A Doctor in His House

He’d watched her occasional attempts to open her eyes, the dark lashes lifting to show darker pupils before she’d made a frustrated sound and closed them again. He’d watched the careful way she talked. Their past relationship was written so clearly on her face, in good ways and bad, if only she knew.

He wasn’t done with this, and she wasn’t, either.

It was unfinished, six years ago.

Or it was finished wrong, which came to the same thing.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“I won’t drop you.” Her butt was safe against his stomach, while her thighs and spine pressed on his arms, with such warm, satisfying weight.

“I’m scared of pretty much everything except you dropping me.”

“You changing your mind?” They’d reached the top of the stairs. He lowered her down, the initial charge of his energy spent. They held each other almost desperately, as if their contact wouldn’t be able to reconnect if it broke.

“No! But scared is part of it.” She stroked his arm, sliding her hand beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt and then bringing it right down to his wrist. Her touch triggered a million nerve endings into a response. “Honesty matters in bed.” She spoke as if she knew from experience. Different experience. Bad experience. Not what they’d had together. Her marriage, he guessed.

“It does,” he agreed. He stepped closer, even though that was barely possible. “Honestly, then? I’m scared, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Same reasons, maybe. That it won’t be as good.”

She laughed, hunched her shoulders and gave a shiver. “I’m scared of the opposite.” She held on to the belt loops at his waistband as if she needed the support, and pressed her forehead into his shoulder. His jaw settled against her hair as if it lived there.

“What’s the opposite?” He couldn’t think straight. Her hand had come whispering across the front of his jeans. He wasn’t sure if she even knew she was doing it. Her eyes were closed, the way they had been all day. She was so naked in what she gave away, when she couldn’t see.

“That it’ll be too good,” she promised. “Mind-blowingly, terrifyingly good. And you’ll reach into my guts and squeeze and I won’t know where to go next.”

“Did that happen before?”

“Yes. It did. And I don’t know how much of that was because of … well, my marriage.”

“Not a factor this time around.”

“No.”

“You squeezed my guts pretty hard, too,” he admitted on a growl. “You nearly broke them. And you’re squeezing ‘em right now.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Hard. It almost hurts. It aches.”

“Good,” she said, almost fiercely. “Because I’m aching just as much.”

He kissed her because he couldn’t help it. Because her mouth was right there, so soft, with a tiny patch of dryness on her lower lip that he wanted to moisten with his tongue. She responded in an instant and they deepened the kiss with mutual need, couldn’t get enough of each other.

He took her lower lip lightly between his teeth, softened it, stroked it, covered her whole mouth with his and felt the deliberate caress she gave back to him, and the little nips and tastes. Her mouth moved with velvety softness and he chased every movement, wanted it deeper and deeper and seriously couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t get enough.

Sometimes a kiss was just a kiss.

Sometimes it wasn’t.

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