by Amy Daws
I tuck his towel under my arm, turn on my heel, and sludge my soggy feet across his room. Then I click the lock on his door. When I turn back, he’s limping into the room toward his bed. He quirks a brow at the sound of the lock.
Without hesitating, I peel my scrub top off over my head. His eyes drift down to my wet, white cotton bra, and the flicker in his gaze makes my insides clench. It feels so wrong but so right at the same time. He licks his lips as I take my time wrapping the towel around my chest, enjoying the feel of his heated eyes on me. The lust crackling in the air between us is intense and—
Oh my God, it’s turning me on!
Even knowing this, I still don’t want to stop. I can’t stop. Some dormant inner sex kitten has awakened inside of me and completely taken over my body. I’m now being commanded by my vagina and that duplicitous brain of mine is on a holiday in Yorkshire for all I know. Maybe it’s this room. It doesn’t even feel like the hospital. It feels like a hotel room. A hotel room where very bad things can happen.
When I conceal myself under the towel, I hear a growl of frustration come from somewhere in his throat. Satisfied, I skillfully kick out of my shoes and shimmy out of my pants, underwear, and finally, my bra.
We stand facing each other in matching towels, completely bare underneath. The only thing separating us is ten feet and a single piece of fabric. The realisation of that fact causes our breaths to come heavier than before. I can’t stop appreciating the full fleshy sight of him in nothing but a towel. Good God, he really is nothing short of male, human anatomy perfection.
“Impressive,” he states deadpan.
I don’t know if he’s referring to my body or my skilled act of getting naked under a towel. Either way, my voice is shaky when I reply, “Can you get me those clothes now, please?”
I fear if he doesn’t get me clothes, I will do something even more stupid than this moment right now, which is already catastrophically senseless.
He remains frozen in place.
“Please, Camden?” I ask again and cross my arms over my chest. “Your night nurse might be coming any minute.”
He glances at the clock. “Actually, we have a whole hour.”
“Are you sure?” My nakedness doesn’t feel as empowering as it did initially.
“Positive,” he murmurs as he grabs his brace up off the bed and deftly secures it over his injured knee. He finishes and stands up straight, mirroring my pose by folding his arms over his chest. His biceps widen and flex, and my eyes take note of the veins running the length of his forearms.
“I’ll get you some clothes, but I’ve got a bone to pick with you first and it has nothing to do with the one you’re slicing into tomorrow.” His familiar challenging eye twinkle is back and it’s actually kind of comforting.
“We’re not slicing into your bone tomorrow, Camden.” I roll my eyes.
“Semantics,” he grumbles. His damp chest rises with a deep breath before he continues, “You seemed awful keen on avoiding me today.”
I frown, shocked by his accusation that I never saw coming. “I had somewhere to be,” I retort, marching closer to him to state my case. I’m stunned to see a flicker of hurt in his eyes, but he quickly conceals it. My voice softens, “And it’s a good thing I left when I did or Dr. Prichard might have caught me in here.”
His blue eyes narrow further, his lashes covering the colour almost entirely. “Why didn’t you want to take me for my MRI? I’ve heard you’ve been around. My family have all talked to you. That intern. But despite the fact that you are my doctor, not theirs, you avoided me like I had a bad case of herpes, which I know is fully cleared up right now.”
“You have herpes?” I screech and slap my hand over my mouth, afraid of drawing his nurse’s attention outside.
“Fuck no, Indie. It’s a bloody joke.”
“Why would you joke about a lifelong STD?”
He scoffs and drops his hands to his hips. “You have my damn medical chart. You’d know if I had herpes.”
He’s right. For a moment I forgot I am his doctor.
“Would it disappoint you if I had herpes?” he asks, his tone far too serious.
“Yes! What the hell are you going on about?”
“Why would it bother you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why would you care if I had an STD?”
“Because it’s herpes. It’d be weird if I wasn’t bothered. And…” I falter.
“And what?” he volleys.
“And I’m…”
“And what?” he snaps.
