Drawn to Him: A Romance Collection

by Willow Winters

  Rhys takes my hand and leads me to the backyard through his vast kitchen. Only it’s not a backyard. It’s a goddamn secret garden. It’s the perfect place to daydream, or get lost in a book. On the white wooden bench under the massive trees. I place a palm flat over my heart and feel it pulsing wildly, all the way down to my toes. Rhys engulfs me from behind, his hot mouth dragging along my neck. “English lit, huh?”

  It takes my brain a few seconds to catch up with his words.

  “It’s an impractical degree, but I love nothing more than burying my nose in a good book,” I offer.

  “It’s romantic,” he snakes his hand behind me, embracing me, “Honest,” he proceeds to tilt my head and capture my bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it into his hot mouth. “And it’s you. So, I definitely approve.”

  Rhys has read my CV. How else would he know what I studied in college?

  The realization flatters, but no longer surprises me. I disconnect from him, remembering that I don’t want this to escalate—at least until the divorce is settled—and walk over to the opulent garden with the lilacs, irises, tulips, and blue stars whooshing in the soft afternoon wind. I drown in the moment, imagining what it would be like to have access to this garden all the time. To smell the blossoming trees as my eyes gulp delicious paragraphs from my favorite authors. Then I snap my head toward Rhys, watching him standing at the patio and looking at me like he is trying to decide something.

  “Theodore!” I slap my hand over my mouth, realizing that we forgot to pick up his son. “It’s half past three!”

  Anxiety is rushing through my veins, but Rhys just laughs, shaking his head.

  “His mom is taking care of him today. It’ll look better when she tries to file for full custody, which unfortunately, she will probably get.” And for the first time since I’ve met him, Dr. Matthews sounds like something other than sexy and self-assured. He sounds…bitter.

  “Don’t be so sure,” I lean down to smell a rose I cup with one hand, closing my eyes. “It’s quite common for parents to share custody lately.”

  “Well, our case is peculiar,” he murmurs behind me. “Just like the woman I married. Stacey is getting full custody. That’s a given.”

  I’m dying to ask him what makes him feel this way. He must’ve done something quite cruel and harmful to make him lose custody rights—not to Theodore, I presume, but maybe to Dr. Lerer—and I’m not sure I’m ready to hear this yet. I turn to him, trying hard not to read into his body language.

  “Why? Have you hurt them?”

  “Jesus Christ. Never.”

  “Then why?”

  “We’re not talking about it.”

  “Rhys…”

  “We’re not,” his voice rises. “That’s a fact, not a plea.”

  “Why did you want me to come here, Rhys?”

  “Because I knew you’d appreciate it here. You’re a reader. An introvert. Isn’t this the best place in the world to get lost.”

  “I’m not sure getting lost in your hands is a good thing.”

  “Oh, Savvy, my dear. But it’s the greatest thing.”

  Chewing on my lower lip, I look around me again. It does look like Disney World for readers. A portal in between reality and the world my books take me to. The white gazebo, trees, and flowers…you cannot tell whether this is the twenty-first century or the eighteenth. This place has no age, no time, no imaginational boundaries. And it is therefore, heaven.

  “Yes,” I mouth, as quiet as I can be, considering every bone inside my body is screaming loud for me to run away. “It’s perfect,” I finish.

  He descends the wooden stairs from the patio to the garden and stops when my chin is between his fingers, tilting my head up.

  “What’s your dream, Savvy?”

  “My dream?” I search his eyes. Jesus Christ, he is tall. “Oh, it’s stupid,” I shake my head on a soft chuckle. He grips my chin tighter, forcing me to look at him. “Doubt it. You’ve yet to say one stupid thing to me.” My lower lip quivers. Rhys’s face inches toward mine, “Tell me.”

  “I want to be a writer,” I admit, staring down at my shoes. I’ve always been a bookworm. An old mama trapped in a girl’s body, my mom used to say. That’s why I love vintage clothes, books, shoes, watches, and movies. But getting a publishing deal is next to impossible and I will never live it down if I send over a manuscript that will end up in an untouched slush pile in some Manhattan basement. My parents think I’m crazy as it is for majoring in English literature instead of opting for business management or accounting.

