By Her Touch

by Adriana Anders

  “But you left the other night because of the noise.”

  “No, the noise drives me crazy, but that’s not why I left.” He turned away, and she was fairly sure he’d walk out again. He continued, though, and what he said…what he said slayed her. “You’re too good for me.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed. “And now? What’s changed?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I don’t fucking know.”

  “You’re still my patient.”

  “I still don’t care.” He paused. “And I’m not for another six weeks, anyway.”

  “Maybe sooner,” George said, her voice embarrassingly breathy.

  “How much sooner?”

  “Depends.”

  “On my tats.”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Come here?”

  She shook her head. “We shouldn’t do this.”

  “You’re probably right. But I sure as hell want to.” He looked at her—straight on. “Do you?”

  Did she want to be with this man? Physically? Because that was what they were discussing. George couldn’t lie—not after spending every waking moment—and some sleeping—thinking of him. She could only nod.

  “When…” He swallowed, cleared his voice, and looked around, as if for something to do. “You think I could…” He indicated the bottle of wine.

  “Oh, of course. Here, I’ll do it.” She grabbed the wine key and the bottle, pushed it in and twisted and broke the darned cork—and almost started crying. But before she could, his hands were there, over hers, carefully pulling the bottle away, inserting the metal into the mangled cork and gently, gently prying it out. He brushed away the few remaining crumbs from the surface of the green glass and set the bottle down. George couldn’t look up at him so close beside her. Too close. Unbearably close.

  One ink-covered finger moved up to her face, where it lingered, knuckle-first, at her cheek, then stroked down to nudge her chin up. Her eyes, of course, followed, and she met his gaze and latched on, something swelling hard in her throat. So hard it came out on a big, fat sob, and rather than the kiss she’d anticipated, he pulled her into his arms. Tight and warm against the soft cotton of his shirt.

  God, when was the last time she’d been held like this? Just held? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to remember those days when she’d been the one holding a husband who was too frail to hold her back.

  She rubbed her face into the shirt and inhaled. The smell of him broke her. It wasn’t her husband’s smell—not even close. And how wrong was it that she wanted more of this warm, masculine scent? She wanted to suck it in and revel in this body—solid and very much alive.

  George lost control. It might have been from guilt or sadness or, more likely, the hormones. Whatever it was, she fell apart in a way that should have embarrassed her.

  It didn’t, though.

  They wound up on the sofa in the parlor, him sitting and her cradled like a baby across his lap, in tears. Weird, so weird this reversal of roles. This man coming to her for some brand of comfort and her leaching it from him instead.

  “I’m sorry,” she eventually choked out on a hiccup.

  “’S okay,” he said before hunching forward to rub one rough, sandpaper cheek against hers. That, just that, brought a sound to George’s lips—a continuation of her sobbing, perhaps, but altogether different in nature—darker, warmer, and sparking deep inside.

  She rubbed him back, her body taking over when her mind told her it was wrong. Her skin prickled where they touched—and not just from his five o’clock shadow. There was electricity in the air that shouldn’t have been there after she’d torn through any attraction with those sobs. Yet, it was still there, a chemical, skin-to-skin reaction that even her outburst hadn’t dampened.

  “It’s okay.” The words were soft, placating, spoken as if to a child or a wayward animal. “It’s okay.”

  “It isn’t okay.” She moved away, just a bit, because his pull was so darned strong. “You came here because you needed me, you needed—”

  “No. I came here because I couldn’t stay away.” He sounded angry, but he kissed her anyway, good and firm so she could feel it deep in her bones, sharp like a chill, only searing hot.

  It all happened fast then—no languid explorations for this man. No, he was rough and quick and pushy as hell, and George found herself rising to the challenge, taking it in stride. From his lap, she somehow wound up on her back on the sofa, stretched out with him above. And there was biting. There’d never been biting before for George, but those were distinct nips he was giving her, and instead of stopping him, she opened her mouth and did it back—nothing painful. It couldn’t have hurt, since she’d barely felt the scrape of him under her teeth, but God, there was something powerful in that scrape. Wild and animalistic and perhaps just a little uncontrollable.

  I’m out of control, she thought as he dipped his pelvis against hers and she recognized how vulnerable she was in her skirt, with her legs spread and this big body opening her up, grinding. The stiff seam of his jeans rubbed her inner thighs, and she wondered if there’d be burn marks in the morning.

  They shouldn’t be doing this. They shouldn’t. George pulled her mouth from Andrew’s, shocked at how out of breath she was, and, avoiding his eyes, said, “We should stop.”

  He stilled and watched her, his breath fast and intimate and already so familiar against her mouth. “Okay.” He inhaled loudly—getting himself together, she thought. “You’re right. I can’t do this to you.”

  It was her turn to suck in a breath and look him straight in the eye. “What do you mean? Do what to me?”

  “This. Make you…do things with me.” He started to pull away, and she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “You’re not making me do anything.” She moved her hand to his side, a place she knew was safe to touch without hurting him. “I…I just needed a second. I haven’t felt this much…” No, no, don’t talk about feelings. “I haven’t done this in forever.”

