by Laurel Greer
Metallic saliva flooded her mouth. She clicked into automaton mode: clean, dry, dress. A bead of sweat trickled from her temple along her jaw.
“All done,” she whispered. She grabbed his old dressing and the dirty under-padding. And she had no time to do anything except spin, aim for the sink and lose her breakfast.
Head hanging over the basin, forehead pressing against the cool metal tap, she turned on the water to wash away the evidence. She hadn’t been uncontrollably sick from handling a wound since the first weeks of medical school. She’d trained herself not to react. Why had it changed?
Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to.
She glanced at Tavish and rested her forearms on the counter edge.
He sat straight-backed against the wall with mile-wide eyes. “Morning sickness?”
“Yeah.”
His expression flattened. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” She bit the edge off the not.
“Try again.”
Lying required too much effort. “Blood makes me sick.” She let that hang in the silence as she rinsed her mouth with water from the tap.
He stood and took her in a tight embrace. Her clammy forehead rested against the skin of his neck. His river-dampened clothing cooled the heat of embarrassment from her body.
“Does this usually happen when you’re working?”
“No. I learned to control it. It’s just come back over the last month or so.”
“Because of the baby?”
She’d love to blame being pregnant, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. “No. It’s the stress of the partnership.”
He exhaled through pursed lips. A faint whistle rode the stream of air. “Lauren.”
The warning tone singed her pride. “I’m dealing with it.”
“How?”
“I find the closest toilet.” She smiled out her humiliation, pressed dry lips to his cotton-covered clavicle. “It’s funny, you know...”
“I don’t see you laughing,” he murmured.
“Not funny ha-ha, funny hmm.” Tracing her fingers through his hair, she said, “I’ve had thousands of good days in my life, yet it’s the bad ones that have defined who I am.”
“That’s not unusual. I wouldn’t be who I am today without my father having bolted.” His words came out so matter-of-factly, she’d have missed his decades-old pain had she not been peering at his face.
“Exactly. And my mother’s death clarified so much for me. Everyone started to say how much I was like her, and how tragic it had been that she’d died so young without really having been able to put her mark on the medical field...”
He sat down on the cot and pulled her onto his lap, rubbing her bare knee with one rough hand. “Those two things aren’t connected.”
“Sure they are. That’s what pushed me to become who I am.”
“But it doesn’t mean you can’t change. If medicine doesn’t make you happy, then you should try something else. You were going to give up the clinic to work internationally. Maybe you need to change fields entirely.”
Her spine drew up. She met the encouragement in his gaze with what she hoped was confidence. “I can’t just find a new career. Yeah, I was going to give up the clinic for the sake of our marriage. I’d convinced myself my mom would have been okay with that. But I was wrong.”
“How can you be so sure?” His voice was so low she could barely hear it.
“I make a mark for her, Tavish.” Working at the clinic, holding their family together—filling in the cracks that had formed when her mom had died.
He stroked a calming hand up to her shoulder blades. “You need to make a mark for you, not for everyone else.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“There you go, lying again.”
The murmured accusation sneaked under her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, but not before moisture gathered at the corners. “I can’t let my family down any more than I already have.”
He wiped at her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. “Letting yourself down is the bigger crime.”
He was making way too much sense. She hugged her rib cage. The vain attempt at shoring up her throbbing middle fell short. A cavernous ache spread from her chest into her limbs. “I can’t be that selfish.”
His arms stayed firm around her, as if he could sense how close she was to stumbling backward and curling into a ball on the cot. “Are you going to expect our child to be a doctor?”
“No.” She pressed the pads of her thumbs against her eyes. “Of course not.”
“So why would your mom—”
“I told you yesterday!” Her heartbeat raced. “It’s about my expectations for me.”
“Can’t those adjust, Lauren? Parenthood’s kinda the ultimate game changer.”
“Are you finding it that way?” she retorted.
“Yeah, I am.” Awe brightened his beautiful face. Acceptance and happiness she’d never expected from him. He’d made the commitment to stay for the summer and didn’t seem to be regretting his decision at all. He’d proved he could change. So why couldn’t she do the same?
She clamped down the thought. Tavish changing meant him trying to be a good father, a good partner. But the changes he was suggesting she make would be the opposite. Following him around the world would mean less stability for their child and would make it impossible for her to support her family. Scrunching up her face, she sighed, but it came out more like a wheeze.
He blanched and dropped his hand to her belly. “You feeling okay?”
“Baby-wise, yeah.”
His obvious relief came out with a long breath. But he didn’t take his hand away. Spreading his fingers low on her stomach, he kissed her forehead. “Never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but I’m so damn impatient for when I can feel our baby move inside you. To have you get so big that your bump gets in the way when I sneak a kiss.”
Petals of pleasure—from the naked vulnerability he showed, from the rush of joy of the intimate touch—bloomed through her body. She settled her hand over his, wanting to savor every second of having him connect with their child.
With her.
