Anne
Disrupting his equilibrium was insightful. He didn’t demand sex or become irritated by having to wait. He recognised my proposition and accepted the terms. He was mature and unperturbed. An anomaly in comparison to the men I was accustomed to.
“Can I help with anything?” he asked, removing his fingers from my waistband.
“Everything is done. You can help me set the table and get the jug out of the fridge,” I said, tapping the wooden spoon on the edge of the saucepan.
“Sure,” he said as I pointed to the cupboards that had the dishes.
“Glasses and plates are over there, I’ll grab the cutlery,” I said as he moved away from me.
I had a decent-sized kitchen, yet his presence made it look smaller. Or perhaps I wasn’t used to having anyone inside my house. That wouldn’t be a problem in his house.
“Why do you live in such a big house?” I asked.
“It’s secluded. An investment.”
Logical, but impractical for a single person to live in a six-bedroom, six-bathroom property—each to their own. Even if he did seem to be compensating for something.
It wasn’t a tiny dick, that’s for sure.
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My knife sliced through the glazed carrot as I felt the heat from his gaze.
“You don’t drink at home?”
I loaded some braised lamb shank onto it and placed the fork in my mouth. His eyes dropped to my lips, and even though he was eating, the hunger remained.
“I try not to,” I said after swallowing. “It can become a habit.”
His hands paused mid-cut.
“You’ve had problems?” he asked.
“Destructive early twenties,” I replied honestly. It wasn’t something I was ashamed of—it was part of learning to have an outlet. “My art rescued me.”
He nodded slowly, though he remained cautious.
“Is that something you’ve dealt with?”
He raised his fork, delaying his answer. I waited patiently, focusing on my plate.
“My mother was an alcoholic,” he said, his voice hard, but with shame underneath.
“My mum left me with an alcoholic, drug-addicted father,” I said casually. “Shit happens.”
His brow furrowed. He didn’t like that last comment, but what was the point in dwelling on the past. It used to eat me alive—hence drinking myself into a stupor. Ironically, killing others saved me.
“How are your potatoes?” I asked, pouring myself some of the pomegranate and black cherry juice.
“Everything is perfect.”
“Don’t sound too surprised.”
His lips curled.
“You’re full of surprises.”
I smiled and gauged the remaining juice in the jug before reaching for the pill beside my plate.
“Could you pass me the kitchen roll, please?”
He turned and I dropped the pill into the jug. The darkness of the juice disguised it, and I could only hope the food was salty enough for him to drink more. He tore off a few sheets and I wiped down the condensation on the jug.
“Thank you,” I murmured, but I didn’t dare look up.
That was the problem between us—we could read one another all too easily.
I used Viagra on men for my own pleasure.
Who wants to blink, and it’s over?
But for me to use it on Ethan was completely different. Payback, and then getting off—repeatedly, if I played my cards right.
We ate in silence. There was still dessert. There was still time for him to drink more of that juice.
Let’s see how savage Dr Hammond could become.
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He was breathing differently, a thick, congested sound that hadn’t been there twenty minutes ago. When he looked up at me, he winced against the dining room light, his hand reaching up to rub a sudden, deep red flush that was rapidly swallowing his neck and cheeks.
“Are you catching a cold?” I asked, leaning in to press my palm to his forehead. He felt hot—unnaturally hot, like a radiator left on high.
The sildenafil sure packed a punch, and it never let me down. He’d only managed a few bites of the raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake.
He grabbed my wrist.
“What did you do, Anne?” he growled.
I didn’t flinch or look away.
“It was always going to end like this, Ethan,” I said, hoping I sounded as pathetic as those telenovela actresses.
“Poison?” he spat. “Really? I expected a little more creativity.”
“I’m sorry, Ethan. It was you or me,” I said, ducking my head before I burst out laughing.
He stood up, dragging me with him. He gripped my shoulders and began to shake me.
“What was it? What did you give me?” he shouted.
I took a deep breath and raised my head. His cheeks were flushed, his pupils dilated, and perspiration beaded beside his temple. There was murder in his eyes as his fingers bit into my arms.
“What are your symptoms, Doctor?” I asked, before biting into my bottom lip—though it didn’t deter the smile.