I’d made a noise to let her know she was right, but I wasn’t happy about it.
“Here’s the deal: you want her, she wants you. I know you’ve got some sort of complex about it because you’re Saint fucking Lowry, but you need to get over that. And you’re going to have to go after her and fall on your sword real hard. You need to tell her you fucked up. Give her all the explanations you want, but the bottom line is that you hurt and embarrassed her even though you want the same things. So go apologize before I have to fly halfway across the country to drag you over to her apartment by the ear so I can smash your faces together already. Honestly.”
I did not want Maeve doing anything of the sort, so here I am with a sacrifice of only the best colors of Gatorade and some actual saltines. Which are frankly, getting heavy, so I set them down, and lean my forehead against the door. I don’t have a sword handy, so this will have to do. I take a deep breath before I fall. Or rather, throw myself.
“I know why you canceled dinner. And it wasn’t stomach flu. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you last night. That wasn’t my intention at all. But for my own peace of mind…”
I shove my hands into my pockets because there is no peace of mind in this situation. I suspect I will always feel uneasy on some level and wonder if I’m taking advantage of her, speculate about whether we would’ve ever gotten together if Starla had never been my patient. I’d like to think so, but how would I ever know for sure?
Starla’s got this theory about why Padme married Anakin, even though he’s, and I quote, “a whiny-ass, insecure, volatile, abusive man-child.” It’s because Anakin is inadvertently exerting mind control on her. I’m no Star Wars expert like she is, so I can’t say whether this theory holds water, but what I do know is if something similar is going on here—if I’m using my knowledge of Starla’s psyche to manipulate her—I would feel like the lowest creature that ever walked the earth.
Much as I want her, much as I want to believe I could make her happy and take good care of her, I can’t take just any opportunity to have her. If there’s anything I can do to reassure myself that she is reasonably, rationally, choosing me of her own free will and not because I’m performing some kind of Jedi-psychiatrist mind trick nonsense on her, then I’m going to do it.
Part of that means I can’t have her under the influence of anything when she says…
My heart constricts, squeezes tight, and I lose my breath when I remember her palms on my chest, her nails scratching at my pecs as she looked up at me and confessed that she likes me, as a man, and that she’d like to be kissed. By me.
I shake my head to clear it, but there’s no getting Starla out of my head. It was unfair for me to send her off and put the burden of vulnerability on her again. Be a man, Lowry. You want this woman, and the least you can do is tell her the feeling is mutual. If she wants you back, all she has to do is call and you’ll come running. Hell, she can tell you to go away and you’d still come running, because you’re a bloody fool.
“I…I’m here to tell you that I like you. Very much. Not just as someone to have dinner with, not only as someone to fetch hot cocoa for after I’ve forced you to muddle about on ice skates. I like you, Starla Patrick. As a woman. A woman I would like to date because you are intelligent and beautiful. You are captivating, funny, sexy, and stubborn. I’d like to believe that you feel anywhere near the same way about me, but given how our relationship started, I want to be very careful. Make sure you don’t—that we’re actually—that I’m not…”
Her door swings open, and I nearly take a header into her but catch myself on the doorframe. She might not be sick, but she’s no longer dressed for work or wearing the pretty clothes she usually sports for our dinners. No, she’s got on some socks that go above her knees and tie with ribbons—pink goddamn ribbons, in the name of everything holy—some black ruffled shorts, a Hello Kitty sweatshirt that’s falling off one shoulder, and her hair’s up in what my admins would call a messy bun.
With her pink cheeks and wide eyes, the most hopeful expression on her face, she’s never looked lovelier to me.
“Anakin to my Padme?”
“Aye, that’s the right of it. I’d even been thinking that. Should’ve put it that way in the first place, but sometimes I talk too much, and how could I do that if I used an apt allusion you’d latch onto straight away?”
She nods, her mouth pinched in a way that makes me feel as though she’s trying not to laugh at me. I ought to say something else, but for the life of me, I can’t think of what else to say. So I stand there, like some sort of numpty.
“Lowry?”
Thank God she’s not speechless. “Yes?”
Instead of saying anything else, she takes a couple of steps toward me, closes the gap between us. I try to suck in a breath as she crosses the threshold. She’s knocked the wind out of me, and my whole body is straining, alight, primed, and ready. Touch me please, Starla. I wasn’t prepared last night but I am now and I swear I won’t let you down again.
Her hands come up, and she hesitates oh-so-slightly before she gingerly lays them on my chest again, same as she had before.
Something crackles between us, and I nearly swallow my tongue as she slowly slides her palms up to my shoulders, curls her fingers around my neck, and finally slips them into my hair. It’s enough to make a man short-circuit, and every part of me seems to be on the fritz. Breath coming quick and shallow, heart beating wildly against my ribs, muscles in my stomach and my hands contracting, and hell, I’m blinking too much. I need a damn reset button, perhaps a rewind that would let me try this over again because I must look rather daft.
