Too late. I dig my thumbs into the knotted muscles at the top of her spine. “Relax.”
“My hand is wide open. I can see bone.”
“Don’t look at it.” I move my fingers down her back, kneading along her spine, gently at first, then harder as I settle my hands on her hips. They’ll be just out of sight of the resident when they come in to do the sutures.
“I can’t help myself.”
“And if I order you not to look?”
She freezes. She’s still breathing, but they’re shallow little pants. That won’t do at all.
“Deep breathes, kitten.”
“Max, we can’t—”
“Exceptional circumstances.” My voice is low enough nobody else can hear me. “I promise I won’t fuck you right here in front of all these people, as much as the idea of taking you in front of a crowd does appeal. But not this one. Another, more anonymous gathering. Everyone in masks, maybe. I like that idea a lot. But right now, I’m just using the only tool at my disposal to calm you down. Think of me as a stress ball or something.”
“But I’m the one being squeezed.”
“And that’s how you like it.”
A long pause, then her head jerks reluctantly in a sharp nod.
“Until the sutures are done, you must not look at your hand. I know you can do that. You have the most beautiful self-restraint I’ve ever seen. Deep breaths. Show me how good you can be, Violet.” As the resident walks in, I pinch her, hard, and she lifts her head.
“Ready to go?” the resident asks, and Violet nods.
I give her another pinch on the same spot, then smooth over it with my thumb. How I want that to be bare skin I’m rubbing, feeling the warmth of my mark for myself.
It doesn’t take long. The resident is good, and Violet doesn’t move a muscle. The whole time, I’m holding her, and when we’re alone again, she sags back against me.
Fuck.
She doesn’t say anything as she quietly climbs off the gurney. I move the other way, and before I can figure out what to say, the nurse is back with Violet’s discharge orders.
Wait, I want to command her. Wait and let me explain what the hell that was all about. But we both know.
And now I just need to figure out how to see her again.
9
Violet
A week goes by before I see Max again. I pour myself into work, trying like hell not to think about the low rub of his voice in my ear, his hands on my shoulders.
Since the moment I first laid eyes on Max, I’ve known he’s dangerous. Hell, that’s what I wanted from him that first night.
But now? Now that he’s shown himself to be kind and thoughtful and completely without mercy in how he’ll use those traits to get what he wants…
I’m starting to think my capitulation is inevitable—which means when Hannah tells me he’s on the phone, I ask her to tell him I’m in court.
“Did he give you a message?” I ask when she brings in a file a half-hour later.
“Who?” She searches her memory. “Oh, Max Donovan? No.”
And so it goes, three more times that week. By Thursday, Hannah’s starting to wonder why I don’t want to talk to a client. I tell her something innocuous about needing more time on his incorporation and not wanting to needlessly jack up his billable hours.
I don’t think she believes me. Max is already blurring the lines between professional and private and we haven’t done anything.
Again.
We haven’t done anything again. Because we did a hell of a lot in July when he wasn’t my client.
And he might have used his kinky genius to help me get through stitches when he was very much a client.
Those stitches are a constant reminder of him. The cut is healing nicely now, pink and tight, kind of itchy. The ER doc told me I could see my family physician next week to check on the healing and have the stitches taken out.
I can’t wait. Driving is a bit of a pain. Not that I’m letting that stop me from heading to the market on Saturday.
Not the market where Max is playing hockey, though. And even if that summer market was still running, I’d stay far clear of it.
Probably.
Sigh. Probably not. But I’d want to.
So I’m grateful that I don’t have that temptation, that the outdoor market is closed for the season and my only option for the yummiest muffins in the city is the indoor market downtown.
In hindsight, I should have considered the possibility that saying as much to Max last weekend was a stupid thing to do.
But it honestly didn’t occur to me that he would be waiting for me at the bakery stand.
And yet there he is, sitting on a bench in the middle of the intersection of two aisles, reading his phone.
Well, he’s holding his phone.
His gaze is securely locked on me as I approach him.
A million thoughts rocket through my mind, but all that comes out of my mouth is the exceptionally pedestrian, “What are you doing here?”
He stands without smiling. “I wanted to see you.”
I’m on edge. Who am I kidding—I’ve been on edge for weeks now. This just shoves me closer to tipping off the emotional cliff. “The normal thing to do in that situation is call.”
“You wouldn’t take my calls.”
I can’t admit that I’ve been dodging him, that would be unprofessional. “I’m your lawyer. Of course I would.”
“I wouldn’t be calling as your client this time.”
“Then you’re absolutely right. I’d tell you personal contact isn’t appropriate.”
“Tell me that now.”
“I just did.”
“No, you said that’s what you would tell me.” He prowls toward me and my stomach drops. “Tell me to leave you alone.”
Heat coils tight and low in my belly. I can’t do that. The thought of not seeing Max again hurts. But this has to stop. That feeling has to die. “Shouldn’t you be playing hockey right now?”
