The Baby Doctor

by Bobby Hutchinson

  Morgan finished her cookie and sipped her coffee, leaning back against the cushions, pretending to an ease she was far from feeling. The truth was, she felt far from relaxed. Now that the time had come, she was having a massive nervous attack. Performance anxiety, a sex therapist would label it.

  She could sense his nearness in every pore, smell the aftershave he used, feel the warmth coming from his body. And suddenly she, who was born talking, couldn’t think what to say to him. She was too overwhelmed by apprehension, and Luke certainly wasn’t helping her out with conversation.

  He was silent, lounging not three feet away, one long leg bent and propped on the other knee, an arm stretched indolently across the back of the sofa, his hand gently touching her shoulder.

  She longed to move into the curve of that arm, feel him draw her close. She wanted it badly, and at the same time she wished she had the strength to move away. She could feel each thick, heavy beat of her heart, sluggish and full, and blood seemed to pool in her abdomen.

  Holy toot! She was way out of her league here. How did other women deal with attraction this intense? She felt irritated and off balance, irrationally annoyed at him for just sitting there and not saying or doing anything. Couldn’t he sense her discomfort? Now that there was a bed, she thought with mounting panic, she was scared to use it.

  “Is there any music?” Desperate and breathless, she bolted to her feet and opened cabinets, discovering a built-in stereo system behind louvered doors. “This place is really well equipped, isn’t it?” she babbled. “The owners must hate to leave it. I would if it was mine.” She flicked switches at random and chanced on a local FM station that played nonstop ballads. She felt relieved beyond measure to have something besides her own voice filling the heavy silence.

  “Dance with me?” He’d gotten up without her being aware of it, and she turned, half panicked, and found herself already in his arms.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “But Luke, I’m not very good at this, I never was. I can’t dance, never could.”

  Morgan’s strangled objections trailed away as his arm came around her and he captured her hand in his. They both knew she wasn’t really talking about dancing at all.

  “It’s fairly simple.” He sounded amused. “Put your hand on my shoulder, like this. Now lean against me and move your feet a little.” He was smiling down at her. “And you’re going to have to loosen up just a bit. Try to relax.”

  She could tell this was something he did really well. She thought he was making fun of her, and his amusement and the way her senses reacted to his nearness made her temper flare. “Well, some of us didn’t have fancy dancing lessons when we were young,” she snapped.

  “Right. Some of us didn’t” he agreed in a mild tone, guiding her so firmly she could hardly go wrong, and yet she did. “The history master at school taught the lot of us boys one Saturday afternoon. He was sixty-two at the time, and I was twelve, so I’d say my technique’s more than a bit outdated.”

  “Outdated, newfangled, what the heck do I know?” she growled, and then tromped on his instep so hard that he winced. “Sorry, sorry.” Feeling mortified, she tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t let her.

  “Close your eyes and just let go, my dear,” he ordered, drawing her even tighter into his embrace, holding her firmly against his hip. “Pretend you’re delivering a baby, working with the contractions. That’s dancing.”

  She did, and she felt his rhythm in her bones. Suddenly she was dancing, matching his every step, floating along to the music, every dip and whirl and turn synchronized.

  The heels on her boots brought the top of her head to just under his chin, and after a few giddy moments, she dared to nestle there, enchanted with the way she was able to anticipate his every move and respond.

  Delighted, she giggled a little. Flap Jacobsen, total klutz when it came to anything coordinated, had discovered a newfound grace that amazed and delighted her.

  The music changed, the tempo quickened, and still she followed him, breathless, drunk with the simple joy of movement, of being close to him in such total harmony.

  And then the music slowed again, to the lonely wail of a saxophone. Morgan realized through a fog of pleasure that they were swaying in place, barely moving at all. Her arms had snaked around his neck, and her breasts were pressed against him. Her breathing quickened, and she could feel his heart against her cheek, thrumming deep and hard and insistent She could also feel his arousal, and her own body throbbed in response.