“And I’m interested in you!”
His brows lift. “Are you? Because as far as I can tell, you’re just a bird who fell asleep in a chair and buggered off without another word. Our bodies have barely touched.”
“Oh, sod off. It was more than that.” The words feel stroppy in my mouth.
“You left without a word. That was a bloke move and I didn’t like it.” His arms flex and my eyes fall to that perfect V-line peeking out from his towel. How is it that all footballers seem to have that V? How is it that I’m still ogling his half naked body right now?
“Camden, I’m your doctor. You are my patient.” I exhale, trying to get a hold of myself. “This whole thing is an ethical disaster that I can’t seem to get away from. Bloody hell, what did you expect this morning? Breakfast in bed and a goodbye snog?” I grumble.
Is this real life? Is Camden Harris seriously insecure over me? I can’t even comprehend this logic. He’s one of the hottest footballers in London. But looking at his face, I’d venture to say he’s hurt and that my sharp tongue isn’t helping matters.
“Christ, I’m sorry, all right?” I add.
His brows lift in shock, as if he’s impressed that after all that I apologised.
“Are you herpes sorry?” His hard eyes hide a playful twinkle.
“I don’t even know what that means,” I groan.
A soft laugh shakes his shoulders. “Fine, let’s get back to that goodbye kiss you mentioned.” He begins moving toward me with slow, tender steps. I could laugh at how easy it is for him to change course, but even with an injury, Camden Harris moving toward me is no joking matter. Those intense eyes make me forget all about why I tried to avoid him all day.
“What about a goodbye kiss?” I ask, the pitch of my voice suddenly deeper. My treacherous gaze moves to his bare chest and curves over to his half-sleeved arm. I never knew I liked tattoos until I saw his.
“The way I see it, that kiss we had in the ICU seems like a long time ago. All day, I’ve been trying to determine if it was as good as I remember, or if it was just the adrenaline from my injury. Let’s see if those sparks are still there. Then we’ll know if these risks are worth the rewards.”
I’m pretty sure I should be offended by his last remark, but I’m too busy staring at his lips as he comes within inches of my face. His warm breath is mixing with mine and it’s an intoxicating combination. It invigorates a completely different part of my brain—the part that acts on raw feelings and emotion. Primitive in nature.
But the right side of my brain knows that what we’re doing could get me into serious trouble and maybe even cost me my job. But his scent. His face. His body. His being is so overwhelming and exciting, I can’t think straight. My hormones have completely taken my body hostage.
How can one person seem so very wrong but so very right all at the same time?
“I like the red specs,” he murmurs before his arms snake around my waist and pull me to him. My hands land on his bare chest. The sensation of his skin against mine and the wrongness of it all are exactly what urge me on.
“I’m going to kiss you again.” His lips flutter so close to mine it already feels as if we’re kissing.
“Are you sure we—” My weak response is cut off by the unapologetic fervor of his mouth on mine. I squeeze out a surprised moan as he smothers me with his hard body and slides his tongue forcefully into my mouth. Reflexively, my eyes
roll to the back of my head as my limbs desperately grope every square inch of his upper body, searching, pleading, grasping for some sense of sanity. Some sense of awareness of my surroundings. Some lifeline to pull me out of this danger.
But I don’t find it. I only find mounds of hard, roped, and incredibly smooth muscle. God, does it feel good. And bad. And oh, so right. He’s consuming me as if I’m Christmas dinner and he hasn’t eaten in months. I nearly squeal with excitement when his right hand drops to my towel-covered arse and palms it decadently.
He pulls me snuggly against his crotch.
Against his erection.
It’s in that one pump of his hips that I realise with a thunderous thud of my heart that the playboy flirt who kissed me when he came into Patch Alley yesterday is gone.
Instead, he is replaced by a sinfully arousing and totally mind-blowing conqueror that is Camden Harris.
And I am screwed.
