Dr. Tempt Me - A Possessive Doctor Romance

We walked out together, and I dropped his hand as soon as we hit the sidewalk. I didn’t know why—it felt good, walking hand in hand with him, but I didn’t want him to think there was something more than the pleasure of touching another person, and anyway, he took me right to his car. I sat leaning back, staring up at the roof and wondered why I kept pushing him away, why I let the past define everything I did, every motion, every step and thought. A tree of heaven grew up in an abandoned lot beside a rowhouse, the long tear-dropped leaves glistening with its oils, and I wondered how many of those grew in the city, hundreds, maybe thousands, an invasive species, impossible to root out, like the city itself.

“You should come up with me,” I said, turning to look at him.

He gazed back and didn’t smile. “Are you sure?” There was no ambiguity in his voice, no questioning in his eyes.

“I’m sure.”

He nodded once and found a spot a few doors down from my place. He followed me up and inside, and I shut the door behind him, locking it tight.

I took two steps before he swept me into his arms then pinned me back against the wall. I sucked in a breath as his lips found my neck, his hands already lifting my scrubs up over my head. I let him strip me down, glad to be out of my work clothes, as his hands moved along my skin like he was questing for something, searching for a truth somewhere—and god, I wanted him to find it.

He kissed me then, bit my lower lip, teased my breasts, took off my bra. I loved his warm, powerful body, the way he took, and took, and took, without hesitation, so long as I was willing to give, and in this moment, I was willing.

I couldn’t help myself.

All afternoon, I kept thinking about his injuries, about him getting into that fight, about the pain he must have felt when I stitched him back together, but he didn’t show it, not once.

And above all, I thought of what it would be like to lose him, and I realized I couldn’t handle it, not really, couldn’t live with the thought of him gone, out of my life, out of the world. I’d be gone too, sooner or later, a wreck of myself, nothing at all. It wasn’t only because of the mafia, though they were still a threat, lingering and looming in my mind, but it was also that he’d woken something inside of me, made me want something more than the mindless days I’d been drifting through.

I realized as his fingers slipped between my legs, as he teased my clit and made my moan into his ear, that I’d been drifting a lot, moving through my weeks like I barely existed, like I was hardly even there. I hadn’t realized, not really, not until he showed me what it felt like to be alive, and I wanted that all the time.

I bit his lip and kissed him deep, then tugged at his shirt until it came off.

I didn’t care about my rules, about my fears. His fingers felt like heaven, his mouth made sparks run down my spine, and none of it mattered. He licked my nipples, made them hard, my skin stubbled with goosebumps, as I tugged down his jeans and took his hard shaft in my hands. He groaned his pleasure and I pushed back against him as he slipped his fingers inside of me.

He turned me around and pinned me to the wall. I gasped and whispered his name, wanting him to take me, take over. His hands gripped my hair as he pressed his cock against my ass, then he knelt down and peeled my panties off, pulling them to the floor. I stood there naked in front of him, legs spread, pussy wet, mouth hanging open. He looked at me, his boxer briefs coming off, his cock long and thick and hard, his muscular chest and stomach gorgeous. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, but I wouldn’t move, not until he told me.

His fingers slid inside of me again as he gripped my hair. “I’ve been dreaming about this,” he whispered. “Your tight body, your beautiful ass.”

“I bet you have,” I gasped as his fingers teased me, pleasure rocketing through my spine. “Your bruises look nasty.”

He laughed as I turned to stare back at him. I wasn’t kidding: blue-black bloomed on his ribs, and I guessed one was broken, or at least cracked.

He didn’t seem to mind, though.

“Nasty, or manly, it doesn’t matter.” He pulled my hair tighter and I gasped as his fingers pushed deeper. “I’d take a hundred beatings if it meant you finally let me taste you.”