  “Who told you that’s stupid?” he asks, our bodies are glued together, but it doesn’t feel erotic. It feels…intimate.

  “Everyone,” I swallow thickly. I wish I’d stop feeling like a child around this man.

  “Everyone is wrong. You can be a writer. You’re a dreamer. In fact, you were doing just that the first time I saw you,” he brings me back to the way we met and I let a little, sad laugh out. Rhys grabs the back of my head and hugs me to his chest, and I let him. I let him, even though it is so much more dangerous than letting him finger me in his office.

  I’m falling.

  I’m crashing.

  And once he catches me, I’ll be gone.

  His palm is on my cheek and I lean into it, closing my eyes.

  “I wanted you to come here so you could see that I’m not a monster. Hard? Yes. Cold? Sure. Fucking difficult ninety-nine percent of the time? You can count on it. But not heartless. This garden? I made it myself. From scratch. Other than the old trees, I planted every single flower here, with Theodore helping. I’m capable of a lot of things, Savannah. Taking care of fragile things is definitely one of them. I want to show you that side of me. The side that made me want to become a doctor. The side that’s been neglected because I’ve invested it on the wrong person for years. If you’d let me. There’s something special in you, Savannah Martin. Your bubbly little world—I want inside it. Let me in.”

  “Okay,” I murmur, falling into another intimate hug he is quick to return. My legs, voice, lips, and very being are quivering all over. “Okay.”

  “This is unreal,” he sighs, almost in relief, and something breaks inside me.

  I hope it’s real, because if not, I’ve just given up my heart and hopes to a dream.

  CHAPTER 6

  Take a Chance

  The next day, I visit the auto shop to get my car back before I go to work.

  I made sure that a temp receptionist would cover for me beforehand, and when I get in to work at ten in the morning, she is there, staring at my silicone high-five hand in disdain. There’s a crying toddler throwing a hissy fit on the reception floor and a flustered mother trying to calm her down, and I know that if it was me at the reception, I’d give the kid the Barbie book I brought over from home and play with her to calm her down. I know Rhys is right—I’m doing a good job—and as I walk into the clinic, excitement and pride swirl in my chest.

  I all but kick the poor temp receptionist out of my seat—even though I have to remind myself that this position is for six months only, and no one promised me my contract will be renewed. In the next two hours, I greet patients, coo at babies, change our cleaning agency, order more medical supplies, and arrange to get Dr. Lerer’s dry cleaning picked up. Then the clock hits noon and it’s my lunch break. I stand up from my seat and lock the front door, getting ready to warm my veggie taco up in the kitchen. A voice booms behind me, and I still.

  “Miss Martin, get your ass in here.”

  A blush crawls onto my face and settles there. Dr. Lerer is locked in her office, but she easily could’ve heard him. She’s never once invited me to her office. Stacey rarely talks to me, and when she does, it’s via email. I walk over to Rhys’s door, drawing in a huge breath.

  “Come in,” he growls before I have the chance to knock.

  He doesn’t tell me to close the door when I enter, so I don’t. He is looking out the window, his hands behind his back, sta
ring at his McLaren like she’s a virginal bride, waiting to be penetrated. By him, of course.

  “I’ve decided to deny your request,” he says, business-like. I blink a few times, scrunching my nose.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “No fucking until the divorce is settled. I thought long and hard about it—mind you, it’s not the only thing that’s been long and hard since last night—and decided that it makes no difference at all in our relationship. If you need it in writing, notarized and apostilled, that my wife and I are done and that the relationship is dead and burned to the ground, then I’m willing to provide you with the necessary documentation within the next twenty-four hours. For now, I kindly ask you to take a seat on my patient’s bed, and spread your legs.”

  I look out to the narrow, short hall of the clinic. The front door is locked with a CLOSED sign and our working hours are indicated below. Dr. Lerer will be out of her office any minute, demanding me to get her a salad from a nearby café.