But Starla seems to either be oblivious or not mind. She comes up on her tiptoes, using her hold on me for balance, and tips her head, studying my face as though she’s never seen me before. Perhaps she never has, not like this. With the confirmation that my interest in her is not platonic, nor is it in the least professional, but is in fact, deep, romantic, sexual, and more abiding than I hope she’ll ever know.
Her lashes flutter as she leans closer and I have to swallow. Speech is out of the question but I could at least breathe well enough to not pass out. When she’s so close our lips nearly brush together, so close that I can feel her breath on my mouth, she says, “I’ve dreamed of this.”
And then she kisses me.
Chapter 15
Starla
At first I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. His mouth said one thing, and now his…yeah, still his mouth, is saying something else. Yes and then no.
In all the times I imagined kissing Lowry and how it might be, never did I imagine he’d be so…stiff. Except in the appropriate area, of course. That, I had pictured being long and thick and so hard it was nearly bursting with his desire for me. But the marble-statue thing hadn’t ever appeared in my fantasies, not even during my Twilight phase. Lowry was always warm and passionate, and he’d always touch me. He’s not touching me, nor is he moving at all.
He regrets this already, his attachment to being righteous and honorable and professional overtaking the confession he just made, and the thought has me pulling away from him, parting my lips from his. Yeah, no, this was not how I’d pictured things at all and mortification is starting to twine around me.
His hair is softer than I thought it would be, and the stubble on his face scratchier, but the feel of his shoulders and traps as I skimmed my hands over them were precisely as I thought they’d be. Now I know that for sure. And if I can ever bring myself to rub one out while I think of him after this—the hurt and humiliation will take a while to burn off—then I’ll know how it feels.
I start to stagger back, holding up my hands and shaking my head, issuing apologies for I’m not quite sure what, but this has gone very badly and somehow it’s my fault, probably. But as I’m wiping our kiss off my mouth with the back of my wrist and about to shut the door to my apartment, he’s there.
Covering the distance my dozen stumbling steps put between u
s with two of his own quick strides, Lowry takes my face in his hands with a sound that can only be called a growl.
“Not on your life. I’ve fucked up enough things with you, and not on your life am I going to be that big of an arse again.”
And then, then—
Yes, this is much more like how I’d pictured it. Lowry’s lips against mine, not at all shy or still now but slanting over my mouth with a pressure that makes me want to give in, yield to him. Which I do with a sound I’d be ashamed of except that I’m too busy being kissed.
It’s not just his mouth, either. One of his big hands slides up and his fingers spear into my hair until he makes a fist around the strands, holding me fast in a way that makes my knees weak. Lucky for me, his other arm has come around my waist and he nearly hauls me against him. Draws me in until we’re pressed together from chest to thighs.
This is more like it, oh yes, far more like it. His tongue coaxing my lips to part and then licking inside as though he wants to taste every inch of me. As though he’s been thirsting for years and I’m the only source of water that could possibly satisfy.
There’s a slam and I open my eyes for a blink to see Lowry’s kicked the door closed. That’s good because some of my neighbors have children, and I don’t think this is going to stay G-rated for very long. Hell, with the way Lowry’s hand is coming down to take a firm hold of my ass cheek, I think we’re into maybe PG-13 territory already? And the way he squeezes, kneads, pulls me closer even though we’re already touching—it’s heady. As is the feeling of…
Oh yes. His erection is hard against my stomach and I want to be closer, feel it at the apex of my thighs, so I wrap a leg around him. Which doesn’t quite work because he’s too goddamn tall. He withdraws from my mouth and I chase after him, but he’s not going far. Just letting out a soft, strained laugh before bending his knees slightly and then hefting me up. I wrap my legs around him and hook my ankles at the small of his back to take some of my weight off his arms and, oh god.
“Is that what you were looking for?” he asks, rocking my hips against his length, and all I can do is whimper. And kiss him again. Hard. Greedily, like I’ll never get enough because I don’t think I ever will.
It’s a funny thing, to have one of your dreams come true. There are things I want that I’ll never be able to have, but the universe has seen fit to give me a chance with this man and you’d better believe I’m going to hold onto him with everything I have. And a bit unbelievingly, because I’d thought even if he did in fact want me, he’d never dare to have me because of what it would say about him as a doctor. As a person people put their deepest trust in. It’s an overwhelming feeling to think he wants me so badly that his desire would overcome his sense of honor, his commitment to being the consummate professional, his precious ethics. It’s enough to make my head spin. Or perhaps I’m not getting enough oxygen because of how fervently I’m kissing him.
It’s been a while, and I’d like to believe that’s why I start grinding against him shamelessly. I suspect, though, that this would’ve been my reaction to Lowry-in-the-flesh whenever I would’ve gotten this chance.
It’s perhaps a strange thought to have, since I do in fact regularly have electricity shot through my skull, though I’ve never been awake for that. No, I’m always very carefully anesthetized so my body doesn’t actually bear the physical effects of the seizures they induce. But that’s the only way I can explain how this feels—like there’s electricity coursing through my entire body and I’m buzzing with it. Giddy, but not drunk—everything is razor sharp and in hyperfocus. The way Lowry tastes as his tongue plunders my mouth, the way he smells at this distance, and Jesus, yes, the way he feels between my thighs.
