Chapter 33
Jamie
“I’m the one who’s late this time,” I say when he opens the door.
“Did you also shower twice and change three times?”
“Ah, no. Just family stuff.”
Actually, I did worse. I showered three times, then spent an hour sitting on the bed, staring at my wardrobe and trying to decide what to wear.
“Please, come in.”
“I brought this for you.” I hand him a bottle of wine.
“What a gentleman.”
“I hang out with lads who are a bad influence on me, you know.”
“You should introduce me to these lads.”
He heads inside, and I follow, my eyes tracing the perfect curve of his arse in those dark jeans that hug him just right. He’s wearing a white shirt with two buttons undone at the top, revealing just a hint of collarbone.
“This is the kitchen,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “The living room is in that direction, and then my bedroom and bathroom. That’s the lot.”
“You have everything you need.”
“And it’s five minutes from the hospital.”
“Practical, so.”
“I don’t need a huge house with a back garden, big windows, and cold, empty rooms.”
“Mmm. Sounds familiar.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I didn’t mean that no one should have it.”
I grab his hips, pulling him in. “May I greet you properly?”
“I was wondering what you were waiting for.”
“That you’d stop talking.”
“I’m done.”
I slowly bite his lower lip with my teeth, then release it briefly as the Doctor parts his lips so I can slip my tongue into his mouth. I tighten my grip on his hips while he clings to my arm, his nails digging through the cotton of my shirt.
I am demanding. My tongue explores every corner of his mouth. I want to control our breaths, our movements. I want him to lose himself completely in our kiss, to forget everything but the pressure of my mouth against his.
“Okay,” he says, panting. “I suppose that’s a decent greeting.”
I let him slip away as he returns to the cooker.
“You can open the wine; the bottle opener is in the first drawer, the glasses in the top shelf.”
I pour some wine for both of us. I hand him the glass, and he takes a quick sip before going back to check on dinner.
“You can wait for me at the table; it’s almost ready.”
“I’d rather watch you. I like you in the kitchen.”
“You expected to find me in an apron and with a wooden spoon, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know what to expect, Doctor, but this is beyond anything I imagined.”
He smiles.
“You haven’t tasted my special sauce yet. Afterwards, it’ll be impossible for you to go back to your ready-made meals.”
After I’m done with you, Doctor, it’ll be impossible for me to even remember how to breathe on my own. That’s the only thing I’m sure of.
“Jesus, you were right,” I say after only a forkful.
“Italian recipe. Sauce with meat and vegetables, over fettuccine. I buy everything at Little Italy, an Italian shop in town. I know it’s not a very original name, but it gives you the idea, doesn’t it?
And they make the fettuccine by hand, you know?
It’s not that dried or pre-cooked stuff you get at Tesco; it’s egg fettuccine. ”
“I’m not really sure what you’re talking about, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“As long as you like it, it doesn’t matter where it came from.”
“I like that you take the time to explain everything to me, set the table like it’s a dinner party, put on music, and cook for me.”
“I went too far, didn’t I?”
“I just told you I like it, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know how to make dessert, though, I should warn you. I bought two slices of cappuccino cake this morning at the supermarket.”
“Thank goodness. You’re too perfect, Doctor, and I don’t know if I can keep up.”
“Don’t talk shit. You’re Jamie Murray.”
I shrug.
“They must have invented the word ‘perfection’ for you.”
Ah, Doctor, I’d like to think so, but it’s kind of you to say.
“More wine?” he asks as he stands, reaching for the bottle on the kitchen counter.
“No, thank you. I’d like to remain lucid.”
“Don’t tell me a couple of glasses of wine will knock you out.”
“No, but I’m thinking about all the things I’d like to do, and I want to savour them all, every second, because I think it’s really worth it.”
The Doctor stands in the kitchen doorway, a confused expression on his face.
I get up and approach him.
“Yes, Doctor, I am talking about the things I want to do to you.” My hand slides to the back of his neck. “Possibly right now.”
“You don’t like wasting time.”
I lean in, my lips tracing slowly along his neck. I move closer to his ear as the Doctor tilts his head. “I’m not wasting my time if I’m with you.”
My hand slides down his jawline, and as he turns towards me, I capture his lips with mine.
He presses his hands to my chest, fingers splayed across the fabric, as I push him back against the doorframe.
I want to deepen the kiss, to feel the heat of him against me and know if the trembling in his body means he wants this as much as I do.
The Doctor presses his palms to my chest, but not to push me away. We’re still kissing, hungry and desperate, as he guides me backwards.
“Bedroom. Now,” he orders, his voice rough.
I laugh against his lips. “You don’t have much patience either.”
“Zero patience when it comes to you.”
“I didn’t take you for a forward player.”
“You have no idea what kind of player I am.”