Costars (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance)

by Adams, Claire

  “I have high expectations for you. Doctors are supposed to know everything about physiology, right?”

  “I don’t know if we know everything.”

  “Well, let’s hope you know enough,” I tell him. “Otherwise, don’t think I’m above kicking your ass to the curb wearing nothing but a frown.”

  “Sure,” he says, reaching for the condoms in the nightstand, “no pressure there.”

  Despite his words, he doesn’t seem too worried about it as he pulls out the box, opens it, and hands me the condom, half a smile on his face as if he knows something I don’t know.

  “What?” I ask, taking the condom from him and opening the wrapper.

  “Nothing,” he says. “How are you doing over there?”

  I raise an eyebrow and put the reservoir tip in my mouth, making sure not to get my teeth anywhere near the latex in the process. He slides up the mattress a little, giving me better access to bend down and put the condom over him with my mouth.

  I can’t get it all the way over him — he is a bit bigger than what I’ve had in the past — but it only takes a moment to work it the rest of the way down with my hand.

  Now, I’m climbing back over him, guiding his cock toward my entrance and, just as soon as his tip is inside me, I stop.

  “You know what I think?” I ask, leaning forward so I can rest my head on my elbow, my elbow on his chest.

  “What’s that?” he asks with a thick rush of air.

  “I think you’re nervous,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t be.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, it has been a while for me, so who knows? Maybe it won’t matter if you’re good or not. I probably won’t be able to tell the difference.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that you’re fucking with me?”

  “Because I am,” I tell him. “I’m trying to undermine your confidence so you’ll work that much harder to give me the kind of earsplitting, mind-blowing, face melting orgasm we both know I deserve.”

  “You have some really strange dirty talk,” he says, lifting his hips and, as a result, putting himself a little further into me.

  “Eager, are we?” I ask.

  “A little bit,” he says.

  “Good,” I tell him. “Blow your load before I’ve had a chance to quiver like a dying fish and I’ll kick your ass.”

  “Seriously, I don’t know what to do with any of that.”

  “Just making sure you’re aware that I’m raising the stakes,” I tell him, and without warning, I push myself all the way over him.

  His upper body comes up, and I’ve got both hands on the bed now, one on each side of him, and I’m just grinding myself against his base, feeling every inch of him inside me.

  I move my hands from the bed to his chest, supporting myself with his body and pressing my breasts together in the process.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been with someone, and I’ve lost some weight due to the last few rounds of chemo, but I still have the strength to hold him down against the bed while I ride his thick erection.

  “Not bad,” I tell him, almost breathless.

  “Lean back,” he instructs.

  I raise my eyebrow to him again, but I lean back, positioning my knees a little further up the side of his body as I do.

  Now, what I’m hoping for here — yep, he’s massaging my clit.

  “Good boy,” I utter, closing my eyes and just taking in the feeling of him in and against the most sensitive parts of me. He’s drawing little shapes over my clit with the pad of his thumb, and I’m just trying to think straight as I’m catapulted into the kind of ecstasy I’ve been without for so long.

  “You’re beautiful,” he tells me, his voice soft but eager for more.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, and I rest my hands on his upper thighs, leaning back further and giving him even more access to my clit.

  His hand is still now as I flip my hips back and forth, faster and faster as that feeling grows inside me, taking me over from the inside out. In what feels like an instant, the levee breaks and my whole body’s quivering at his continued, masterful touch.

  I’m hardly aware of the fact that, when I can catch a modicum of breath, I’m moaning to the point of a near scream, the sound ricocheting off the walls of my room. My arms nearly give out beneath me, and I’m moving my hips now only in jagged movements as I continue to come so hard. When the feeling starts to recede, I’m only that much more determined to get it back again.

  “Damn,” he says, smiling.

  “That’s what I say,” I answer, nearly out of breath. “You’ve got quite the cock, there.”

  “Why thank you,” he says, laughing.

  I’m sweating and I can feel my skin flush as I rest my body against his now. His arms move around me and he pulls me so close to him as he pushes himself in and pulls himself out of me with renewed vigor.

  I kiss his chest and try to think of something witty to say as he lifts his knees, getting his feet under him for more leverage as he fucks me in the sweetest way.

  The only problem is, I’m losing energy fast.

  I’ve been off the chemo long enough to have regained most of my strength, but going through round after round has taken a lot out of me, and that’s not the kind of thing that just comes back after a couple of weeks.

  I want to keep going, but my body’s gone as far as it can go right now.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’ve got to stop.”

