Dr. Paulson narrows her gaze, analyzing and assessing me.
“There’s something different about you this morning. Did you have something new for breakfast?”
“No, ma’am.”
Behind me, low enough that only I can hear, Etta snickers, “But she had dick for dinner.”
I slide my foot back and kick her in the shin.
“Well, whatever it is,” Dr. Paulson tells me as she picks up a chart and moves towards the lift, “keep it up.”
I nod, smiling. “I will.”
Once she’s gone, I glare at my terrible, awful best friend.
“The next time you’re napping in the break room, I’m going to smother you with a surgical mask.”
Etta sticks out her tongue at me and drags Kevin by the arm towards the group congregating at the end of the hall to begin rounds. I’m a step behind them when my mobile vibrates in my coat pocket.
It’s a text from Tommy—as he programmed himself into my contacts last night.
Godly Orgasm Giver: Free tonight?
A bolt of heat strikes low in my stomach at the sight of the simple two-word question. But before it can burn me up, I type a reply.
Me: It’s Sunday.
Godly Orgasm Giver: I know. The day of rest. I rest best after fucking. I bet you do too.
The man knows how to make an argument. But still I stick to my guns, shaking my head even though he can’t see.
Me: I have reading to do to prepare for a surgery this week.
Godly Orgasm Giver: You can read while you’re riding me. I’ll give it to you nice and slow so you don’t lose your place. Win-win.
My breath whistles out of me. Because that’s how it was last night, on his sofa. Slow and deep. There’s a slick throbbing between my legs at the remembered feel of him inside me. Hard and thick and amazing. I felt so exquisitely filled up—tight and helplessly clenching around him.
But still . . . I try to keep things in perspective.
Me: We agreed to Tuesdays and Saturdays.
Godly Orgasm Giver: I actually didn’t agree to that part at all. I don’t particularly like schedules.
There’s a pause, the three dots taunting me. Then he adds a reply.
Godly Orgasm Giver: And I want you again.
My chest balloons with the sweetest thrill of sensation. And my lips slip into a giddy smile, without conscious intent or awareness.
Because he wants me.
And everything about Tommy Sullivan wanting me makes me feel alight and alive—more sure of myself, more powerful, than I can ever remember feeling before.
Godly Orgasm Giver: This time I want it in your bed. Been thinking about it all morning. Your red hair splayed over those pink silk sheets you have—on your back, your breasts high and pointed and begging for my mouth. And your legs spread wide for me—aching for my mouth there too.
A moan slides up the back of my throat—because I can almost hear him saying the words. Whispering them roughly against my ear. Sure in the sensual knowledge that all the things he wants to do with me, to me . . . I want as well.
I send a reply, trying to tease.
Me: You’re a very persuasive fellow.
But Tommy’s done teasing now.
Godly Orgasm Giver: Say yes, Abby.
My hand trembles a little as I grasp my mobile. Because this is bad. Dangerous. I’m already breaking all my rules. But there’s a frenzied, frantic desire pulling inside me. Twisting me up and twirling me around. I’m caught in it, captured by it, completely at its mercy.
At his mercy.
So my fingers slide quickly over the screen, typing the only reply that’s possible.
Me: Yes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tommy
FROM THAT FIRST NIGHT ON, Abby takes to our arrangement like a kitten to warm milk. We hook up at her place and at mine, for long, slow, sweaty hours and hard, hot stolen minutes. Sometimes it’s planned days in advance—other times there’s just a moment’s notice. It’s consistently spontaneous, regularly impulsive . . . and there’s not a single thing about any of it that isn’t bloody fucking grand.
Take where we are at the moment, for example. On Abby’s bed with her on all fours and me on my knees behind her. I like the way my hands look on her pale skin—gripping her waist as I pull her back and forth on my cock. I like the way her arse quivers each time my pelvis slaps against her. And I love the way she feels—the heaven of her slick, snug heat squeezing all around me.
It doesn’t get better than this.
“Tommy . . .” Her perfect moan floats through the room.
Until it does.
Abby’s head falls forward, her shiny hair swaying in time with the push of my hips.
“You close?” I ask—but only to hear her say it out loud.
Even through the condom, I can feel how close she is. How she gets wetter and her muscles begin that telltale tightening flutter.