He carries me over to my bed and lowers me onto it, careful not to fall with all his weight on me as he follows. I laugh, because oh my. This is impossible. It is impossible that Lowry Campbell is hovering over me, looking down at me like I am some kind of miracle and he can’t believe this is happening. Impossible.
“What’s so funny?”
He’s looking down at me with a gentle smile, twirling a lock of my hair around his finger.
“Nothing’s funny, it’s… I’m…”
“It’s a lot, yes?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’m kind of overwhelmed. I never thought this would happen and now that it is, I don’t even know what to do with myself? Because when I try to figure it out, all I can think is that I want everything.”
He releases the curl he’d wound around his finger and threads his hand into my hair, kissing me at the corner of my eye. It’s so swoony I might die.
“I know how you feel. It’s the same way for me, when I look at you. I don’t even know where to start.”
Indeed, his gaze is roving all over me and I can feel it almost as keenly as where he’s actually touching me. Though if I had to choose, I’d pick his real touch every time.
“And I feel as though I might have gone about this a bit wrong already. I got carried away and I didn’t think to ask. Is this okay? Me, like this, on you? Or is it too much? I can—”
“Don’t you dare.”
To make my point, I fist my hands in his hair and pull him down to kiss again, possibly squirming and pressing a bit against him, because how can I not? This is marvelous, he’s marvelous. And a damn good kisser, which surprises me not at all.
“Mmm, Star…”
It’s hard to find the space to answer him, but I do, between kisses.
“Yeah?”
“I am enjoying this. So much, but I…”
“Yeah?”
Apparently my vocabulary has shrunk to one word but who can blame me?
He leans up, seeming a bit short of breath, and samesies. I can barely breathe and not because he’s lying on top of me. I let go of his hair reluctantly and knit my hands behind his neck instead. I’m unwilling to let him go entirely.
“It’s very important to me to be careful with you. Not because I think you’re fragile. I know better than almost anyone that you’re no such thing. But it’s also…” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I feel very protective of you, and I’d never want to hurt you if it can be avoided. I’m saying this, and yet I’ve already manhandled you and hauled you to your bed like some kind of brute.”
“I, um, like it. The manhandling that is. And the hauling.”
His lips part and he seems to stop breathing.
“And see, that’s good for me to know. I’m not going to treat you like some kind of porcelain figurine if you’d rather be…”
“Manhandled.”
“Aye, that.”
“But?”
“But I need to know. So, perhaps before this goes any further, we could talk? About the things you like and the things you don’t? If you want to take this slow—”
“I don’t.”
It’s his turn to laugh, his entire torso vibrating with it, and I’m pretty proud of myself. I like making him laugh.
“Noted. I’m not particularly inclined to take things slow myself given how long I’ve waited for this, but whatever you want, I’ll be respectful of your wishes.”
How long he’s waited? How long has he waited? What, like a few months? I’ve been waiting for almost twenty years, but sure, several months is the absolute same. I won’t be petty about that now, though. Maybe later.
“And what about your wishes? Don’t those count at all?”
“Aye, course they do, but…”
“I swear to god if you pull some weaker sex bullshit, I’m going to headbutt you.”
“I would never. But I suspect my appetite for you is basically insatiable, so I’m going to have to rely on your better sense to reel me in.”
“The assumption that I have better sense is, well, questionable at best.”
“Be that as it may, I think we should talk. Because of consent and all that good stuff. And probably not in your bed because the odds of me getting distracted by you if we stay here ar
e approximately one hundred percent.”
I roll my eyes, faking exasperation. “Fine. Under one condition.”
“What’s that?”
He kisses just below my ear and it makes me shiver. Perhaps I should have insisted upon multiple conditions. But hopefully we’ll get this done blip-bloppity-bloop and then the making out can start again. And then beyond making out.
“You manhandle me over to the couch.”
He answers me with a bite to my earlobe and now I really regret not making more demands.
“Deal.”
Then he’s scooping me up, and I have to cling to him. Gee, darn. Super hate having to wrap my limbs around him and hold on for dear life while he’s carrying me across my apartment. I’m only too happy when he sits, with me landing in his lap. I was worried he was going to make me sit on the opposite side from him so we could do this properly, whatever that means. This is better, way better. A straddle is not my favorite way to be in a man’s lap, but I will take this for sure. Particularly when his hands land on my waist and it’s only seconds before they drift down to my hips and his fingers skim over the curve of my butt to rest on my thighs, right between my stockings and my shorts.
“Will you be insulted if I say you look very cute?”
I roll my lips between my teeth and shake my head. “No. I like looking cute. I would only be insulted if you said it in a condescending way while patting my head. Don’t get me wrong, I like to be petted but that’s different from patting.”
He cocks his head.
“What? There’s a goddamn distinction.”
He laughs again and the resulting smile lingers. “What’s that exactly?”
“Why don’t you try it and see? I’ll tell you which one you’re doing. Here…”
I pull the elastic from my hair because while perfectly sufficient patting can be achieved with a messy bun, any petting that results would be subpar.
For Her Own Good Page 16