Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

“Yeah.” He nods warmly. “I’ll see you later.”

And then I proceed to turn around . . . and walk right into the motherfucking wall.

Forehead first.

Catching the sharp, ninety-degree corner with my face.

The only thing louder than the contents of my tray clattering to the ground is the sound of three deep male voices speaking in unified cringe behind me.

“Shit.”

“Ouch.”

“That’s gonna leave a mark.”

I bounce backward, propelled by the sudden stoppage of my previous forward momentum. Pain explodes in my head—but it’s drowned out by the absolute humiliation that pounds through me with every beat of my horrified heart.

Then Connor is there—right beside me, a heavy, steadying hand on my shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

I evade, backing away from him with my palm covering half my face, doing my best to act like what just happened totally didn’t.

“Fine—I’m completely fine.”

It’s a damn, filthy lie. But I throw in a hearty laugh to conceal the pulsing in my skull and the mortification shriveling my heart into a dried prune.

“You hit the wall pretty hard,” Connor says, moving nearer, looking closer.

I retreat another step.

“I’m good. All good. Everything’s good.”

P.S.—I’m bleeding.

My palm is slippery with the warm life-liquid, because head wounds are always so dramatic when it comes to the bloodletting. Fucking divas.

Connor notices the blood—it’s kind of hard to miss with the way it’s now seeping down the bridge of my nose and all.

“No, you’re not.” His strong brow dips low with concern, and his voice slips into that commanding doctor tone that says refusal is not an option. It never fails to make him exponentially hotter. “I need to look at that. Right now. Come on, let’s go.”

And that is how I end up flat on my back with Connor Daniels above me.

Not in any way I’ve dreamed or fantasized about—but, I’ll take what I can get.

We’re in an exam room, I’m on a gurney and he’s seated behind my head. The lights are off and it could be kind of romantic . . . if it weren’t for the shining spotlight aimed directly at my face, singeing my retinas and probably putting every line and imperfection on full display.

But I’m not going to let that yuck my yum.

Instead, I’m going to bask in the yum—drown in it. And allow myself to enjoy having Connor all to myself. His undivided attention, the feel of his touch on my skin . . . latex covered though it may be . . . and the closeness of the two of us alone in a room together.

“If it’s any consolation,” Connor says, “that wall came out of nowhere. You never had a chance.”

God, he’s adorable. Without even trying. It’s always fascinated me that he’s a man that can go from rivetingly sexy one minute to womb-achingly sweet the next. I don’t know how he does it—I’m just grateful I get to be in his orbit when he does.

“That makes me feel so much better,” I reply.

“That’s what I do.”

In my peripheral, I see the business end of a Novocain syringe in his hand.

“Just a little prick,” he warns.

I close my eyes, joking, “That’s what she said.”

Connor’s chuckle floats between us.

“Not to me,” he teases back.

Every inch of my skin tingles and my palms grow damp, because . . . is he flirting with me? I think he’s flirting with me. Or it’s possible I hit my head a lot harder than I thought.

The pinch of the needle bites into my skin and I gasp at the sting.

“Sorry,” he says in rough, regretful tone.

“It’s okay.”

And then . . . brace yourself . . . Connor Daniels blows on me.

And I almost orgasm on the spot.

The soft wisp of his breath is cool and clean with a faint hint of mint. It soothes the hurt of my forehead and makes me ache deliciously everywhere else. The muscles in my lower stomach clench and throb in time with my pounding heartbeat, and a little moan slips out that I can’t contain.

“What was that?” Connor asks.

I wet my dry lips, fidgeting my hips and crossing my ankles. This moment will live in infamy in my masturbation fantasies from now until the end of time.

“Nothing,” I’m able to manage shakily.

We’re both silent after that—our hushed breaths the only sound—as Connor closes my wound with steady hands and smooth strokes and an unwavering, intense gaze.

In the immortal words of Old Rose from Titanic, it’s the most erotic moment of my life.

I just can’t tell if that’s fantastic or sad.

When he’s finished, he looks down at me. There’s a tenderness in his eyes that fills me with liquid warmth from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

“You good?” he asks.

“Right as rain.” Connor helps me into a sitting position, turning me so my legs dangle over the side of the gurney. I steal a glance at my reflection in the silver metal of the spot lamp. “Pretty nice work, big guy. You could join the sewing circle—let me know if you’re interested and I’ll hook you up.”