SHE FEELS UNPRACTISED. UNREHEARSED. UNTAINTED. Unwrapped. Indie Porter is like a Christmas gift I’ve been waiting for my entire life that has finally arrived and I don’t know which part I want to play with first.
I pull my tongue out from the deep wetness of her mouth and sink my teeth into her lush lower lip, sucking off the lemony sweetness. This is the same lower lip she was biting seconds earlier as she stared at me in my towel like she wanted to fuck me right then and there.
I probably would have let her. I was mad a minute ago and trying to decide if she was worth the trouble, but this woman has something on me that I can’t seem to step away from. I want her. I want her more than she wants me…and that never happens to me. Ever. I woke up with a raging boner this morning thinking about this sexy redhead. Then she stood there watching me like I was some regular patient she was taking care of.
I’m putting a stop to that right now. With this kiss, I’m determined to remind her what it means to be mouth-fucked by Camden Harris. I have to even out the stakes between us.
Strangely, now that I’ve confirmed that kissing Indie Porter really is this bloody fantastic, I actually care what she has to say. I want to peel back the layers of this uniquely wrapped present and discover why she is the way she is, which is also a novel concept for me.
Whatever she is, it’s working for me.
Last night I felt different with her beside me. Normally when I spend the night with a bird, I’m anxious for the morning so I can bugger off. I didn’t feel that at all with Indie. In fact, I felt disappointed that I couldn’t hold her throughout the night. I don’t know if it was the pain meds or the Indie Porter Valium I had injected in me from our first kiss. All I know is that I needed to feel the warmth of her.
Now that this kiss is as hot as I had hoped, I want more. I want to feel every breath, every gasp, every shift, every contented sigh. She refused to fully let go with me last night, but tonight I see the desire in the pools of her eyes. She needs something from me and, whatever it is, I hope she lets me give it to her.
I pull my mouth away from her pillowy-soft lips and rest my forehead against hers. “Why do you always taste like lemons?” I exhale. “Tell me.”
“Are you actually going to let me finish a thought this time? You cut me off before.” The corner of her mouth tilts up and I cover it with mine again, kissing her sarcasm good and dead.
I break away once more, satisfied when she pulls in a big gulp of air. My morbid fascination is still demanding. “I have to know. Why lemons?” I pull back further so my eyes can feast on hers.
“Sherbet lemons.” She licks her lips slowly. “I keep them in my pockets because sometimes I don’t get to eat all day. It helps to keep my blood sugar up.”
She smirks up at me, her toffee eyes twinkling within the frames of her glasses. I huff a soft laugh against her face. I’m grateful that she’s answering my question and not ruining this moment by letting her fears seep back in.
“I like them,” I say before I briefly kiss her again for one more taste.
When I pull away and open my eyes, she tilts her head. Her brown eyes flash on mine with a bewildered look. I wish I could read her mind because she seems to be making some sort of decision that I’m not privy to.
Before I can ask her about it, she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me hard against her lips. She drives her tongue so deep into my mouth, it sends my body into overdrive.
She’s definitely not afraid anymore.
“I want you, Indie,” I groan, breaking our kiss and dragging my forehead down her cheek until my mouth is on her neck. It’s cold and wet from her impromptu shower but feels utterly perfect. Her hand braces on my chest as she tilts back to give me more access to her towel-covered chest.
“I need you,” I croak, clasping her hand and sliding it down my chest, along my abs, and over top of the towel to the firmness between my legs. She lets out an audible, throaty gasp at the proof beneath the fabric. “Now,” I demand, even though I know I would get down on my knees and beg if she asked me to.
“Oh my God,” she moans loudly into my mouth as her small, delicate fingers slide against the length of me.
I quickly kiss her to quiet her voice. We can’t be interrupted. I need this to happen. I need to hear her voice cry out while I’m buried inside of her, even if I do have to swallow every whimper.
“I’ve got condoms.” I pull her down onto the bed so we’re sitting on the edge, angled toward each other. The relief in my knee is appreciated.