  He stops and pulls himself out of me, asking me if I’m all right.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, “just out of juice. Tell you what, though.”

  “What?” he asks as he runs his fingertips over my back, looking with sweet concern into my eyes.

  “If you give me ten minutes and a cup of yogurt, I’m pretty sure I can hand pop your top, no problem,” I tell him.

  He smiles and kisses my forehead, and even though I’m starting to see spots, I couldn’t be happier.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Trial

  Jace

  I’m sitting in my office, telling a patient of mine, Robert Wilson, that his kidney cancer, against all expectations, is in remission, but my mind is somewhere else entirely.

  I thought she was kidding, but after ten minutes and a cup of yogurt, Grace did exactly what she said she would do.

  Today’s the first day of the clinical trial, and if I had any objectivity before that morning in her apartment, it’s gone entirely now.

  “That’s good news, right?”

  “I’m sorry?” I ask.

  Mr. Wilson asks again, “That’s good news, right? Remission means it’s gone.”

  “Unfortunately, the cancer isn’t completely eradicated,” I tell him, “but your tumor has begun to shrink. We still have a way to go before we can call it a total victory, but this is great news. You’re back near the top of the transplant list, and I think we’ve got a really good shot of knocking this thing out. With that said, I do want to impress upon you the importance of managing our expectations here. Renal cell carcinoma is very serious, as you know. Still, I think there’s cause to be optimistic.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” he says. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have you as a physician.”

  So far, at least, crossing the line with one patient — Grace — hasn’t caused me to lose sight of my work in general.

  “Talk to Yuri and we’ll get you in sometime next week,” I tell Mr. Wilson. “And it’s okay to smile.”

  He gets up beaming, and he leaves the room.

  So often I have to tell people the worst news they’ll ever hear. It’s nice, every once in a while, to be able to give a little bit of hope instead.

  It’d be even nicer if it wasn’t just once in a while, but I’ll take what I can get.

  Yuri comes to the door and says, “Grace is here; should I send her in?”

  “She’s here?”

  I told her that I’d walk her down for her first day
of the trial, but we were supposed to meet in the lobby.

  “Yeah,” I tell Yuri, “send her in.”

  Yuri turns and walks out of the room.

  A few seconds later, Grace comes in and closes the door behind her. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “We’re really doing this.”

  “It’s not that I’m ungrateful or anything like that,” she says, “but I don’t know. Do you really think this is a good idea?”

  “You’re having second thoughts?”

  “It’s not that,” she says. “It’s just that, well — I’m nervous. I don’t really get nervous, so it’s kind of a big thing for me.”

  “Everybody gets nervous,” I tell her. “Don’t worry about it. You’re going to do great.”

  “I guess,” she says, “only…”

  “Only?”

  “I don’t want to lose you as a doctor,” she says. “I mean, the other part of our relationship is pretty great, but you’re still my doctor, and I don’t want to be the reason-”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I interrupt. “Nothing’s going to happen except that you’re going to get into that drug trial and we’re going to do everything we possibly can to get you better.”

  “I’ve been looking at the statistics,” she says. “Okay, I’ve been looking at the statistics ever since you told me I had oligodendroglioma, but I’ve been looking at them again recently, and it’s not like I don’t have time to live a good life. If I had my way, I’d live to be a hundred and sixty, but I don’t think that’s really in the cards for me.”

  “A hundred and sixty is probably a bit on the optimistic side,” I tell her with a smile. “But if this trial can extend your life by a year or even a few months, I think it’s worth it, don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah,” she answers.

  “Look,” I say, “this is totally up to you. If you don’t want to do this, we won’t do it. I just want to give you every opportunity that I possibly can, okay?”

  “Okay,” she agrees.

  She must be scared. I’ve never seen her go this long without making some sort of wildly inappropriate joke or observation.

  “You’re supposed to be there in what, twenty minutes?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s just get you down there, and if it’s not something you want to follow through with, you can always quit. People drop out of clinical trials all the time.”

  “It’s just,” she says, but doesn’t finish the sentence.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “This is going to be a good thing. I promise.”

  That may very well be the first time I’ve used the words “I promise” outside the phrase “We’re going to do everything that we can.”

  I know she’s scared, but I really believe this is her best shot. I don’t just want her to live for another ten or twelve years, I want her to have a full life.

  “Okay,” she says. “There’s someone else out there; do you have to see them before we go?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “If you want to, you can wait out there with Yuri while I finish up and I’ll walk you down and introduce you to Dr. Willis. She’ll be the one in charge of the trial.”

  “Okay,” Grace says, but hesitates. She quickly makes her way over to me and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before she turns and walks out of the office.

