Chapter 16
I accept Blake’s invitation and step inside without an ounce of thought. The door clicks softly shut behind us. Out of years of habit, I flip the latch on the lock before stopping to think how it might appear to her. Thankfully, it goes unnoticed.
The apartment greets us with the same citrusy aroma as my last visit.
It’s bright and welcoming. And this time I was actually invited.
Blake turns toward me, almost immediately to apologize, like she can’t stand the thought of being judged.
“It’s not much,” she gestures vaguely at the tiny studio apartment. “And, sorry about the mess.”
I smile and shake my head. It’s exactly how it was the last time I was here.
Spotless. It isn’t quite museum clean, but there isn’t an item out of place.
Her shoes are still neatly lined up by the door.
The bed is perfectly made with two throw pillows symmetrically aligned in the middle.
Even the boldly patterned throw at the foot of the mattress is meticulously folded. Yes, such a disaster area.
“It’s perfect.” The words slip out before I can catch them.
Because it is. Because this place feels like her.
Quiet and ordered with a little bit of chaos just dying to break free.
She presses her lips together, a reflexive expression that says she doesn’t quite believe me…
or maybe doesn’t believe she deserves the compliment.
Deeper in the apartment, I walk around toward the kitchenette with her groceries still looped over my forearm.
I set the bags on the bare counters and start pulling out the contents to help put them away.
The domestication is grounding, giving my hands something to do while my mind threatens to spiral about what is happening between us.
“You don’t have to,” Blake shares softly but sincerely as I open the fridge for her greens and mushrooms.
“It’s fine,” I reply without turning around.
Helping her put away groceries feels safer than looking at her right now.
I am acutely aware of her being only a few feet behind me, and even more so, how badly I want to put my hands on her.
A repetitive thought I have been failing to keep at bay for a while now.
Reaching into the bag, I pull out a bundle of bananas, exposing a bright, round piece of plastic at the bottom.
It takes me a second to place what I’m looking at.
A baby toy. My brain starts sorting through possibilities and explanations.
The hospital. Pediatric patients. A donation.
A gift for a friend. A thousand irrational reasons spool at once.
None of them quite dispels the truth I know in my gut.
“That’s for the hospital,” Blake insists quickly, stepping forward and taking it from my hands protectively. She places the bananas back inside, then adds a bag of oranges, burying the toy beneath them. “I just… combined things.”
I know it’s a lie. This job has given me years of training to notice what people don’t say, like the way her voice is tight or how she can’t quite look at me.
It’s not malicious. It’s not even a particularly calculated lie.
It’s more a reflex. I should call her out over it, ask questions, and get the answers the team and I have been seeking since we got here.
But when I turn around to confront her, I’m met with her soft chestnut eyes. All I can think is what’s been running through my brain since we stood by her door, the hallway lights dancing over her face as her breath went shallow and her hand hesitated on the knob. I want to kiss her.
The bag hangs by her side as she pivots toward me, her chin tipped up a fraction in defiance, like she’s waiting for an interrogation.
The overhead light catches her eyes, making them look warm and full of aching uncertainty.
I reach for the bag and gently take it from her hand, before placing it on the counter with deliberate care, boxing her in between me and the cabinets.
Towering over her, I lift my hand to brush the ever-stubborn strand of hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear. Her breath catches as she cranes her neck. We’re barely inches apart. Close enough that I feel the warmth of her body and the quiet electricity humming between us.
When I dust my fingertips along her jaw, I notice the faint freckles painted across her nose. “I can’t stop thinking about your pouty little lips,” I whisper, lightly cupping her chin and lifting her face a bit closer to mine. “Can I kiss you, Doc?”
Her lashes flutter as she nods. It’s small and timid, but certain.
It is more than enough yes than I was looking for.
My hand slides along her jaw, my thumb dusting over her cheek with reverent slowness.
I memorize the texture of her skin as I cup her face in my palm.
I lean down, stopping a breath from her.
Pressing onto her toes, she closes the tiny distance, and our lips brush together tentatively, but intentionally, like she’s testing the water before diving into the pool.
It’s warm and electric, a low current running straight through me.
Blake’s hands hover with uncertainty for a second before sliding up my chest. Her fingers curl into my shirt as her lips part, daring me to pass them.
It’s an invitation I take willingly, my tongue dragging over her lower lip before sliding into her mouth.
I sweep it slowly, tenderly exploring her mouth and massaging her tongue with mine.
She moans into our kiss, a soft, sweet sound of surrender that only fuels my need for her.
I pull back just enough to look at her, and the emotions in her eyes hit me harder than the kiss did. They are dark and yearning. She’s yearning for more as badly as I am, and I’m surprised at the amount of restraint it takes not to crash my lips against hers once more.
My arms slide around her small frame, and I lift her with ease.
A small gasp blows over her lips as I set her on the counter in front of me.
I step between her parted thighs as I firmly press my lips back into hers, claiming them with a hunger that has been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.
The initial softness of her mouth gives way instantly, our shared need taking over.
This kiss isn’t tender and gentle. It’s a deep, all-consuming embrace with a frantic meeting of tongues and teeth.
One of my hands slides from her back to the nape of her neck, my fingers tangling in her hair as I angle her head, deepening the kiss and demanding more.
Her response is immediate and eager. Using her hold on my shirt and tightening her legs around my hips, she pulls herself toward me until there is no space left between us.
The kiss grows messy and uncontrolled, our breaths mingling in harsh pants as the friction of our bodies builds to a palpable heat. It’s a kiss of pure, raw need.
Small, needy sounds escape her throat, and I eagerly swallow them down.
With my hand still in her hair and the other snaked around her lower back, I hold her flush against me as I break our embrace before what little restraint I have left fractures completely.
Her lips are no longer enough. I want more.
I rest my forehead on hers and breathe her in as I struggle to catch my breath. “Bed?” I murmur against her lips. It’s not a command, but a request for an invitation.
Without eyes leaving mine, and equally as breathless, she nods.
I lift her again, her arms and legs wrapping around me as I scoop her off the counter.
My lips travel over her jaw and along the length of her neck, and I take my time carrying her across the small apartment.
I don’t want to rush this. I lower her onto the perfectly made bed with care, giving the moment the gentleness it deserves.
Gentleness she deserves it. I lean over her, bracing myself on my arms, with our foreheads touching.
My pulse is loud as my restraint begins to fray.
Her lips part under mine, and for a moment, the world narrows to this single, perfect point of contact.
The kiss is slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to the frantic energy that crackled between us just moments ago.
It’s a conversation without words. I pour every ounce of restraint I have into it, savoring the taste of her, the warmth of her breath, and the way her hands come to rest on my chest, settling over my racing heart.
Tension coils in my own body, a desperate, primal urge to let go, to take her, but I hold it back.
This moment is too important. I pull back enough to look at her, dragging my thumb in a slow, steady path along her cheekbone.
“Tell Daddy you want this.” My voice is a low, rough whisper.
It’s not a demand, but a plea. A final check of consent before handing over the last shred of my control.
My eyes search hers, looking for any hint of doubt, but I find only that same unwavering certainty and a fire that burns just for me.
I need to hear the words, though. I need her to seal this choice with her own voice, completely and without reservation. “Tell me.”