“Couldn’t make it this week. I had a patient to check up on.” He points to my hand. “How’s it healing?”
See? He’s evil. I flush as I lift it up, showing him the stitches. “Just fine.”
“May I?” He waits for me to nod—reluctantly and eagerly at the same time, however that’s possible—before he takes my hand in his. He’s careful but sure as he looks at the stitches, then turns my hand this way and that before pronouncing that all looks well.
I slip my hand from his and clear my throat, trying to ignore the tingly feeling still skittering across my skin. “You know you shouldn’t be here.”
He doesn’t respond right away. His gaze follows my hand as I drop my arm back to my side, then he slowly pulls his eyes up to find my face. “I know you’re off-limits and I should call an escort service.” His voice dips, becoming more private, and it takes on a sharp edge. “Maybe I should arrange someone else to meet me at the Chateau Laurier. Excise the memory of your skin from the palm of my hand.”
Each word is a blade, and he wields them just as efficiently, slicing me open with surgical precision. The thought of him with another woman, giving her the spanking I never got, makes me see red. Probably the blood of my career, leaching out of me. “You’re not being fair.”
“What would be fair?”
I’m flustered and panicking, but I try not to let that show. I try to keep a handle on my flyaway heart and my terrified mind, but they’re both working overtime. Max has played me well. “You’re going to ruin me,” I whisper.
He gives me a long, solemn look. Less mean, more hurt little boy. “You’ve already ruined me. This makes us even.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “I’ve done nothing of the sort.”
“No?” He leans in close. “I told you. I haven’t been with another woman since you, Violet. I can’t bear the thought of another man touching you. And you tell me that we can’t happen again. You tell me that your submission is no longer mine to command. And you think I should ju
st blithely carry on?”
Images of us together flash through my mind and I force them away, swallowing hard against the desire surging up inside me. “Yes. I don’t know about blithely. I’m not going to pretend I’m not affected. But we move on. That’s what we do.”
“You’re such a pretty little liar.” His voice slides again, another try. Another angle. He’s a consummate actor, even after all these years. And this one…this approach is my kryptonite. This is what Max can give me that nobody else can, this dominance. His eyes glint with confidence as he watches me unravel. He deepens his voice. Commanding now. “But lying’s wrong. Liars should be punished.”
“That’s not your right.” My voice wavers. “You don’t have that power over me.”
He exhales roughly. “Is there someone else?”
I close my eyes. We’ve both danced around this, and I should reiterate that there isn’t, of course there isn’t. I can’t lie to him. Not about that. I can pretend a lot of things, but not cheating.
Not that it would be cheating.
My eyes fly open, wide and shocked at the thought.
He’s staring at my face, his gaze intent as he catalogues the myriad of emotions obviously playing out.
It couldn’t be cheating. We aren’t together.
We aren’t a thing.
Except we’re not not a thing.
We’re not together.
But we’re totally a thing. A hot, complicated, fucked-up, off-limits, can’t-happen thing.
So I can’t tell him again that he’s the only one I’ve been with, the only one I’ve thought of in months. I can’t give him that power when he’s already got me twisted up in knots.
Maybe it’s my lack of an answer, or maybe he just wants to try another approach, but his face softens and he tilts his head to the side. “I’m not asking for sex.”
Well, damn. “Then what do you want?” Because sex…I’d give him that in a heartbeat if there was a way. But him wanting something else…that was dangerous in a whole new way. Something faint started to flutter in my chest.
“Tonight?” He gives me a tight smile. Softness isn’t a mask Max can wear for very long. “I need a date—a platonic date, if you insist. My best friend is worried that I’m wasting away, and I’ve got a command performance for drinks. It was strongly suggested I bring a date.”
Again, the thought of Max dating turns my stomach. “Your personal life is none of my business,” I say weakly, but I’m tumbling hard and fast.
His eyes darken. “Of course it is. We can argue about that in greater detail tonight. Gavin and Ellie will enjoy weighing in, I’m sure.”
Gavin and Ellie. His concerned friends are the prime minister and his fiancée. I can’t play games in front of them—and I shouldn’t play games at all, not with my client. My face blanches, I can feel it, and my hands slick with sweat. “Max…”
“Well, at least that gets you to call me by my name,” he says smoothly. The confidence is back, and I fear it’s going to stay this time. “Come on. They’re the best chaperones you could have. I’ll be on my best behaviour, or Gavin will have my head.”
“He’s not the king.”
He shrugs that protest off. “I already told them you were coming.”
“No!”
“I’ll make it up to you by carrying your vegetable basket.”
“That’s hardly the same thing.”
But he’s taken it from me, his arm brushing against mine, and the fact we’re both wearing jackets is the only reason my skin doesn’t feel scalded from the contact.
It’s clear Max intends to spend the day with me. Shopping at the market. Probably follow me back to my place to help me put away my groceries.
Fucking me on the kitchen counter because I’m weaker than water.
This can’t happen.
So why is my pulse racing?
And when did my panties get wet?