  He moved his hand from where it was spread across the small of her back. He touched her face with his fingertips, stroking her cheek and then under her chin, tipping her head up so she was looking into his smoldering eyes.

  “Morgan, I need to love you.”

  A shuddering breath caught in her throat and before she could expel it he’d bent and claimed her lips.

  His taste was familiar and dear. Their tongues met in a shivery dance, and with a groan he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, angling this way and that in a caress that was soon out of control. His tongue thrust in and out his lips nuzzled, his teeth nipped at her swollen bottom lip.

  “Let me touch you.” His hands slid beneath her tunic, touching bare skin, gliding up her ribs until his palms found her breasts.

  “I’ve wanted to touch you this way for so long,” he breathed, moving his hands in maddening, slow circles until her nipples strained against the lacy bra that enclosed them.

  She trembled and burned, pressing herself against him, and their mouths devoured each other. His clever fingers unloosed the clasp on her bra, and at last her naked flesh rested in his palms.

  He kissed her, murmuring something frantic into her mouth and cupping her aching breasts, taking the sensitive nipples between thumb and forefinger, gently rubbing, fueling the burning desire that threatened to overwhelm her.

  He slid his hands down to her bottom, cupping and lifting her. Heat and need burned low in her belly, and she ground herself against his swollen body.

  “Dangerous, my love,” he muttered, tension in every syllable. He slid her down, and she groaned in dismay when her feet touched the carpet, unsure whether she could even stand on her own.

  Then he was peeling the tunic up and over her head, tearing the straps of her bra down her arms and off, and all she could feel was relief at becoming free of the constraint of clothing.

  “Morgan, you are so beautiful.” Luke’s eyes were on her breasts, and then his lips closed over a nipple, suckling, drawing and releasing. Sensation rippled through her, bringing a gasp of pleasure.

  He knelt, sliding her leggings and panties down, stopping to caress her buttocks and press hot, slow kisses in the nest of curls at the apex of her thighs until her knees gave way and she had to lean on his shoulders to support herself.

  He muttered in frustration when he encountered her laced boots, but it was only a matter of seconds before he had them undone and off her feet and at last she stood naked before him. He got up, and together they tore at his clothing until it lay scattered with hers.

  She was aware of his naked body, of the lean, supple strength and perfect proportions that his clothing only hinted at. He was beautiful, flat bellied, long limbed and graceful, and she was suddenly self-conscious in her own nakedness.

  Most of the time, except when she was around India, of course, she was at home in her body, perfectly comfortable with her tiny, full breasted frame, but it had been years since she’d been naked with a man. She reached for the tunic lying on the floor, but he restrained her.

  “Don’t do that,” he whispered. “Let me look at you. You’re so small, so perfect” He slid his hands down her body, his eyes worshiping every lush curve.

  “Morgan.” His voice was unrecognizable, thick and rasping, out of control. “Put your arms around my neck.”

  He carried her effortlessly down the short hallway and into the bedroom. He lowered her to the bed and she trembled, filled with fierce, wild sexual hung
er.

  “Morgan, are you protected?”

  She nodded. She’d seen to it after their first date.

  In a fever of need, she felt his hard, heated flesh between her wet thighs.

  “Don’t want to hurt you,” he gasped, and she sensed he was holding back.

  “Luke, let go. Love me. Just love me.” She was half sobbing with need, and she grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down to her, wrapping her legs around him and writhing with desire.

  “My sweet Morgan.” In a single long burning thrust he entered her, jolting her body back against the mattress and driving everything out of her head except the frantic thought that if he stopped now she would die.

  Pressure built and built, and she cried out, gripping his back, frantically urging him to drive deeper, harder, until at last pleasure burst in her with such a rush of heat and ecstasy she thought she would shatter like glass.

