Chapter 11 Emory #2
And maybe I shouldn’t accept the offer, but also—fuck it.
There might be nothing right about going along with this. It’s absolutely highly possible that Lance wouldn’t like it, but it’s hard to know what he thinks at all anymore, considering the fact that he’d rather spend time with his golf friends than with his fiancée.
I’m tired of being shoved to the side. I’m tired of feeling like my voice doesn’t matter. I’m tired of working against all these things that don’t feel good instead of running toward the things that do feel good.
I shove the blanket off my lap and stand. “You know, I actually really like pizza.”
I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “That makes two of us.”
“And it just so happens that homemade pizza night was always my favorite growing up.”
“Makes sense why this one is calling out your name, then.”
I blow out a breath and push that nasty feeling aside that finally does appear—the one that tells me I’m doing something I shouldn’t be. It doesn’t feel fair saying no to people and situations that make me feel alive again. That make me feel more than what happened to me.
It just so happens that Dawson is good at it.
That he listens, that he cares, that he’s there.
Dawson and I stare down at our pizza creations on his kitchen counter, and we bust out in laughter.
The real kind. The kind that starts in your belly and creates tiny teardrops in your eyes.
It’s been so long since I’ve laughed this hard, and it makes my ribs hurt, side stitches pinching the skin there.
The pizza kit he had didn’t have premade dough pies but a ball of it that we had to turn into circular shapes. It was a lot harder to work with—because Dawson didn’t follow the directions properly by letting it thaw out totally. Which led to overworking the dough and making it difficult to form.
“Why does yours look like a banana?” I ask, our laughter dying down as I lift my brow in curiosity. I tilt my head, hoping it might make it look different. It doesn’t. “It looks like it shrunk, and obviously not in a very proportional manner.”
He cants his head to the side, mirroring me with his arms crossed against his chest. “It does appear that way, doesn’t it?”
“I really hope it doesn’t taste as bad as it looks.”
He scoffs, his warmth sneaking around me and holding me tight, even though he’s simply standing next to me. “You say that like yours is any better.” He points at my pizza. “Yours is a taco.”
I’m still wearing a big smile as I say, “No one ever says no to a pizza taco.”
He scrunches his nose, his glasses pushing up on his face.
I admire the way his soft curls fall over his forehead after a long day of work.
A stream of questions run through my head; how many patients does he see a day, are all of them working through trauma like I am, are there ever days he gets tired of doing what he does?
It’s almost unfair how handsome he is. His gentleness only amplifies it. He has the kind of traits ladies would kill for in a man, in a marriage.
“They do when it has black olives as a topping,” he says, drawing me out of my thoughts and making me snap back to the topic at hand; taco-shaped pizzas. “I can’t believe you eat that garbage.”
I twist toward him, placing my hands on my hips. “Rude!”
His eyes have the nerve to take in my face, small creases at the edges of his own. They’re the kind that tell me he’s enjoying himself, that he’s happy and filled with joy. “What’s rude is the way they stink up your tongue when you eat them.”
I grab the pizza cutter off the counter and start slicing my pizza into manageable pieces. “Food can’t ‘stink up your tongue,’ Dawson.”
I bring a square of it to my mouth, leaning against the counter as I chew. A groan works up my throat because it’s just that good. Way better than the peanut butter and banana sandwich I would’ve eaten at home.
“It absolutely can,” he says beside me, cutting his own once I hand over the cutter.
“You can’t know for sure if you’ve never tried it.” I give him a pointed look, taking another bite as I slowly watch him pop a jalapeno in his mouth—his one-topping choice.
His tongue sweeps out across his lip, and I watch, reveling in the way it slips back into his mouth to taste the spiciness of the pepper.
I reach my hand out, indicating that I’d love it if he tried mine. I wiggle it close to his face as I chew, truly enamored by our back and forth and how it hasn’t been awkward at all between us—like I thought it would be on my drive over.
His hand circles around my wrist in a tender manner. Just like his words do every damn time they leave his mouth. I don’t know if he realizes it, but his thumb brushes over my soft skin, sending a chill down my back as it settles on my pulse point.
“There’s absolutely no way I’m eating that.
” He shoves a whole three-by-three piece of pizza into his mouth as he looks at me, his hand slowly letting go.
His cheeks puff out with food, and I squint at him in amusement.
Mumbling around the food, he adds, “I’d much rather a slew of other things with much better flavor and fulfillment. ”
My heart jumps because is he talking about…?
I push the thought out of my head. There’s no way that’s possible. I’m only thinking it is because it’s been forever since I’ve been intimate with Lance.
“You almost have to after showing your lack of manners.” I step closer and press my palm over his mouth. “You’re supposed to chew with your mouth closed, Dr. Cole.”
His grin is wicked, and his hand comes up, curling around my arm again, but farther down this time. So gentle. So soft. Featherlight. I’m not sure if he means for it to, but it draws us closer together. The last bite of my piece almost slips from between my fingertips.
His eyes dip down, catching as the sauce slips off the side of the dough, the last little black olive on it looking as if it’s melting off. And then he does the unthinkable.
He brings his mouth down and takes the last bite as he wraps his lips around my finger, his tongue sliding over my skin in a way that has me imagining it somewhere else.
