you thought it would be?

  Molly switched gears so quickly, Sam’s head spun.

  One second she’d been describing sex in its most fundamental form, and the next she was getting all philosophical on him.


  Thing is, if you ever did fuck me—or make slow, tender love to me for that matter—it would be as good, probably better, than it is in my mind.

  Ah, it seemed his receptionist was a dreamer. An idealist.

  How do I know this? How can I predict the impossible?

  Simple. Experience is the best teacher. Similar things happen to me every day where you’re concerned.

  No, you don’t fuck me every day (pity about that), but I do fantasize about you in other ways too. In nonsexual ways. I think about how darn wonderful you are. How funny and sunny and amazing. Not to mention skilled and able. And capable. How much your patients love you (look at Mickey) and the hospital staff respect and admire you. How ridiculously gorgeous you look every freaking day—no matter how many emergencies you deal with. I think about the way you keep your cool through all those crises. You make it seem like you were born to deal with them. It’s no wonder those beautiful shoulders of yours are so broad, Sam. You carry the weight of everyone else’s problems on them.

  See, Sam, every night I think about you. I build you up into this perfect guy. You become the impossible—a true hero in my eyes. And every morning I wake up thinking I’ve fooled myself. I’ve made you into something you aren’t, something you could never be, because seriously, who is that perfect?

  But every single day you surprise me.

  You not only live up to all of those fantasies, you surpass them.

  So when I say sex with you would be like a hundred on a scale of one to ten, I know it has to be true. Because you always hit one hundred on my scales of one to ten. At a minimum.

  When you finally do fuck me, it will be better than anything I could possibly have imagined. And I have imagined everything.

  She thought all that about him? Saw him as her ideal man? Believed he surpassed all her fantasies?

  Sam grinned like a fool.

  Then he remembered what had happened with Ruth and Molly and lost his grin.

  I think I may have given away some secrets with this email. I guess you’ve realized by now that what I feel for you goes way beyond physical excitement.

  I should probably be a little embarrassed to expose all of this, probably delete some of what I’ve said, but I can’t, Sam. I can’t keep it to myself anymore. After everything you said in your letter, it’s hard to hold back all the emotional stuff.

  It might come as a surprise that there’s so much more than this intense desire to fuck you. Or to make love to you. But it’s not new to me. I’ve always felt more for you than this wicked attraction that takes my breath away. And though physically I want your kisses, emotionally I just want…you.

  Sam.

  The whole wonderful package.

  All my love (and I guess by now you’ve twigged on to the fact that’s not just a polite expression),

  Molly

  Chapter Seven

  “I played soccer today at school, and guess what?” Mickey grinned at Molly across the table, her crooked teeth enhancing her adorable smile.

  “Don’t tell me. You were the goalkeeper and you saved four goals.”

  “No,” Mickey squealed. “Better than that. I played attack and I scored. I got a goal for my team. My first one ever, Mol.”

  Molly couldn’t help the tears that filled her eyes. Her little sister had scored a goal. Yep, the first goal was always a big deal, but for Mickey it went way beyond a big deal. For a child who’d been told she’d never walk again, never have the ability to stand on her own two feet, unsupported, scoring a goal was a monumental achievement.

  Molly dropped her cutlery and raced around the table. “That’s awesome.” She hugged Mickey tight. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Everyone cheered for me.” She grinned. “I felt like Lionel Messi.”

  Her idol. “Bet you played like him too.”

  “I did. I was a champ. Will you tell Sam for me? Will you let him know?”

  Molly’s stomach churned. “Of course I will. He’ll be thrilled.” She tried to maintain the sparkle in her eyes, tried to keep her smile bright but knew it dimmed at the mention of Sam’s name. He would be thrilled. Mickey might not be his patient any longer, but the two were thick as thieves. Whenever Mickey came to the hospital with Molly, she and Sam sat in his office talking for ages.

  Messi might be Mickey’s idol, but Sam was her hero.

  After the accident, two other neurologists—one a registrar, the other a consultant—had assured Molly her sister would be permanently paralyzed from the waist down. Sam, however, had given her hope, had said there was a possibility she might walk again.

  He’d taken over Mickey’s care and, together with the hospital physios, had spent a year working on Mickey’s rehabilitation.