Her opportunities would be limited. And that sucked. Only having him with her for six months of the year, dealing with weeks, months maybe, of Skyping and sleeping next to an empty pillow, sounded miserable. But less miserable than having him sleeping in a separate apartment when he was in town to visit their child. She didn’t know how to deal with him being away from her. Arranging visitation, though, dropping off the baby at his apartment and going back to her big house alone... So much worse. She couldn’t meet him halfway when it came to the clinic, to her family. So to compromise at all, she’d have to learn to deal with missing him. To give him a chance to leave and, like he’d said, trust him to return. She made sure her smile tinted her tone when she said, “I thought we’d agreed you weren’t going to sneak kisses.”
“No way can I stick by that promise,” he growled. With his hands on her waist, he spun her until she straddled his lap, groaning as she rolled her soft center against his hardening length.
“No way would I want you to keep it.” She cursed the barrier of their shorts, layers of fabric keeping her from blissful fulfillment. Bracing her hands on his rock-solid shoulders, she closed her eyes and rolled her hips, welcoming the heat from the tantalizing friction of their bodies.
Curving a hand under her ass, he dug his fingers into the hair at her nape. His mouth singed the flesh over her pulse as he laved the tender place. “This has gotta be for more than a day, Lauren. I can’t do more back-and-forth.”
“Neither can I.”
A deep groan rumbled from his lungs, vibrated against her ribs. “There’d better be a lock on this door. Wrap your legs around me.”
She did. And he lifted
her effortlessly, took a step forward. The snick of the dead bolt sounded, and then they were back on the cot and his fingers were scrabbling at the hem of her work polo. “I like you in teal,” he said. “It brings out the green in your eyes. Makes me want to grab my camera.” He lifted the shirt over her head and dropped it on the foot of the cot. Her bra followed suit. “But I like you better like this.”
Cupping her breasts, he drew his tongue around one peaking nipple and then the other.
“Tease,” she complained, pressing her fingertips into his upper arms as tantalizing pressure built at her core.
“Patience, please.” He grazed his teeth on her nipple. Her breasts tightened under greedy pulls and sucks from his slick mouth. The rough-but-tender caresses of his hands coaxed a flood of desire through her body. It pooled in her veins, weighed down her limbs. But she had to touch him, too.
Two seconds of effort on her part had his shirt joining hers on the cot. “Lie down.”
He stilled with his mouth over her breast. “Sorry?”
A gust of breath carried the word, cooling her wet nipple and sending shivers along her spine. “On your back. Lie down.”
A raw flare lit his eyes and he obeyed, ripping off his sandals and sliding out of his shorts as he went. He was all hers, gold-shot, tousled hair on the white pillowcase, long body stretched out on the gray wool blanket. Beautiful, lean muscle and taut skin that she got to use for her own purposes. For his pleasure. He had thrown her off by kneeling in front of that picnic table the last time they were intimate. And she wasn’t going to kneel—not today, anyway—but she was going to play.
Her shorts and shoes hit the floor, but she left her panties on. Her heart raced at the thought of him discovering how wet they’d become from having him kiss her breasts. Climbing on top of him, she lined up her swollen flesh over the ridge of his sex. Way fewer clothes between them without their shorts on, but even her panties and his boxers were too much.
Resting her hands on his abdomen, she played slow, silent piano over the cut ridges. “You took unapologetic advantage of my emotional state the other night. Had me like putty in your hands.” She smirked at him to make sure he knew any advantage was freely given. “Question is, can I torture you into a similar state?”
“You can, Pixie. Anytime you want. Except...” He took her hands off his belly and brought them to his mouth, worshiping her palms with his lips. “I want to love you right this time.”
He tugged on her arms, and she collapsed on his chest. Inhaling deeply, she filled her nose with his sultry, masculine scent. Bliss. “I don’t remember complaining. If anything, I got the better deal.”
“I disagree.” She heard his smile. “Making you fall apart is about the best thing I get to do in life.”
So why on earth was he so insistent that being around her all the time was such a problem? She checked the thought. It wasn’t being around her; it was being around home. Hopefully his staying for half the year would be enough for both of them.
Rucking a hand into her hair, he flipped her gently onto her back, hovering over her with all his delicious bulk, his eyes smoky with need. “This is more what I had in mind.”
“You on top?”
“No, you in my arms.”
She melted at that, at his tender kiss. Their mouths fused, nipping and licking and tasting. He had both her panties and his underwear off in less than a blink of an eye.
With his weight on one arm and that hand tangled in her hair, he slid his other palm down the center of her torso until his fingers dipped over the bud of her arousal. “How’d you get so wet?”
It was probably pregnancy hormones in part, but mostly him. “You’re good at this.” She tilted one side of her mouth and reached to stroke his erection.
He released a groan so loud she shushed him—they were at work, after all—but she kept moving her hand, savoring velvet skin over rigid shaft.
He froze in place, his hand cupping her mound. She ached for the smallest movement. She twisted against his hand as she continued a slow rhythm with her own.
“I—Lauren. Please.”
“Please stop? Please more?”
