Chapter 13 #4
For a few more minutes, silence reigned, but it was not comfortable.
I could feel her eyes on me, and every time I looked up, she was watching.
It was a burning gaze that promised something dangerous, making my blood heat up despite the concussion.
We exchanged a few more burning looks, glances that lasted just a fraction too long.
The feeling of being watched, judged, and deeply seen was intoxicating. I finished my plate, putting my fork down with a definitive clink.
“So,” I said, leaning back, needing to break the silence before I did something stupid. “What happens now?”
She picked up our plates and filled the dishwasher again without answering me.
I moved automatically to help; she might not have let me help cook, but I had to at least do something.
I started by simply passing her things to put in the dishwasher.
She narrowed her eyes slightly but didn’t order me to sit down, so I took that as a win.
It didn’t take long until the kitchen was spotless.
I leaned back on the counter as she pressed some buttons, turning the dishwasher on. She closed it with a click.
When she turned, she took a step forward, leaning over me to pick up her wine glass, our shoulders brushing for a second, and I watched her intently, not daring to move.
She took a sip of her wine, her free hand moving to brace herself on the counter on the other side of me, very close. Fuck me, what was she doing?
Dr. Carter leaned even closer, the final inches of space dissolving between us.
She placed her wine glass down with a delicate clink, her hand flat against the surface of the counter, now caging me completely with an arm on either side.
I was backed against the cool steel, and she was a wall of warm cashmere and expensive scent.
Fuck, I thought I was going to pass out.
My hands automatically reached out, settling on Dr. Carter's waist. I could feel the soft, dense texture of her charcoal cashmere sweater under my palms. My fingers instinctively tightened, anchoring myself to her.
Her eyes flickered down, just a millisecond, to where my hands were resting on her body—a small, almost amused acknowledgment of the way I was responding. She knew exactly what she was doing to me.
The air was electric, thick with unspoken demand. Her face was so close I could see the perfect, dark line of her eyeliner and the smooth set of her jaw. Every breath she took brushed across my skin.
“You still have that concussion, Alex,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that vibrated through the space between us. It sounded less like a reminder and more like a cruel tease.
“I know,” I whispered back, the word barely a sound, my own voice rough and starved. My eyes were locked on hers, but I was utterly aware of the warmth of her waist beneath my hands. The fact that she hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t reprimanded me for touching her, was the only permission I needed.
I wanted to close the last bit of distance, to press myself against her and find out what happened when the tension finally broke.
The need was a hot, painful ache in my chest, completely overriding any sensible thought about professionalism, boundaries, or the fact that I was supposed to be a patient in her care.
My thumb shifted slightly, tracing the soft dip of her waist, another test. Her gaze didn’t leave mine, and her pupils were dark, swallowing the flecks of green I knew were there.
“What happens now, Dr. Carter?” I asked again, my voice barely audible, the question now a desperate plea for her to take the lead.
Which, seriously, I couldn’t believe I was fucking thinking.
This wasn’t me. I didn’t cave like this.
I didn’t go weak like this with some woman making me unsure of every fucking movement I made, but she did. And I couldn’t get enough of it.
The subtle, satisfied smirk returned to her lips. She leaned in the slightest bit more, and I knew I was completely fucked.
Her head tilted slightly, a movement so small it was nearly predatory.
Her eyes fell to my mouth again, lingering there for a beat that felt like an eternity, before they snapped back up to meet my gaze.
My breathing was shallow, trapped in my throat, and I was entirely focused on the perfect curve of her lips.
“You tell me, Alex,” she murmured, the sound dangerously low. She took a deliberate, slow breath. “You are the one who decided you needed to put your hands on my body.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was fucking insane. She was insane. Fuck. I could feel my nipples were so hard right then and I wasn’t wearing a bra. I was being fucking teased by the softness of her borrowed clothes.
My thumb pushed into the cashmere on her hip, just enough to feel the solid muscle beneath, and I nearly groaned. “I…” I tried to speak, but the words failed in my throat. The only language that felt right was physical.
I shifted my grip on her waist, pulling her forward an inch—enough to eliminate the last sliver of air between her chest and mine. The contact was electric, sending a shudder through both of us.
Her eyes darkened instantly. Fuck. The amusement was gone, replaced by a consuming intensity that made my knees weak. She didn’t resist the pull; she allowed it, her torso pressing gently against mine.
“Careful, Alex,” she breathed, her voice barely a thread, laced with a warning that somehow sounded more like permission. “I warned you about causing unnecessary distractions.”
“You’re the distraction,” I managed to choke out, the lie sticking in my throat. I was the one pushing this, the one initiating contact, and she was letting me, watching me fall apart. Fuck, she knew exactly what she was doing.
My head was spinning—partly concussion, mostly lust. I lifted my chin slightly, closing the final distance between us, aiming for her mouth.
Before I could close the gap, her hand shifted quickly, leaving the counter to settle firmly, possessively, at the base of my neck, right over the hickey.
She didn’t push me away, but she applied just enough pressure to halt my forward motion, controlling the final stage.
If I would have let myself right then, I would have fucking whimpered. This was just cruel.
“Your head, darling,” she whispered, her eyes burning into mine, her face hovering inches from mine. “We have all the time in the world for this once I’m certain you won’t pass out on my floor.”
Fuck, we did?
She didn’t move, didn’t break our contact, but the implicit command was clear: Wait. You move only when I allow it. The control was fucking maddening, and it made the heat in my core coil tighter.
I swallowed hard, feeling the pressure of her fingers on my bruise—a physical tether keeping me grounded, yet desperate. My hands remained clamped on her waist.
“Patience, Alex.” The words were a soft reprimand, yet the tension didn't snap; it stretched, impossibly thin.
Then, with devastating gentleness, Dr. Carter leaned in just that fraction of an inch more, and instead of taking the kiss I was begging for, she pressed her lips—soft, cool, and fleeting—against my cheek, right next to my ear.
The action was agonisingly tender, completely innocent, and utterly lethal.
Then, just like that, she stepped away. The arm pinning me to the counter retreated, and the hand gripping my neck fell away. The sudden loss of pressure and contact made me sway slightly.
She reclaimed her wine glass from the counter, composed and immaculate, as if she hadn't just mentally stripped me bare. She took a sip, her eyes coolly assessing my stunned face.
“Now that dinner is settled, how about we find a film to watch in the lounge?” she suggested, her voice back to that smooth, measured tone. She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned on her heel and glided out of the kitchen, her composure absolute.
“Fuck,” I breathed out, leaning heavily back against the counter, my hands still hovering where her waist had been.
I stared at the immaculate, empty space where she had stood, and the reality of what had just happened—and hadn't happened—slammed into me.
I was left a fucking wreck, heart hammering, knees weak, and body buzzing with frustration, while she was calmly deciding on the evening's entertainment. This doesn’t happen to me! I make this happen!
We have all the time in the world for this.
The promise and the control were a fucking potent combination.
I wanted to chase after her, demand she finish what she started, but the sheer absurdity of the situation hit me: I had just had an intense, charged moment with my lecturer, was denied a kiss, and was now expected to follow her to the sofa to watch a film like we were on some fucking chaste, pre-teen date.
I pushed off the counter, forcing my legs to work. I had to keep up. For fuck’s sake. I could not be the one collapsing on the kitchen floor right then. I ran a hand over my flushed face, the silk of the leisure suit suddenly feeling too tight.
You’re not collapsing, Alex. You’re better than this. Come on.
With a shaky breath, I made my way out of the kitchen and towards the lounge, ready to face the screen with a woman who had just ensured I would not be sleeping that night for entirely different fucking reasons.