I lick and nibble my way up to her ear. She tastes like rain. Now I’m thinking that taking her in the shower sounds about perfect…and concealed. “Tell me you want me, Indie.”
“I want you,” she says without a second’s hesitation.
Pleased, I smile against her collarbone. “Give me a second to fetch one. I’ll be right back.”
“Condoms.” She grips my arms back toward her in some strange state of delirium. Her eyes are wide as she adds, “Condoms. No. We can’t, Cam. Not here.”
I cup her face, my brow furrowing with concern. “We have plenty of time. If it’s my knee you’re worried about, I’ll let you ride on top. I’m dying to feel you, Indie.” My hand trails between her towel-covered breasts, venturing lower. Her eyes flutter closed as I find a small gap between her thighs. She spreads her legs for me, shifting further toward the edge of the bed and inviting me in. She wants this just as much as I do. Buggered knee or not, we can handle this.
I push the rough fabric of the towel between her thighs. I could easily slip my hand in and palm her, skin on skin, but I want to wait. I want to be ready to slide into her before I feel all that I know she will be. She pumps her hips into my touch with shameless need, and I groan as her pink tongue darts out to lick her lips.
“What do you want me to do? Name it, Specs, and I’ll do it. I know what I want.”
Her drooped eyes hang on every one of my words, but she lets out a mournful groan and abruptly grabs my hand and pulls it away from her. “You don’t get it.” She stands up on shaky legs and awkwardly covers herself with her hands. Her eyes look wide with fear. “We seriously can’t.”
“Why? Is it the herpes thing?” I ask, thinking a joke might lighten her up a bit. I reach up and take her hand, stroking the soft skin of her wrist with my thumb. “I was being a sod, I told you.”
“It’s not you, it’s me.” She pulls back from me and fists her hands against her sides.
“You have herpes?” I ask, rearing back. All arousal is sucked dry.
“No!” she croaks. “That wouldn’t even be possible.”
“What are you saying? I’m the man-whore footballer, so I’m the only one in this scenario who could ever get the herp?” I snap defensively.
“Sensitive much? That’s not what I’m saying at all. Although, if either of us were to have it, it would have to be you.”
“Oh bollocks, I always use protection. I don’t go bareback with anyone. Ever. And I get checked regularly. It’s you innocent-looking types that are the most dangerous.�
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Her mouth falls open. “What does that mean?”
This is escalating quickly, but I can’t stop snapping at her. She makes me crazy. “Well, the quiet ones always have the most secrets.”
“I’m not quiet!”
“No, but you have the innocent bit down to a science.”
“It’s not a bit.”
“Don’t come off like you’re too perfect to get an STD. You and I aren’t that different.”
“Typically you’d have to have some type of sex to get herpes, Cam!” she exclaims with a frustrated stomp of her foot. A deep blush crawls up her neck and hits her cheeks within seconds like she just realised what she blurted out.
I scowl, feeling completely mind-fucked. I run my hands through my hair and rise up from the bed and into her space. “Indie, spell it out for me. I have a raging boner doing all my proper thinking at the moment and he’s got a one-track mind.”
“Aside from the fact that I’m not going to let you rail me at my place of work…I’m a virgin, okay?” she groans and her hands move to cover the deep, crimson red consuming her face.
I swear her voice echoes in the distance like a shout from the top of a mountain.
Virgin…virgin…virgin…virgin.
My sarcasm arrives first on the scene. “Why don’t you shout that one more time? We want to be sure Beardie heard it in the cheap seats.”
“Shut it,” she snaps, shoving me in the chest. I limp to keep the impact off my bad knee. “There is something horribly wrong with me. What am I doing? You’re my patient…”
While she goes off on a rant to herself, I look down at poor Camden Junior still looking mighty strong beneath the towel. A virgin is a game changer. At least inside the walls of this hospital. Outside, on the other hand…
I look up at her, my face still the picture of stunned. “I can hardly believe it.”
“What?” she barks.
“I’ve heard of women like you. Women that save themselves for their wedding night. But I thought you were an urban myth.”