Page 87 of (Not) The One
Maybe my thoughts are written in my expression because he adds, ‘I’ve rearranged a few things, and I’m coming back this afternoon. And I was wondering about the doctor.’
‘The doctor,’ I repeat a touch more heavily. ‘Are you ill?’
‘I meant for you. Are you always a little slow on the uptake in the morning?’
‘Maybe I didn’t get enough sleep.’
‘Should I apologise?’ he almost purrs. I purse my lips to control a ridiculous and burgeoning smile as I shake my head. ‘Good, because I’m not at all sorry. What’s more, I don’t think I can help myself where you’re concerned.’ He begins to pull at the Brinkhaus bed linens, his fingers tugging the cotton down my body in the tiniest of increments. And I surprise myself by letting him, my nipples hard and aching as the soft fabric whispers across my skin, the muscles in my stomach tensing as it travels down over my hips.
‘You look like a Frieseke.’
‘Frisky?’ I can’t help but press my thighs together as his gaze wanders down my body, its touch like a physical thing.
‘Frieseke,’ he corrects, his tone an octave lower now. ‘He was an artist. An American who painted in France. You look like one of his summer nudes, dappled with sunlight.’
I watch his fingers trail the pattern across my thigh created by the fall of the sun through the shutters. In a fit of daring, a moment that is wholly not my own, I let my knee fall open, opening myself to him.
‘You’re going to make me late.’ His gaze turns almost predatory, but I don’t answer. Unless you count my sigh as such when his thumb slips between my legs. I’m almost wanton in my acceptance, my body rising to meet him as he swipes it against my clit.
Swipes. Pets.
I turn my cheek to the pillow, every one of my muscles tense and shivery as his fingers begin to work lightly between my legs. But it’s not enough, not like this. Not after last night when this morning’s potential for climax seems somehow tied to last night. I need pressure. Fast swipes and thrusting fingertips. The weight of his body over mine, not just the weight of his dark gaze. Watching me. Measuring me.
‘Look at me.’ His voice is almost a purr. I turn back, blinking up at him. ‘I’m going to take care of you, Miranda. And you’re going to let me.’
I nod my assent, widening my legs as I push up into his hand, as turned on by the litany of his filthy whispers as I am his deft finger work as he whispers the best kind of encouragements and the filthiest of things.
How beautiful I am.
How gorgeous I look riding his hand.
How slick I feel.
How he’ll lick his fingers clean.
And once I’m done—once my molten hot orgasm bursts through me—he does.
‘The doctor.’ It might be moments or hours later when his enquiry pierces my consciousness. I blink heavily wondering why it’s not dark again. ‘I’ll take you.’
I’ll take you.
I’ll take care of you.
But in what context?
‘I have to make an appointment first.’ I stretch out across the bed, my limbs as controllable and useful as socks full of jelly. ‘I’ll call today, but they probably won’t fit me in until next week.’
My doctor’s office doesn’t have a receptionist. It has a dragon in a twin set and gold-rimmed spectacles who breathes fire down the phone. A Smaug-type keeper of the gate, but with a much snootier attitude. I’m pretty sure she issues appointments on the basis of her how much you grovel down the line because sounding ill, sniffily, or croaky elicits no sympathy. God help me if I ever get really sick.
But I don’t say any of this because that would require brainpower. And my brain is currently rolling around inside my skull like marbles.
‘I have a contact that I thought might be able to see us sometime this week for confirmation.’
That all sounds really.. . suspect. A contact. Confirmation. Is this where I find myself shoved in a shipping container bound for God knows where? I’m suddenly more alert as I push a knot of hair from forehead with the back of my hand. I inhale and try to keep my voice even.
‘What kind of contact?’
‘The doctor kind of contact.’ He frowns down at me as he adds, ‘An obstetrician. Someone I happen to know personally.’ That information doesn’t soothe me. Not at all. Why would he need an obstetrician?
