Page 110 of Darling Venom
It was time to pursue a solution that didn’t involve a trip to the ER for a serious case of blue balls, the loss of my sanity, and more baggage than a St. Regis bellhop.
The problem was, I couldn’t have sex with Tate Marchetti.
For starters—he gave no real indication of it being a possibility.
And second—judging by the accident on his exam table, if he really tried, I’d be done for. Ruined.
Abigail, on the other hand, had a very active sex life and wasn’t afraid to share it.
“Raincheck on drinks tonight? I have a date with an archeologist, and I’m hoping he’ll unearth my g-spot.”
I held the door to our office building open, exited after her, and shouted to her retreating back, “If the archeologist fails, you can try a private detective next. I hear they’re good at finding things.”
“A gynecologist might be a safer bet,” a deep voice suggested from behind. “Of course, you know that from personal experience.”
I swiveled to find Tate there, leaning against a concrete pillar attached to the building. He had one hand shoved in a pocket of his cigarette pants, the other toying with his phone.
Abigail had already hopped into a cab and out of sight, but like us, Reagan worked late tonight, and the last thing I needed was for her to catch me salivating over the man responsible for delivering her babies with all their limbs attached.
I pulled us into an alley, turning his body so he faced away from the street. Away from prying eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“You asked a question. I’m here to answer it.”
“I don’t recall asking one.”
“You did. I’m no neurologist, but I hear Vitamin E may slow memory loss.”
Actually, in hindsight, I might’ve asked something. In his office.
But what?
Maybe about his concern over my virginity.
My cheeks felt hot.
I rummaged through my bag, pretending to search it so I didn’t have to look at him. “Okay. Answer it.”
“I wasn’t concerned about your sex life because you were a patient,” he said casually. “I’m concerned about it because I want to fuck your brains out until you lose the ability to walk straight. Unfortunately for me.”
I stopped what I was doing.
Silence blanketed us.
I had half my arm shoved inside the mouth of my patchy messenger bag, the other clutching my phone. It clattered to the asphalt.
Excuse me?
Tate collected the device, offering it to me. “I didn’t invoice Reagan for the exam. Consider this my official refusal to see you as an ob-gyn on the grounds that I have a personal interest in you. I’m happy to refer you to Dr. Bernard or any of my other colleagues.”
“Does that mean you want to date me?” I could feel my eyes flare, but it was that damn thing in my chest that threw me into high alert.
“I don’t date. I fuck. If you’re happy with that arrangement, you know where to find me. I’m fond of you, Charlie, which is why I’m going to advise you, as a friend, not to take me up on that offer. I’m too old, too jaded, and too fucked-up to give you what you want outside the bedroom.”
When it came to the rise and fall of Terry Marchetti, it was always the same question—where?
Where is Terry Marchetti?
Where did the money go?