  Six months after the accident she stood alone and unsupported for the first time, and a few days later she took her first step. It took another six months before Mickey was declared one hundred percent fit by Sam and his team. Now, three years later, she had the muscle tone, strength and coordination to score a goal. Momentous indeed.

  With thanks to Sam. The man Molly loved. Her boss, who, contrary to what he’d told her, was marrying another woman. Maybe not yet, but soon.

  She managed to chatter excitedly with her sister about the game, both of them ignoring the phone when it rang. This was Mickey’s moment to shine. No way would Molly remove the spotlight by taking a call. She was as excited, delighted and awed by Mickey’s goal as Mickey was. Totally stoked by the progress she’d made. And once again confounded and amazed by her own situation. It was one she’d never imagined herself being in.

  At the time of the accident, Molly had been living alone. She and her mother had never had a good relationship, and her father—like Mickey’s—had disappeared from the scene before he’d even learned about the pregnancy.

  Intent on making something of herself, Molly had worked whatever jobs she could get, as a cashier in a supermarket, a cleaner in an old-age facility, a receptionist for a small business. All the while she’d studied part time, building credits towards a degree in accounting.

  The accident had ended both her independence and her studies. With her mother’s death came the responsibility of caring for her injured sister. Any money she earned she’d poured into Mickey’s care and into accommodation for both of them. Which meant when she wasn’t with Mickey she was working, desperately trying to make ends meet.

  Often, she’d been unable to make those ends meet. Molly knew all too well what it felt like to miss a few meals because she couldn’t afford to buy food.

  Sam’s job offer had been a godsend. A gift. For the first time, she had permanent work with regular hours and most importantly, a steady income. Sam wasn’t only Mickey’s hero, he was Molly’s too. He’d saved them both.

  Both she and Mickey had put their complete faith in him four years ago, and he hadn’t disappointed them. He hadn’t disappointed them since.

  Until today.

  Her mobile phone rang again.

  “You gonna answer?” Mickey asked.

  “And interrupt your big moment? Hell, no. Fact, I think we need to celebrate. Let’s clear the dishes and go out for ice cream. Cookies ’n cream and chocolate fudge.” Mickey’s favorites. “What do you say?”

  “I say yes. Yes, yes, yes.” She had her dinner plate and glass in hand and was halfway to the kitchen by the time Molly stood to follow.

  Molly didn’t need to glance at the phone to know it was Sam. He’d called several times already. She should answer. He might need information about a patient. But damn it, she didn’t have to. It was after hours, Molly was home spending quality time with her sister, and for once, she didn’t want to speak to him. She’d face him again tomorrow morning when she had no choice.

  If Sam had an emergency on his hands, every bit of information she knew about his patients was neatly recorded alphabetically. Sam need only pull the correct file, and he’d have all the answers in front of him.

  She grabbed her
keys and bag and hustled Mickey out the door, deliberately leaving her phone at home. Tonight she and her sister were going to celebrate, and she wasn’t letting anything get in the way of this very special moment in Mickey’s life.

  Sam didn’t leave the hospital for a long time that night. Concerned he’d be called back to see Greg, he waited in his rooms until almost ten.

  Molly hadn’t answered his calls. Not one of them. He considered dropping in at her unit on the way home to visit her in person, but it was late, and if Mickey was sleeping, Sam didn’t want to disturb them. Which left him with no other way of contacting her than by email.

  Dear Molly,

  Did she have any idea of how dear she was to him?

  I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you before you left work today. I’d have liked to discuss what happened earlier, with Ruth.

  That wasn’t the only reason he was sorry she’d left. Whenever she wasn’t at the hospital Sam had a sense that there was a big, empty hole in her office where she should have been.

  Her perfume lingered in the air. Or perhaps traces of it clung to her chair. Whatever, Sam found himself walking into her office several times that evening so he could inhale her scent, catch a hint of citrus and sunshine.

  Ah, hell, Miss Molly. Who am I kidding?

  It’s not that I’d like to discuss things with you, it’s that I need to talk to you.

  I tried to phone—as you might have realized from the missed calls and messages. No, there wasn’t an emergency in the rooms.

  There was one in his life. Molly thought he was in love with another woman.

  I have to set the record straight.

  Damn it, I know I should say this to your face. It needs to come out when we’re together, and you can look at me and know I’m telling you the truth. But you’re not here, and I can’t let this go on one more minute.