Doctor Dearest

He backs us over to the wall near the door. Beside it, there’s a counter-height ledge running the length of the wall, and he props me up onto it. His hands slide up over my calves, my knees, higher inside my dress as he lifts the hem and bunches it near my waist.

We’re kissing again—we never truly stopped—and then his hands are on my upper thighs, splitting my legs apart so he has room to step between them. There’s a moment in which his hard length brushes against my panties for the very first time, and I realize with a shuddering sigh that I’m doomed. Utterly screwed. He’s about to deliver the coup de grâce.

His hands grip my legs tight as he stays there, trying to catch hold of his breath as he looks down at where we touch, still fully clothed but heading swiftly toward dangerous territory. This is happening so fast. He slides my panties down my legs like they’re nothing more than a nuisance. Connor is too good at this, too deft with his hands, too confident in his abilities to please a woman. There is no sweet fumbling, no laughably awkward moments that would help ease the tension.

When my panties are tugged off over my heels, he hooks them on his finger and looks up to peruse me with eyes so clouded by emotion, I grow nervous.

I fidget under his assessment and he shakes his head.

“Don’t move a muscle,” he instructs harshly, his voice hoarse with need.

I know he’s taking me in, looking down between my parted knees. With my panties gone, there’s no triangle of silk to cover me. It’s nearly humiliating, sitting here like a trussed-up turkey on Thanksgiving while he stands at a distance, fully clothed, lazily getting his fill of me.

There’s no part of me that doesn’t feel slick with sweat or need.

I’m combustible.

I worry one touch will send me over the edge, but when he comes back to me, it’s my hand he grabs first, lacing our fingers together as he takes my mouth in a slow, heated kiss. I squeeze his hand, appreciating this unexpected moment of tenderness.

It’s made all the more powerful when he drops his mouth to my neck and bites down as he uses the middle finger of his other hand to slide across the center of my parted thighs.

Heat gathers and grows as his finger presses inside me. I squeeze my eyes closed and see black.

It’s the most earth-shattering moment of my life when he slides his finger out and back in a second time, then a third. He’s making sure I’m ready for him, and I assure him I am. I rush the words out in a near panic because we don’t know what’s about to come. We only have this stolen room for a fleeting moment and Connor is already unbuttoning his pants and tugging down his briefs and holy shit, we haven’t even talked about anything responsible adults should discuss before having sex. We should have an essay’s worth of information to divulge to one another, but instead, I’m kissing his mouth and telling him I’m clean and on the pill and he’s mumbling something about a recent check and an all-clear and who really cares because he glides his hard shaft across my wetness and I come apart, I really do. My toes curl as he pushes himself inside an inch and—

I jerk my face up to look at the ceiling as quickly as I can. It’s an attempt to keep a lone tear from escaping down my cheeks. I blink and pinch my eyes closed as he curses under his breath, holding perfectly still inside me for a few seconds. It feels so good, he tells me, and he sounds like he’s coming apart at the seams. Then he rocks his hips and something fissures inside me.

A silent sob…or maybe something more detrimental. Maybe it’s my heart splitting apart.

How dare he do this? How dare he make it feel as if the second he pulls out, I’ll splinter? There is no more me without him and I’m so angry, another tear escapes past my closed lids.

His thumb brushes it away and then his hand is dropping mine—the one he’s been gripping this whole time—so he can reach up to cup my face and force me to look down at him. My eyes stay closed as he kisses my cheeks, lapping up my tears.

Satisfied, he pulls out of me and then thrusts back in. The hard wood bites into my thighs and it’s not like I can rely on Connor to soften the blow, his broad shoulders and muscled chest providing no relief. I’m literally between a rock and a hard place.

I crush my chest to his chest and there are so many sensations: the cool brush of fabric against my skin, hard arms wrapped tightly around me, thighs spread, mouths connecting, words murmured.