4. Catch & Release #3
Art’s office. Doc’s hands. His body against mine.
Oh, for God’s sake Annie. He’s just another guy. Stop it.
My body does not get the memo. It has chosen a louder problem.
Why does he irritate me so badly?
I hate that he's actually genuinely, painfully kind. I hate that there isn't a single flaw I can find to cling to, no hidden cruelty or arrogance I can use to justify this visceral reaction.
That is exactly why I feel like I’m losing my mind.
The silence of the house only amplifies the roar of my own heartbeat in my ears. I lie flat on my back and stare at the ceiling, willing myself not to think about William Bie.
My thighs press together before I can stop them, and the pressure sends a sharp pulse of want through me.
I drag a pillow over my face.
“You’re pathetic.”
My body disagrees.
The memory comes back with vicious clarity. His arms around my waist. The strength of him pulling me against his chest before I could fall. His voice in my ear.
Easy. I’ve got you.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
My hand slides down without conscious thought.
The first touch through my underwear makes me suck in a breath. I freeze, furious at myself, but my hips thrust up into my palm with zero loyalty to my dignity.
Damn it.
The air from the ceiling fan brushes my thighs, and my nipples tighten under the lace of my bra. I tell myself this is stress. Grief. Adrenaline. A normal human response to almost falling on my ass in front of a man who is too big, too calm, and entirely too attractive.
My fingers slip beneath the waistband.
The moment I slide over my clit, a sharp, electric jolt shoots straight to my core, and I let out a shaky moan that sounds far too much like a plea. “Doc”.
I’m drenched, my panties clinging to me, a testament to how much my body has been screaming for him all afternoon.
Humiliation burns through me, but the pleasure cuts under it, hot and immediate.
I close my eyes and immediately he’s with me. His gray eyes looking down at me. His mouth is parted and inviting. His body is hard against mine.
I imagine him catching me in the hallway again, but this time, he doesn't let go. He pushes me back against the wall. I feel the searing heat of his chest crushing mine. His eyes aren't soft anymore; they're dark, hooded with a hunger that mirrors my own.
"You've been pushing me all day, Annie," he whispers, his voice a low, dangerous growl against my ear.
I don't want the gentle doctor right now. I want the version of him that exists where his patience finally snaps.
I spread my legs a little, just enough to give him room. His large, capable hands, the hands that treat patients with such delicacy, grip my thighs and hoist my legs up around his waist.
His mouth crashes onto mine in a kiss that tastes of desperation and long-overdue release. He isn't being polite now. He’s biting my lip, his tongue invading my mouth, claiming me with a ferocity that makes my head spin.
"Please," I whimper into the empty room, the word a betrayal.
He walks us back to an exam room and lays me back on the table, lifting my knees and spreading them wide. I gasp, as his fingers slide through my folds and he slips two inside of me slowly, then starts a building, maddening rhythm. I arch my back, my hips bucking against him.
His fingers thrust deeper, my muscles clamping tight around them.
He bends down between my thighs with that same focused attention he gives patients. His hands hold my legs open. His mouth presses against my inner thigh. His voice tells me to stop fighting him for five damn minutes.
His mouth captures my clit, and he starts sucking gently. His tongue flicks the sensitive ridge. My breath turns into jagged gasps, my entire body tightening like a coiled spring. He speeds up the friction, and my clit screams for release.
His breath is hot, and I want him to break through my grumpiness, my loyalty, and just take me.
I’m right on the edge, the tension building into an unbearable pressure.
Then, the tension snaps.
I shudder violently, internal muscles pulsing in rhythmic waves as a powerful orgasm overtakes me, sharp and deep, ripping a cry from my mouth before I can bury it as pleasure crashes over me in waves of blinding heat.
I cling to my sheets, knuckles white, as I ride the peak of the release, my body shaking with the sheer intensity of it until I drop back against the mattress, damp, rippling with aftershocks, and completely spent.
As the pleasure slowly fades, the silence of the house rushes back in, cold and oppressive. I pull my hand away slowly, looking down at the slickness on my fingers.
The heat in my belly instantly turns to ice.
I sit there, breathless and trembling. I wanted him.
My brain is horrified.
Now I know.
I can hate him. I can resent him. I can sharpen every word I say until he bleeds patience all over the exam room floor.
But I can’t lie to myself.
The oaf from the market is hot as hell.
And tomorrow, I have to walk back into that clinic, work beside him, and pretend I don’t fantasize about him.
Well. Fantastic.