I work hard to keep my jaw from unhinging and falling to the floor.
My heart speeds up, running through a field and trying to take off.
“Yep,” he says, still holding my arm and acting like he didn’t just give me a fucking orgasm from licking my hand. It’s almost like he’s afraid I’ll drift away if he lets go, even though that’s not the case at all. If anything, every cell in my body wants to be closer to him.
I don’t know what that says about me. Probably horrible, rotten things.
He shakes his head and makes a show of swallowing it, like one does when they drink cough syrup. “It’s still just as bad as I remember.”
I’m stunned into silence, unsure of what to say as I slowly chew and swallow what’s in my own mouth. My stomach goes on a long twisty ride, my brain scheming with it.
Dr. Cole is my friend.
My therapist.
He is not my fiancé.
Having any other thoughts about him is strictly forbidden. My brain knows that, and so does my heart. And yet, I can’t help myself.
I can’t stop that tingly sensation that reaches my fingertips from his warmth or the way his eyes do something absolutely insane to my lower belly.
I clear my throat, attempting to recover from the wild images flashing through my head. Ones of sharing many pizza nights together, just like this one. Ones of us walking the beach together, despite me not wanting to go anywhere near it. Ones where he’s shirtless, and so am I.
I stammer through a response and drop my chin, looking away. “I-I thought you weren’t going to t-try it?”
His free hand settles on the side of my neck, his fingertips tickling the sensitive skin there as he drags my gaze back up to his. We’re so close that I can smell the tangy scent of tomato sauce that lingers on our breaths.
“Changed my mind,” he says on a rough exhale.
A heartbeat passes between us. I want inside his head.
Inside those caramel-colored eyes that calm me just as much as mother nature does for some.
I want to see what he sees when he looks at me.
What he feels when he’s this close. “There’s something about you,” he admits in a low voice.
He lifts his hand and gently tucks a stray hair behind my ear.
“Something that makes me deliriously interested in those eyes, that mind, and...” When his gaze flicks to my lips, he doesn’t need to say it. I know.
Those eyes, that mind, that mouth.
I break, moving closer. His affection acts as a mistletoe dangling above us, his pull all I need to completely drown in him. To fall. One final time.
Before I know it, I’m pressed up on my tippy toes, my palm slipping against his cheek as I draw nearer, as my breaths play with his, as my mouth tangles with the illicit affair that begs for my attention.
I kiss him.
His hands immediately drop to my waist, one of his large palms stretching over the small of my back.
His mouth is warm, his lips gentle as seconds flutter by in rhythm with my heartbeat.
And then, in the snap of a finger, our kiss breaches all boundaries and he dives in, his tongue sweeping the entire length of my own.
My stomach catapults then fucking drops, stirring desire from the pits of hell it’s been living in lately. A needy growl works up his throat, and it only makes it worse. Only makes my panties damp with thoughts of him between my legs.
In the next moment, his hands push down my sides and then he’s lifting me. My body gets the memo right away, my legs curling around his strong body as he walks us toward his living room, which isn’t very far from where we stand. The open concept of his apartment was made for moments like this.
He kisses me until he sits, keeping me close as I straddle his body. A feral mewl comes out of my mouth when he sinks his teeth into my lip then pulls away, peppering love bites along my jaw and down my neck.
Long forgotten are our pizzas.
And everything else in the world.
In this moment, it’s just us, and I fully recognize how dangerous that is. How the image of Lance is barely visible as I sink into this all-consuming thirst that rips at my core.
My hands find his hair, and my fingers comb through his curly locks as I cant my head to the side and give him access to me.
God, maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.
But then that liveliness pushes in behind the thought, zipping up and down my entire body and making it this electrified force field.
Dawson groans. It’s this deep, rough noise that has my abdomen stirring in a way that has me rotating my hips. I damn near cave and give in when he whispers, “You are fucking delectable.”
His hand smooths over my leg, and my stomach drops a thousand feet at record speeds.
I don’t understand how he can make me feel so alive, and yet, Lance…
Dawson pulls away, his lips lined with a subtle redness that reminds me of our tongues tangling. I want him to kiss me again, but very slowly, almost sneakily, that guilt washes over me, the knowledge that what I’m doing is considered cheating as I stare at the beautiful man in front of me.
His grip is soft when he brings his hand up to my jaw, holding my face in place as he stares into my eyes and says, “I don’t understand how anyone wouldn’t want to spend every goddamn waking moment with someone as beautiful as you.
Unless you were golfing with me, there’s no damn way I’d be on the green. ”
I swallow down the thickness lingering in my throat as his eyes sparkle with promises, with love, with affection—all the things I’ve been craving.
A memory comes through in the next breath.
A vision of blue waters and the sharpness of a panic attack cresting at the edges of my ribs. But then, just as quickly, it morphs into a hand wrapped around my ankle as I try to crawl away. An anchor attached to my waist as I try to swim toward the crest of water that will ultimately give me air.
I consider, as I look at him, if I’m making one terrible mistake by marrying Lance.
A heavy breath leaves me, and fear implants itself behind my chest bone and eyes.
And then I see it.
I see him.
Dawson.
And the very real feeling that rushes through my system—love.
For a man I haven’t known for more than, at the most, two months.
For my therapist.