  He caught her scream with his mouth, taking it into himself as her body convulsed, and the deep pulsating that racked her in turn brought an animal cry to his lips as his own orgasm began. He heaved and surged, and the pressure of his seed shooting into her renewed the spasms that had only moments before convulsed her, bringing her again to a peak of blind sensation that climaxed in a second surge of almost unbearable pleasure, leaving her trembling and gasping and boneless.

  He collapsed, careful not to crush her, his damp body half covering hers, his face buried in the soft skin of her shoulder, his gasps slowly subsiding.

  Her heartbeat gradually slowed and the delicious aftershocks that trembled through her faded, but it was still a long time before she could think.

  When she could, she was stupefied at the scope of her own ignorance.

  She was thirty-six. She’d coped with birth and death. She was an obstetrician, a doctor who dealt every day of her working life with issues surrounding women’s bodies, women’s sexuality. She knew her way blindfolded around the human body, male as well as female; she’d excelled at anatomy and physiology. Yet, in spite of all that, until right now she’d been as ignorant of the fathomless potential of her own sexuality as any virgin, and it astounded her.

  “Luke?” She needed to tell him what she was feeling. “You awake?”

  “Mmm.” He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes dazed and sleepy. He propped himself on an elbow and nibbled kisses across her face and down her neck, and to her amazement his voice was husky and apologetic.

  “I’m sorry I was rough, love. I didn’t have any control left. Your skin’s like silk. It’s a wonder I didn’t bruise you, taking you like a savage.

  “I wanted to be taken that way.”

  “Oh, Morgan.” He kissed her nose. “Have I told you that I love your freckles?”

  “I knew it. You’re a sexual deviant.” She giggled and slid a hand down his length, and his body responded. “I’m so glad.”

  She drove him mad. Luke fought for control as she whispered his name and moved her pelvis. He clenched his teeth and held back, which should have been easy this time but wasn’t.

  Her skin was fiery hot, and the intoxicating taste of her was on his tongue. She was more than he’d ever fantasized a lover could be, innocently sensual, honestly greedy, a little clumsy, endlessly curious and wholly enchanting.

  Morgan...

  Everything about her delighted him, the size and weight of her rounded breasts, their delicate nipples, the perfect shape of her buttocks, the slenderness of her waist, the surprising length of her legs.

  But those things were physical. There was something else that drew him to her, something intangible, something purely and simply Morgan.

  She cried out and her fingers scrabbled across his back, and he let go. With his own powerful release came the conviction that this was something he’d never found before, but when he regained his senses, of course he dismissed the thought. This was sex, pure and simple. This houseboat would be their private world, their escape from reality.

  Each of them had complicated lives. He’d realized last night, talking to her mother, listening to Tessa, watching Sophie, that those complications could destroy everything if he and Morgan became involved on any other level but this one.

  He had to keep that clear in his mind.

  November came, and the weather turned nasty, with steady days of drizzling rain that seemed to permeate everything with dampness.

  Tessa shivered as she slid her key into the lock and opened the back door as quietly as she could. It was almost two in the morning, and her heart sank as she realized there was a light on in the other room. She suddenly felt tense and guilty, even though she knew Morgan wouldn’t be sitting there just waiting to tear into her. Morgan never did things like that, but all the same, Tessa knew that tonight she’d broken their bond of trust, and Morgan would be disappointed in her.

  When Tess had first come to live here, Morgan hadn’t set many rules, which surprised her at first. Instead, they’d talked together and worked out a sort of honor code that Tessa had pretty much stuck with. It was based on mutual honesty and respect, and one of the things they’d agreed to was that if Tess was going to be out really late, she’d call so Morgan wouldn’t worry about her.

  Well, she hadn’t done it tonight Anyhow, Tess told herself defiantly, Morgan had been outa lot lately, herself. She probably didn’t know or even care that Tessa hadn’t called home.

  Gathering her defenses around her like armor, Tess walked through the kitchen into the living room, relieved and then resentful that it was India who sat under the reading lamp with her manicure case in her satin covered lap. Skippy was curled up beside her, which further irritated Tessa. The little dog had attached himself to India, and he followed her everywhere these days.

