I hauled open the door and was hit by a solid wall of warmth, light and noise: clinking glasses and laughter and, above it all, a silver-edged accent. I slipped inside.
Corrigan was at the very center of the room, his chair rocked back and teetering on two legs, a frosty beer in his hand. The whole bar was listening to him tell a story, the crowd three deep around his table. I was in awe. How does he have so many friends, so fast? I’d been in Mount Mercy two years and I still only knew a handful of people well.
I moved closer, listening to him talk about Africa and the time he and two other doctors had hidden on a farm to escape a local warlord. “So I’m crouching there, eye-to-eye with this goat….” He was a natural speaker: confident but disarmingly friendly, infectiously fun and with just the right amount of cursing. And that glorious accent, all lilting silver vowels and hard, rumbly consonants... I could have listened to him for hours. It was warm in the tavern and he’d stripped down to a white t-shirt that set off his tan, tight enough that it hugged his biceps and those magnificent pecs. Suddenly, I was imagining running my hand over that firm slab of muscle, feeling the cotton rasp against my palm, the warmth of him soaking into me….
I flushed and looked away. And when I looked again, I saw who’d secured the best seats in the house, right at his table. Five women from the hospital, effortlessly sexy and seductive. Two were throwing back their heads, laughing at his joke. Another was leaning forward to touch his hand. Two more were just gazing at him, lashes heavy with mascara, each trying to pretend the other didn’t exist. No way could I go over there.
I stepped back. And at that second, Corrigan glanced up and looked right at me.
I froze for a second and then took a step towards the door. He frowned, confused. Then he cocked his head as if to say, you should know better, Beckett.
I hurried away, slipping through the crowd towards the door. Behind me, the story suddenly stopped. There was a disappointed chorus of female voices: Aw….
Panicking now, I reached the door, wrenched it open—
A foot slammed it closed. An arm hooked around my waist and spun me around. I looked up—
Our faces were less than a foot apart. My chest, rising and falling as I panted, was a hair’s breadth from brushing his. Those blue eyes burned down into me, frustrated and lusty and just a little amused. “You can run, Beckett,” he told me. “But I’ll chase you.”
10
Dominic
SHE JUST STOOD THERE, astonished, glancing down at my hand on her waist... but not asking me to move it. Has no one ever chased her before? Not fucking possible. God, she looked even better, out of those scrubs. I’d been dreaming about her body and now I could fill in all of the details the shapeless scrubs had hidden. Tight, dark denim clung to long legs and a ripe peach of an ass that I wanted to grab with both hands. Her cute little biker jacket hung open over a soft sweater that showed the outline of her breasts and God, they were glorious. Full and heavy, two perfect mounds I needed to lift in my palms and bring my tongue to. I was already imagining what they looked like. Given her creamy skin, I was guessing at delicate pink nipples that would crinkle and strain as I rubbed them.
All of the other women had put on little strappy tops and skirts. A few had even changed into dresses. I like cleavage and sequins as much as the next guy but the weird thing was, the combination of tight jeans or leggings on the bottom half, outlining a woman’s ass and hips, and the softness of a sweater covering her breasts...it’s my favorite thing for a woman to wear.
It’s not a seduction outfit. It’s a relationship outfit, for when you’re crazy about someone and can’t keep your hands off them. You can run your hands over the denim and feel the woman’s thighs and ass, squeezing and pressing in just the right places to make her gasp and buck. You can stand behind her, her head twisted around as you kiss, and smooth your palms over the soft wool, working it over the smoothness of her breasts. You can dive underneath it with your hands, skin on skin, and feel her up even though everything’s hidden.
I caught myself. A relationship outfit. I hadn’t thought that way since—
I pushed the idea away before it could form. Back to the plan.
I grabbed Beckett’s wrist and led her through the bar, looking for a place quiet enough to talk. It was rammed: it’s amazing how many people show up when they hear drinks on me. But I didn’t care how many of them came or how many of the women were now glaring at me, pissed that I’d abandoned them. All I cared about was her.