“Please you.” He shuddered back to life and slipped his fingers down farther, into her. Her center clenched, begging him for more. “This.”
She nudged him, guiding his body over hers, and his hips between her thighs until he was fully seated and they were both panting.
It was too much. Too good.
Too good to be true?
Wrapping her legs around his powerful hips, she silenced the thought and rode the ecstasy until her mind was blank.
Chapter Twelve
Satisfaction ebbed and flowed in Lauren’s limbs. Tavish’s chest warranted the award for best pillow in Montana. But responsibility tugged her out of the hazy wonder of the smell of their pleasure lingering in the air and the warmth of their bare skin where it touched. They could only hide in the first-aid room for so long before someone came looking for them. “We need to get back to work.”
“Right. We’re at work.” He made a self-deprecating noise. “Classy.”
“Oh, as if we’re the only people who ended up using this cot for...personal shenanigans.”
“Not sure if that makes it better,” he murmured into her hair. “We’re off tomorrow. We could spend the whole day somewhere way more romantic.”
“We should take my canoe out.”
He winced melodramatically and bent his leg, laying a hand over the bandage. “Too wounded. The only cure’s rest. Naked rest. Write me a prescription.”
She pressed her lips to his delicious chest to muffle her giggle. “Take two orgasms and call me in the morning?”
“If I’m lucky.” His tone turned reluctant, and he peeled himself away from her to get dressed.
She followed suit, wondering if he was as saddened to see her fasten her shorts as she was by him pulling his shirt over his head, covering up the delightful six-pack she almost had mapped with her fingers. She’d need to work on committing it fully to memory later. “Is your leg bothering you?”
“Stings, but nothing serious. I had a pretty thorough doctor.”
She chewed on the inside of her lip. “I should make sure you’re not under my care anymore, though. Not if we’re together again. Ethics and all that.”
“Ethics?” He blinked as if his thoughts were coming too quickly to process. “What about ethics and your other patients? Not in the sense of relationships,” he said in a rush. “But when it comes to your fear of blood.”
Looking up, she caught something in his expression that shot fear to her core. She crossed her legs on the cot and toyed with the clips on her hiking sandals. “I’m sorry?”
He settled next to her and laid a hand on her crossed ankles. “Will you always be able to guarantee that your duty to your job is going to be enough to make you a dedicated doctor? What if you stick with it for the sake of obligation, and then get to a point where your phobia impedes your ability to care for your patients?”
“My phobia?” Coming from him, the label felt like a wrecking ball crashing through the tower of reasons she’d created to stick with her job. Her hands started to shake and she grabbed handfuls of the scratchy gray blanket to steady them.
“Lauren. You get physically sick at the sight of blood. I’m not the medical professional here, but how is that not the definition of a phobia?”
Her lips parted but she couldn’t get any sound out.
She’d been so focused on herself and on her belief she wouldn’t fail, she hadn’t truly processed the consequences of what would happen if she did. And he was right: given her recent inability to control her phobia—she had to be factual and start calling it that—it might at some point stop her from doing her best job. Might put a patient in harm’s way, or prevent her from providing the best care possib
le. Prioritizing her desire to be like her mother over patient health went against everything she’d sworn upon completion of her medical degree. Her patients had to take precedence.
She gripped his hand with both of hers and let the truth sink from her brain to her heart to each cell of her body. It wasn’t just the partnership that was the problem, it was medicine entirely. “Maybe I could go talk to someone about it. Get some therapy.”
He traced a small circle on the back of her hand with his thumb. “Do you want to do that?”
“No.” She looked into his eyes and repeated the realization with more emphasis. “No. I—I love having a career that helps people. That’s something I’m always going to want. But being a doctor was never about me. And you’re right, I can’t risk harming a patient.”
He stared at her with enough love to fill the inside of Sutter Mountain. “If you’re worried about losing your mom in some way if you quit...you won’t. The fact you and Drew and Cadie exist is enough of a legacy.” He cleared his throat. “Our baby is a legacy.”
Toying with the sprinkle of golden hair at his wrist, she said, “You’re getting rather psychoanalytical there, but you’re right.” Holy crap, was she doing this? “I have to quit.”
Disbelief cascaded through her. Yup, doing this.
He enveloped her, a perfect sum of strong muscles, fresh, air-scented cotton and genuine support. “Proud of you, Pixie.”
Nice to know, but would her dad feel the same? Also, Frank was a good family friend and was going to be shocked as anything. And changing careers while pregnant... Oh, my God. She pressed a palm to her shaky stomach. “I need a minute. Alone.”
“Sure.” With tender lips, he brushed her cheek. Brought warmth back to her goose-bumped skin. Unlocking the door and swinging it open, he disappeared into the hallway.
Resisting the temptation to bury her face in the thin, medical-issue pillow on the cot, she stood and remade the bed with fresh sheets and blankets from the supply cupboard. Then she attacked the sink and counter with disinfectant. Trying to scrub her worries onto the stainless steel didn’t work worth a damn.