“Bradley,” she breathes. “I have condoms in my purse. If you want—”
“I want this,” I assure her, nipping one rounded hipbone. “And this, too.” My tongue dips into the hollow by her pubic bone, just an inch from where she wants my mouth.
And there’s no question about where she wants my mouth. Even if she hadn’t said it, I can tell by how she’s moving. By the flush of her skin and the sweet, slippery fullness between her thighs.
I dip my tongue into her and feel Izzy arch up off the bed. She cries out, fingers clutching the duvet as my tongue makes slow circles around her clitoris. She responds by letting go of the comforter and gripping my hair, making it clear exactly where she wants my mouth.
It's right where I want it to be, so I plunge my tongue between her slick folds, hungry for the taste of her arousal. She’s wriggling and moaning and leaving no doubt she loves what I’m doing.
Almost as much as I love it. I may not get off, not this time, but I don’t care. I meant what I said about taking my time, moving slowly to savor each step.
Dropping one hand between her legs, I tease her entrance with my middle finger. Moaning, Izzy tries to draw me deeper inside. She’s arching her hips, pressing against me for one more inch, then two—
“Bradley,” she begs. “Please. I need—please.”
Her urgency makes up for any missing words. I know what she wants, so I slip a second finger inside and flatten my tongue against that tight nub of nerves. Her muscles clench around me, and I can tell by her breathing she’s not far from the edge.
I want this to last, but I can’t stop myself from stroking into her, circling her clit again and again until she breaks apart beneath me.
“Oh, God!” She screams, a primal, passionate sound I never in a million years expected the first time I met her.
She’s wild and unhinged, and as I lick and suck and stroke into her, I’m dizzy with the knowledge that I’ve seen both sides of this woman I’ve craved for almost a year. Sweet and spicy. Bashful and badass.
As she loosens her grip on my hair, I kiss my way slowly up her body. Mons pubis, ilium, navel, xiphoid process. I breathe in the hollow between her breasts, drunk with the scent of her skin.
“Bradley.” She giggles, suddenly shy as she struggles to sit up. “That was incredible.” One dark curl falls over a flushed cheek, and she’s so achingly beautiful my chest hurts.
“I loved it.” Another kiss at the edge of her collarbone. “So much.”
She smiles and tucks the curl behind her ear. “Let me return the favor.”
She starts to reach for my fly, which is straining with the force of my hard-on. But I catch her hand in mine and draw her fingers to my lips. “Later,” I murmur as I kiss one fingertip, then the next. “We’ve got time.”
“But—”
“I’m satisfied, Iz,” I assure her. “Very satisfied. Besides, we need to get you fed.”
And I need to get myself out of this bed before I lose every shred of self-control. Not sexually, that’s not what I’m worried about. But I’m teetering way too close to falling for Izzy, which is exactly what we agreed wouldn’t happen. Staying here in her bed is a surefire way to send myself careening over the edge.
I ease off the mattress and smile. “Wait here. I’ll grab your sweater.”
Before she can object, I hustle to the kitchen where the red cashmere rests on the edge of the counter. I pick it up and flick a speck of dried corndog batter off the sleeve. While I’m at it, I turn the burner back on beneath the cooking oil. Might as well set a ticking clock so there’s no risk of tumbling back into her bed.
Glancing in the corner, I see Kevin still snoring on his pet bed, which is nothing short of miraculous. I half expected him to clamber up on the counter to raid the corndog fixin’s, so maybe he’s a better house pig than my mother thinks.
As I turn back toward the bedroom, something snags my gaze outside. A dark shadow moving between the trees beside Jon and Blanka’s cabin. I stare at the space, waiting for more movement, for the prickling of my arms to settle down.
But neither happens. Maybe I imagined it.
Or maybe there’s something Izzy’s still not telling me.
“Why’d you write that?”
I glance up from scribbling on the chart to see the scowling patient peering at my clipboard. “The prescription for azithromycin? It’s an antibiotic used for treating bronchitis.”
“Nah, the other thing.” He stands up, gown gaping open as he walks around me to point at the chart. “Right there—you called me an SOB.”
Fighting to keep a straight face, I recap my pen and tuck it in my lab coat. “That’s ‘shortness of breath.’” I stand up and put some distance between me and Mr. Corsica who, for the record, is kind of an SOB. “With rest and medication, we’ll have you feeling like yourself again in just a few days.”
“You sure you’re not bullshitting me, doc?” He scowls, underscoring my uncharitable thought. “‘Cuz maybe it’s Guillain-Barré syndrome. I read about that on the internet.”
Swallowing back the urge to ask where he got his medical degree, I take a step toward the door. “A good theory, but you’re not experiencing any prickling in your fingers or toes. As far as you’ve told me, you’re not having any loss of bladder or bowel function?” He also has no history of Zika virus exposure, which would be a precursor to this extremely rare condition.
My patient frowns. “Yeah, I guess it could be plain old bronchitis.”
“A sound diagnosis.” I reach for the door. “I’ll call in the prescription right away. You can get dressed now.”
“Hmph.” He adjusts his gown, making it evident he ignored my instructions to keep his underwear on beneath it.
I escape out into the hall and stop to scrub my hands before beelining it for my office. I’ve just finished calling in the scrip when there’s a knock at my door.
“Come in.” My pathetic heart does a hopeful surge at the thought it could be Izzy. Unlikely, since she seemed uncomfortable the last time she stopped by, plus we’ve pledged to keep things casual. Visiting someone at work seems more like a relationship thing, but I can’t help holding my breath as the door swings open.
“Hey, Dr. Doofus.” My sister lopes through, smiling as her gaze sweeps my face. “What? You were expecting someone cooler?”
“There’s no one cooler than you.” I deliver the line with the necessary drizzle of sarcasm, earning me a punch to the shoulder. “What brings you by?”
Julia drops into the chair beside my desk and sighs. “Just had lunch with Mom. Did you know she started using Tinder?”
“The hookup app?” Not that I’m judging, since I’ve made use of it in the past. “Does she know how it works?”
My sister makes a face. “She showed me her chat history with some guy she swiped right on. His first message to her said, ‘are you feeling ill?’”
“Ill? What, like some kind of jab about her age?” I consider the career implications of dismembering a guy who insults my mother.
“On the contrary.” Julia pretends to gag. “He followed it up by saying, ‘you look like you could use a shot of penis-illin.’”