  “No?” He sat back a bit on his haunches, looking down at her, at the way she writhed on the sofa beneath him, her treacherous skin nothing but a network of nerve endings, begging to be tweaked. “I don’t get that. You’re so…beautiful.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are.” He lifted a hand to her jaw, not quite grazing her skin. Even that almost-touch seemed proprietary, and suddenly, George wanted him to do it for real.

  “Touch me there,” she whispered.

  After only the briefest of hesitations, he did it, although not rough and bossy as she’d imagined, but gently—as if he were in awe—and that careful caress almost broke her.

  “Do it harder,” she ordered, an edge to her voice.

  His eyes met hers. “Thought you wanted to stop.”

  “I should, but I don’t.”

  He nodded, easily accepting her change of heart, before moving that big hand over her shoulder, to her chest. George’s body liked that. It gave its undeniable response.

  “God, look at you, George. Look at this.” He reached a finger to nudge one painfully hard nipple and slipped his hand down between them, to where her flimsy skirt had flipped back, leaving her exposed, open, and wanting.

  She made a noise deep in her throat.

  “And what about this, George?” He pulled her soaked underwear aside and ran one finger along her. “How the hell can I stay away when you’re like this for me, huh?” he asked, and she truly, truly didn’t know. She felt the same, after all. She wasn’t just attracted to the man; she was drawn to him, inevitably, magnetized by his presence.

  And he knew how turned-on she was. He had to, with her…arousal all over his hand. His fingers, for goodness sake, couldn’t even find purchase. They just slid and slid until, somehow, finally, one of them worked its way slowly inside her, and George’s throat let out
a noise—an unsexy grunt that proved just how long it’d been since anything that exciting had breached her body.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, because it was true. She shouldn’t be doing this with a patient, a man too messed up to know better. She should be the one to know better. “I’m not… I don’t know what to do. I want to see you too, but I can’t even—”

  “Yeah?” At her nod, he leaned back again, removed his hand, leaving her cold, undid his belt, yanked down his zipper, and with a quick glance at her face, reached inside his underwear to pull himself out.

  No ink, she thought with relief. He was big. Thick, veined, and somehow glorious—not a word she’d ever used before for a penis. Penises had always seemed like such utilitarian features. But this one… Too big, thought George, who’d used nothing but a crappy little AA-fueled bullet vibrator for the last decade. She wanted to touch it, feel how unyielding and stiff it was, how soft his skin, measure its weight in her palm.

  Her eyes returned to his face, where the dark imprint on his lids gave him such a look of violence that she shivered, utterly certain that this was the worst mistake she’d ever make. And yet, everything in her pushed her toward this man. Everything made her yearn for this, to be with him, to taste him and touch him and remember what it felt like to be alive.

  “We don’t have to do anything,” he whispered, no doubt mistaking her trembling for fear. But it wasn’t. It was something else—excitement, perhaps? Titillation? She didn’t know. How could she know?

  “Oh God. I want to.” Another glance showed that body she couldn’t stop thinking of. She’d die if they didn’t do this soon. She’d burst into flames, her skin was so scorching hot.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. Yes, I want to.” She writhed against him, asking him to touch her again without words. “Do it. Make me…make me feel…” Good Lord, what was it she was going to say? Make me feel whole again? Those weren’t the right words, she knew. But she couldn’t, for the life of her, make the words come out.

  Instead of talking, she let go of her doubts, sucked in a big, shaky breath, and made a decision. This was it—a letting go she hadn’t realized she was capable of. She threw worry and shame and responsibility to the wind as she reached down and grasped the hot, hard sex of this man who’d taken her life and torn it into a million beautiful, little pieces.

  13

  Clay had stopped hurting the minute he’d touched her. It’s psychosomatic, he understood in the only sane part of his brain—a thought he quickly tamped down. Because, whatever the reasons for the reprieve, he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Besides, right now, with her cool, prim, white hand on his dick, there wasn’t much point trying to sort out what was right or wrong, good or bad, or any of that other shit. No point at all, because he hadn’t felt this good in months. Months? Fuck no, years. It had been years since Clay Navarro had felt anything so right.

  “Tighter,” he said, because she was teasing, and he wanted real.

  She tightened her fingers, reminding him of how efficient she could be with those strong hands. Down his cock, then back up, without really hitting the head—still with the teasing—until he glanced up at her face and understood this wasn’t about that at all. She looked fascinated, curious, and completely taken in. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You can’t hurt me.”

  Her eyes met his at those words, which he realized with a start could be misinterpreted. The green was nearly gone from her gaze, pushed out by a gaping black pupil. Her face was flushed and she looked different in the throes of desire: kind of lost but also curious and… What was that other thing? There was something hungry there, something that made his cock even harder, while his mouth watered and his mind went to a darker place. The image he’d gotten, looking at her just now, wasn’t one he’d pictured before.

  Suddenly, he wanted to wreck her a little bit—to take her pristine, white shell and crack it.

  It made him feel guilty, the image his sick mind had conjured of her. Guilty but hard, which was one hell of a fucking complication for a man who’d lived a double life for so long.