  “Dr. Matthews, are you high? Because I’m pretty sure we’d be breaking one million written rules, as well as about a trillion unwritten ones,” I look around me, and damn, the patient’s bed—lined with fresh, white paper—is winking at me to come closer. Today is a particularly hot summer day and so my retro, green and purple dress ends just above the knees. If I do decide to spread my legs for him, he’ll have great access to his holy grail.

  “High? No. Horny, crazy, impatient, delighted? Yes.” His whole body swivels as he checks me out head-to-toe. “On the fucking bed, Savvy. Next time I ask, it won’t be so nice.”

  I reach for the door with the intention of closing it, my heart beating in a wild, inconsistent rhythm. If Stacey heard any of this exchange, I’m dead. I hear a tsking sound behind me.

  “Leave it open.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” I whisper, not sure if my voice is laced with terror or sexual frustration. I hope Stacey doesn’t own a gun, because if she saw what’s going on in here, my brain is sure to be splashed all over their new carpets in a second.

  “Not particularly. I like the thrill of getting caught,” he tugs at his Mickey Mouse tie and pats the little bed. “It keeps things exciting. Hop on.”

  “No.” My feet are rooted to the ground. He shrugs, walks over to me, grabs me by the ass and hurls me over his shoulder. He then walks over as nonchalantly as one can toward the bed. He places me carefully—not vertically, but horizontally—on the surface and I’m about to come just from the prospect of what’s about to happen. He stands between my legs and nudges them apart with his narrow hips. His torso is long, strong, and buff. His brooding eyes gleam with darkness. This is happening. He is going to piss off his soon-to-be ex-wife, my boss, and fuck me while she’s next door. He’s an asshole.

  And you’re the idiot who lets him have his way with you, following his twisted plan.

  “You’re still hung up on her, aren’t you?” I run my fingers through his hair, wondering for a fleet moment if this is all one big plot to get his estranged wife jealous. Everything about us is wrong, and yet it feels too right. Logically, I know that it’s going to take me months, maybe even years, to forgive myself for what I’m about to do. Sadly, it doesn’t stop me from wanting it to happen.

  “I’m hung, Savvy. But it has nothing to do with whatsherface.”

  I shudder as his hands knead my thighs, moving upwards, dragging the fabric of my dress up to pool at my waist. I moan from his touch alone, throwing my head back and feeling one of his hands leaving my thigh and yanking the top part of my dress downward along with my bra, exposing one of my breasts. I don’t need to look down to know my nipples are tight and pink and ready for action. I can feel his arrogant smirk in the air without looking at him.

  “Always so ready for me. I’m going to fuck you tonight. Fuck you so fucking hard you won’t be able to look at another man again without thinking about what I did to you. I will ruin you, Miss Martin. And then I’ll piece you back together, the way I want to. The way I need you to be for me. Understand?”

  I want to laugh. I want to say hell no. I want to protest and be the woman I grew up to be. The feminist who doesn’t take crap from anyone. But then before I know what’s happening, he places both of his hands under my knees and pulls me toward him in one sharp movement. I am now lying on the bed with my legs wide open, staring at the ceiling at an impossible angle to see what he is doing. But I can feel him. Skimming the hem of my underwear.

  “Will you be wearing one of your funny ties tonight?” I try to make conversation, staring at the ceiling, to break some of the sexual tension simmering in the room. The air conditioner is on full blast but it’s still too hot for me to breathe. My body feels empty and hollow without him inside me.

  “I’ll be wearing nothing but my shit-eating grin and my birthday suit as you choke on my cock while I sit on your chest.”

  “Oh. My.” Maybe I should stick to shutting up and just let Dr. Matthews work his magic.

  His teeth sink to my lower stomach, right before his hot tongue swirls under my naval in lazy circles. He is French-kissing my skin with care, moving down inch-by-inch. I clench all over, momentarily forgetting that the door is open. Then he uses the same straight, pearly-white teeth to remove my underwear with the kind of precise and calm nature that reminds me that he is a qualified surgeon. My inner thighs are shaking in anticipation, but he flattens one hand over my ribs as he continues working on getting my underwear out of his way. “This time you come when I tell you to.”

