Page 47 of Clinically Delicious
She was right. I’d survived on coffee and whatever I could grab between patients. But eating required focus, and all my focus was currently occupied with not staring at her mouth.
At the way her tongue darted out to catch a drop of sauce on her lower lip.
At the way her throat moved when she swallowed.
At the way the candlelight cast shadows across her collarbones, visible above the neckline of her shirt.
I was losing my mind.
I forced myself to take another bite, to chew, to swallow, to participate in the conversation Megan was having about something. I made appropriate responses. Asked follow-up questions. Played the role of an attentive father, all while imagining what it would be like to clear this table with one sweep of my arm, lay Cate across it, and taste every inch of her skin.
To make her make those sounds again. Louder. More desperate.
To find out if she tasted as good as the meal she’d prepared.
The thought was so vivid, so consuming, that I had to grip my fork harder to ground myself. The metal bit into my palm.
Good.
Pain.
Focus.
“This sauce is amazing,” Cate said, taking another bite. “I think I got the balance right this time.”
This time.Meaning she’d made this before. Meaning she’d practiced, perfected, and spent hours in kitchens honing this skill. Another facet of her I hadn’t known about. Another reason to be intrigued.
Another reason I was completely fucked.
She licked her fork.
Just a quick swipe of her tongue to catch the last of the sauce.
Innocent.
Practical.
And my dick was so hard it hurt.
I reached for my water glass, drained half of it, and tried to think about anything else. Patient charts. Differential diagnoses. The complete anatomical structure of the cardiovascular system.
Anything except the way Cate’s lips looked in the candlelight.
Anything except the soft sounds she kept making.
Anything except the increasingly detailed fantasy playing out in my head of what I wanted to do to her on this table.
“Dad makes good food too,” Megan was saying, “but not like this. This is fancy restaurant food.”
“Your dad’s busy,” Cate said, smiling at my daughter. “He’s got more important things to do than spend hours in the kitchen.”
“Like what?” Megan asked.
“Like keeping people healthy. Saving lives. Being a brilliant doctor.”
The admiration in her voice was unmistakable. She meant it. She actually thought I was brilliant.
The realization sent another jolt of heat through me.