  His mind went back to all those women who hung around the MC. He’d had to pretend he felt like the other guys, had to act like just another horny bastard. The guys who used them and threw them out. Women like his sister, Carly, whose suffering had just been par for the course in their fucked-up world. Not even collateral damage, since collateral had value. And he’d had to taint Carly’s memory by pretending to use women just like her. The memory made him sick.

  Better to stay in the moment, here, with this woman—this woman who made him almost feel whole again.

  He thrust once into George’s hand, and she got the picture, tightening and moving up, around the head of his dick, and back down. “Pull up your shirt,” he said, even as a part of him insisted this wasn’t the way to talk to this woman. “Let me see your tits.”

  The thing about Dr. George Hadley was that she was a lady. Definitely a lady, except…except the look in her eye told him she liked it when he talked to her rough.

  Unable to get the fabric up, she made as if to let his cock go for a second, but he reached down and held her there.

  “No. Do it one-handed,” he ordered, understanding that something about this wasn’t quite right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be with this woman. He was supposed to accept her tenderness; he wasn’t supposed to be this way anymore.

  But that made him wonder what the fuck she was doing with a guy like him.

  She was into tats. She had to be. The tats and the danger of a bad boy. She was responding to his rough edges. That was it, wasn’t it? He thrust into her hand again, aggressive, and jerked her bra down, hard.

  “You like that?” he asked, feeling filthy, horrible, but also needing to know. Do you like that? Do you like this side of me I may never be able to get rid of?

  He pinched George’s nipple, and she moaned, deep and low, so he pinched it again, harder. Her cry jostled free memories, shame. He didn’t deserve this—her. He didn’t deserve to have this kind of forgiveness, acceptance. The last time he’d done this…

  There’d been a woman at the club… God, he didn’t want to think of her right now. Those girls who’d let the guys do anything. He shuddered, his brain fuzzy around the edges as another memory seeped in—

  His face—the day he’d gotten this scar he’d wear for the rest of his life. He’d gotten sliced in service to the Sultans. An unfortunate occurrence, which had turned into the boon he needed and helped earn his status as Brother. A scar for a Sultan patch. Not so big a price to pay.

  Another jagged scar, on his sister’s body, like the one on his head. She’d been cut. They’d cut her.

  Clay blinked, feeling wrong, in the wrong place, mixed up, and fuzzy. He shook his head to clear it, brushed off a hand, tried to back off, said something. Slurring, panicked, his head full of a powdery fog, clogging him, breathing impossible, the buzz inside his ears a hive of bees or—

  He was on the floor, seated, his back to the sofa, and a woman was on her knees beside him.

  “The fuck?” he said, squinting, his voice raw. The room was a broken kaleidoscope, his heart pumping poison.

  “You need a doctor,” she said.

  “No.”

  “What’s going on, Andrew?”

  “Andrew?” he asked, trying to see past the gray honeycomb filling his vision. “Who the fuck is Andrew?” Her hand was on him again, and he pried it off. “Don’t.” Why was he slurring? Had they given him something? What the hell had they given him? He couldn’t think past the panic. “Where’s Handles? He know I’m here?”

  “I’m, um…” The woman swallowed audibly. “I’m not sure. What’s your name?”

  That cleared the clouds from his brain, just enough to know there was danger in this question, and he grabbed her hand, hard. Her t
iny bones rubbed together in his fist. “Why—” He blinked. “George.”

  “Yes, you seem to be having some kind of…”

  Attack. Episode. Flashback. Something.

  But it was over now. The fog was clearing.

  “I’m fine.” He’d be fine when he left. He blinked, stood, tucked himself back into his clothes, and gave the place a bleary once-over before stumbling out the front door—running before he lost himself in memory again.

  Because, after all the worrying and watching over her, he’d never forgive himself if he was the one to hurt her.

  * * *

  George blinked after him, confused and hurt and worried and a little angry.

  What was going on? No. No way could she let Andrew Blane leave her behind for the second time that week, clearly in pain, clearly needing help. It tweaked something in her brain. No, it didn’t just tweak her—it set her off, exploding in her chest and sending her running to the front door to… She didn’t know what she’d do when she had him cornered—keep him here so he’d explain? Make him stay so she could take care of him? Whatever it was, she couldn’t stand this feeling of impotence.

  Oh, she’d felt it before, hadn’t she? The inability to do a single blessed thing to help. But she could help this man, if he’d only let her. And there was no way she’d let him push her away like this.

  So rather than go back to worry, to wait, to wonder in silence, George walked out her front door.

  She tromped down the stairs, eyes going right to where his truck was turning around in the cul-de-sac. She stalked out into the road and waited.

  The truck stopped; she walked around to the passenger door and climbed in, facing him, feeling so damned reckless.

  Without even really thinking, she pulled back a hand and slapped his shoulder. “Don’t. Ever. Walk out on me again,” she said, her words more measured than her breathing.

  “What are you—”

  She scooted in and pushed at that shoulder again. It was a ridiculous, ineffectual move against someone so much larger than her, but she wanted to reach him, damn it. Wanted him to feel it.