  Suppressing a moan with my fist, I try to peek and see what he is doing. After my underwear fall to the floor, he opens my legs impossibly wide, placing each foot on the edge of the exam table. My inner thighs stretch, a delicious pain coursing through the muscles. His index finger moves across the seam of my slit. When he gets to my opening, he dips it an inch before withdrawing, leaving me desperate for more, and sucks his finger clean.

  “Your pussy is lovely, Savvy. Like a shy rose right before bloom. You’re going to taste delicious, aren’t you?”

  “See for yourself,” I purr, rocking my thighs toward him. I do everything in my power to stop myself from reaching to him, grabbing his head and placing him between my legs. That’s how much I need him. His stare on my bare sex alone makes it feel like I’m being touched, licked, and bitten.

  “Beg me for it.”

  “Please, Rhy—,” I moan.

  “Dr. Matthews,” he corrects.

  “Dr. Matthews, please lick my pussy.”

  “Right here, with the door open? You’re desperate for me, aren’t you, Savvy?”

  I gulp. “Guess I am.”

  He leans toward my burning desire and kisses it gently, his eyes meeting mine for the first time since he spread me open. “That makes the two of us.”

  He crushes his hot, wet tongue on my pussy and licks it bottom-to-top, before spreading it open with his fingers and plunging his tongue deep inside. He is tasting me, ignoring my clit completely.

  “Don’t you dare come on my tongue before I tell you to,” he bosses me around, penetrating me harder. His whole head is between my legs and I try to reach for his hair but he slaps my hand playfully away, growling. “No touching.”

  “This is frustrating,” I wriggle in place, panting hard.

  “Frustrating is good. Remember my wife can walk in here any second while I’m eating you out…you could be on the verge of coming and she’ll walk out of her office door. I’ll have you moaning so loud you are going to faint.”

  “That could never happen.”

  “Watch me, Savvy. I like a fucking challenge.”

  He eats me out while massaging my inner thighs in the process, murmuring something about not wanting to create overstimulation. I know that he is an expert on all things anatomy, but I doubt med school gives you tips on how to make a woman climax the way he knows how to. Rhys Matthews is hands-down the best pussy-eater a woman could ever have, and when he finally puts me out of my mis
ery and touches my clit carefully with the tip of his tongue, flicking it once—I find out just why he waited so many long minutes to do so. My clit is swollen, maybe two times its normal size, and full of hypersensitive nerve-ends that are just waiting to burst. That one flick felt like he sucked it for hours.

  I start to fall…and he’s the one who pushed me.

  “Ohhhh,” my head collapses backwards.

  “Don’t come,” he warns in his dry tone as his tongue lazily draws circles around my clit. “Don’t you dare. Stay with me, Savvy,” he hoists me up on the bed without stopping the tongue-action, curling two long fingers into me and fingering me. He angles his fingers left, and then right, stretching my insides. When I feel full and content with him, he adds a third finger and curls all of them deep toward my navel, finding my G-spot. I groan so loudly my lungs are burning. Goddammit. Clit and G-spot action. Maybe it’s because I’ve only ever had sex with high school and college boys, but no man has never done this move yet. This is so good, I’m starting to believe I really am going to faint.

  “This is…this is…,” I’m not sure if I’m speechless, or if my brain is actually short-circuiting at this point.

  “This is what you do to me when you look at me with your green eyes, Miss Martin.” He chooses this moment to unzip himself—the noise is faint but it’s there—and I know what he is about to do.

  “Let me watch,” I beg. “Please, I need to see you.”

  “No chance,” he says. The pleasure is too much. People often say they’re chasing an orgasm. In our case, the orgasm is chasing me. I’m trying to escape, to fulfill his wish and wait, but it’s impossible. His tongue is now assaulting my clit—he’s licking and biting it—and every time I get to the edge, about to fall off, he withdraws his fingers from my G-spot and kisses the walls of my sex to subdue the signs of an orgasm while still keeping me teetering on the edge.