  “Hi,” Tess said in a sullen tone. “What’re you doing up?” It had only been a week since India’s arrival, but it seemed like a year. It was a constant struggle for Tess to be polite to the old woman. Everything had changed since she’d come to stay, and Tess had known within a couple of days of having her around that there was no way she’d ever get along with Morgan’s mother.

  More than anything, Tess thought, she wanted things to return to the way they’d been; she just wanted India to go back where she belonged and stay there.

  “What am I doing up? I happen to suffer from insomnia.” India held up a hand to check the talon like nails she’d painted a deep ruby red. The three gold bracelets she wore clanged together.

  She was wearing a turquoise negligee with feathery stuff around the neck and hem. Tess thought it was called marabou. She had to admit that India’s clothes and jewelry were really something, even though she was a first class, conceited old bitch.

  “The question is, dear girl, what axe you doing sneaking in at this hour?’'

  “I’m not sneaking.” At least the dislike between them was mutual, Tess concluded. She was sick and tired of trying to be polite to India, too. “And I’m not your dear girl, and I don’t have to explain anything to you,” she snapped, jutting her chin out defiantly. “I’m going up to bed.”

  “Looks to me as if you just got out of bed,” India purred in a syrupy tone that stopped Tess in her tracks. “First thing you know, young lady, you’ll be knocked up all over again. Unless, of course, you’re smarter about birth control than you were before. Morgan mentioned that you just got over one pregnancy.”

  Outrage and anger took Tessa’s breath away for an instant, but then the defensive shell she’d developed on the streets kicked in. She forced her voice to sound cool and unemotional. “You’re just jealous because nobody’s ever gonna want you in the sack anymore, huh, India?”

  The jibe hit home. India gasped and jerked as though she’d been punched, and the fancy manicure case crashed to the carpet, spilling bottles and squares of cotton and emery boards.

  Skippy leaped up and cowered as if he’d been struck. India patted him and then pressed a hand to her heart, and her face turned so white that for a moment Tessa was genuinely afrai
d that maybe she was going to have a heart attack or something. But then Tess remembered that the other woman was an actress, so she turned away and strolled nonchalantly up the stairs, determined not to reveal that India had tricked her for a minute there.

  At the landing, however, where India couldn’t see her, Tess crouched down for a peek at the older woman, but India had gotten up and gone into the kitchen.

  Tess could hear the water running in the sink. The old bitch was probably popping some of those pills she had stashed in her dresser drawers. Tess knew there were about ten different vials of them. She was either a drug addict or a health nut, take your choice. She’d wanted to ask Morgan what the pills were for, but that would have meant admitting she’d poked through the old woman’s things.

  She went on up the stairs and was about to tiptoe past Morgan’s bedroom when she realized the door was open and Morgan wasn’t in bed, anyway. She was likely at the hospital delivering somebody’s kid. People must’ve been really turned on last spring, because Morgan had been gone almost every night this week.

  Something suddenly clicked in Tessa’s head, and she came to an abrupt standstill outside the bathroom.

  Morgan was with Sophie’s dad! They were in bed somewhere; she’d bet her leather jacket on it. She went into the bathroom and used the toilet, then washed her face and hands, wondering how she could have been so stupid.

  Morgan was having an affair. She even looked different, really pretty, sort of glowing, taking care about her hair and wearing the clothes Tessa had chosen. And the reason was, she’d fallen for Doc Gilbert.

  Tess went into her room and pulled off her clothes, tugged on her sleep shirt and climbed into bed. She curled into a ball and pulled the duvet up over her shoulders, but her mind wouldn’t quit.

  The thought of Morgan and Sophie’s dad actually doing it made her feel kind of queasy. Sure, they’d gone out to dinner that one time, but right after that, India had arrived and things here got crazy. Tess had started staying away rather than dealing with India’s never ending demands.