10
Gavin
When I told Gavin I wouldn’t be at hockey, he issued the drinks invitation.
I may have lied a bit to Violet about the demand for a date. But as she picks out fruit, I text Gavin and the response is as I expected.
Hawkeye: I’m bringing someone tonight.
BJ: The woman you wooed with chocolates?
Hawkeye: That didn’t go over that well.
BJ: Someone else, then?
Hawkeye: No. Same woman. Still…wooing.
BJ: How uncomfortable does that make you?
Hawkeye: Stop laughing at me. And be good tonight.
BJ: I’m always good. You’re the loose cannon. Try not to cockblock yourself.
Always a serious risk with Violet.
Not that I could be thinking about my cock and her in the same breath. We were so far from fucking again that it hurt to think about how sweet her mouth was, how well she took my orders and how good her ass looked—
“Max?” She glances over at me, a bag of pears in her hand. “Can you take these?”
I stick my phone in my back pocket and take the fruit.
We need to talk, of course. But first I need to show her that I’m not a threat to her job. That first and foremost, I could be a friend.
I can help her pick out pomegranates, for example.
I hold up one of the bright red fruits and she shrugs. “Too much work to get the seeds out.”
Well, now I know we need to get a couple. I pay the vendor and put them in the basket. “What’s next?”
Violet rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. Clearly you’re in charge.”
I can’t hold back the grin. “Exactly. I think we need some bread.”
“What are you doing?”
“Deciding what food we need?”
“We?”
I shrug. Sounds good to me.
She hesitates, then points to a bakery at the end of the aisle. “That place is good.”
“Do you like sandwiches?”
She nibbles on her lower lip as we walk side-by-side.
“It’s not that complicated a question,” I say dryly.
“You’re so arrogant.” She says like a casual observation, and I can’t fault her for that—it’s true, I am. But she really doesn’t know the half of it.
“Usually more so.”
“I’m getting the softer, gentler side of Max Donovan?”
“Something like that.”
She sighs. “Yes, I like sandwiches. I also like a neat, orderly dating life that doesn’t threaten my job.”
“Noted on both counts.” I can make her a sandwich that makes up for a lot of irritation.
But the dating thing…
It’s not like that was my goal. For my entire adult life, that’s actually been my anti-goal.
The fact that we’re at a farmer’s market together for the second week in a row means nothing.
Dating would be…
Shit.
Chocolates and comfortable conversation over takeout Italian food.
Thinking about the woman when I’m not with her.
Going out of my way to meet up with her again—although that could be stalking.
I may not have a lot of experience in this area, but I’m not an idiot.
Violet may not want to date me, but it’s already happening.
This is probably the longest relationship I’ve ever had. She’s not going to be amused by that fact, either.
Probably on her top-ten list of things she looks for in guys to date, right below not her clients and definitely not guys who mistake her for a call girl would be someone who’s demonstrated an ability to handle a relationship like a grown up.
My ability to handle anything is aggressively weighted toward my medical career. That’s part reality of the choices I’ve made, and part consequence of the decisions others made before I had a choice.
But I can show her how to peel a pomegranate, and make her a sandwich.
We’ll start small.
When I walk her to her car, she hes
itates.
“I’m going to invite myself back to your place,” I say. “Because that way you don’t have to decide if it’s a good idea or not.”
“It’s not.” But her lips curve into a smile, and her eyes are bright.
“I’ll be a gentleman.”
“That sounds unlikely. Do you need my address, or have you figured that out on your own?”
I did think about having a PI get me that information. Then I thought better of investigating my attorney—another argument against me as a potential boyfriend, that it was our professional relationship and not our personal one that gave me pause on the invasion of privacy. “I need it.”
She gives it to me and I type it into my phone next to her work number. I don’t push for her cell number.
Baby steps.
In theory, Violet lives in a nice neighbourhood, not all that far from Gavin’s official residence.
In reality, when she pulls up in front of a shitty walk-up that reminds me of university, I have a jolt of alarm before I can repress it.
She’s not mine to protect. She’s barely even mine to feed for an afternoon.
But as I slide into the parking spot behind her car and hop out, striding quickly toward her lest she try to pick up the shopping basket before I get there, I’m already making a list of things I want to check out.
The front door is adequate. It’s glass, which I don’t love, but it requires a passcode to get in, and it automatically locks behind us.
The stairs are in reasonable condition, although the bannister seems wobbly.
“Are you inspecting my home?” she asks as I stop to check a carbon monoxide detector halfway up the central staircase.
“Of course not.” I press the test button and it chirps. Good.
“That’s super weird.”
“Super weird is that you live like a college student.”
“I’m only two years out of university and I have a hefty chunk of student loans to pay back. What were you expecting?”
I don’t answer that. I’m aware that I’m a snob. I usually hide it better than this. But when was the last time I went to a lover’s home?
University, probably. And even though I continued medical training after graduation, technically, I haven’t lived like this…ever.
Dr. Bad Boy Page 7