  “Yuri?” I call out.

  She comes to the door, saying, “You know, we do have an intercom.”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Would you send in Mrs. Probst?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Yuri answers and leaves the room again.

  Mrs. Probst has stage four small cell lung cancer. She doesn’t have much time left, and there’s not a whole lot that I can do for her.

  We’re past the point of treatment now and we both know it. Today’s appointment is to discuss how best to make her comfortable over the remaining week or so that she has left.

  The hard part with Mrs. Probst is that she refuses to be admitted to the hospital, though by all rights she should have been in a bed here weeks ago.

  Her son, Brian, wheels her into the office and guides her to the far side of my desk before taking a seat next to her.

  “How are you doing, Brian?” I ask.

  “I’m doing,” he says. “I think it’s time we get Mom to come to the hospital, though. I don’t know how much longer she’s got, and I don’t want her to have to spend her last days in so much pain.”

  I turn to Renee. “How are you feeling?”

  It’s a stupid question, but one that still needs asking.

  Right now, Renee is in a great deal of pain. I’ve given her prescriptions for painkillers, but she refuses to take them. Every breath for her is a struggle, and it’s one that she never fully wins.

  With a heavy wheeze, she lifts her oxygen mask enough to say, “I don’t want to be admitted. If I’m going to die, I want to die in the house my husband built.”

  “Mom, you’re in pain,” Brian says.

  “That’s life, dear,” she says and puts her oxygen mask back over her mouth and nose.

  “It is her decision,” I tell Brian and then turn to Renee, “although there is a lot that we can do to make you more comfortable, even if you choose not to stay in the hospital.”

  She shakes her head slowly.

  She’s already resigned.

  In my business, in her progressed stage of small cell, resignation isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The five year survival rate is about two percent, and unfortunately everyone sitting in this room right now knows that’s not going to be her.

  Still, there’s no reason she should suffer any more than she has to.

  “Would you consider a morphine drip?” I ask. “We have buttons that you can use to give yourself a dose, within limits, of course. That way, you can still be in control of-”

  “I’m not...” she wheezes, lifting her oxygen mask slightly, “in control…of anything… anymore…”

  “This can give you control over your pain,” I tell her. “There’s always going to be some discomfort, but you might be surprised how much a little relief can help.”

  This seventy-five-year-old woman is, without a doubt, the toughest person I’ve ever met in my life.

  For an oncologist, that’s a hell of a statement.

  The fact that she’s even sitting up in her power chair is a small miracle. She shouldn’t even be out of bed right now and it’s astonishing that she’s capable of doing it. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I’ve never seen anything like it.

  Renee just says it’s the only excuse for her to leave the house that anyone will accept anymore.

  For her, as painful and exhausting as it must be, this is the closest thing to a vacation she’s likely to know from here on out.

  “No,” she says, not bothering to lift her mask this time. “I’m tired…I’m weak…I’m ready…”

  “You’ve got to talk to her,” Brian says. “There’s got to be something you can do.”

  “There’s nothing more we can do at this point,” I tell him. “Other than manage her pain and try to make her as comfortable as possible…” I sigh. “There’s just nothing else for us to do.”

  “Why isn’t she on the transplant list?” he shouts, startling me and his mother.

  “Her cancer’s metastasized,” I tell him. “There’s nothing more we can do. I advocated getting her on the list, but the transplant committee denied it. I’m sorry.”

  Brian turns to his mother, tears in his eyes. He’s young. He can’t be more than thirty-five.

  “You’ve got to do something,” he says.

  “I’m ready,” Mrs. Probst breathes and, with that, her head droops forward.

  I’m on the other side of the desk and crouched down next to Mrs. Probst in a second, feeling her neck for a pulse.

  “What’s happening?” Brian asks.

  Shit.

  “I’m sorry,”
I tell him.

  I’m not feeling a pulse and she’s DNR. I try to find a pulse in her wrist, but there’s nothing.

  “You’re sorry?” he shouts. “Why the hell are you sorry?”

  I look at my watch. “Time of death, eleven forty-seven,” I pronounce.

  “What?” he cries. “No, you can bring her back. You’ve got to bring her back.”

  “She signed a do not resuscitate order,” I tell him.

  “I don’t give a fuck what she signed!” Brian yells in my ear. “You need to give her CPR.”

  “I can’t,” I tell him. “Legally, I can’t.”

  “She’s dying!” he yells and the door to my office opens.

  Yuri’s in the doorway, waiting for some kind of instruction from me, but I really don’t think now is the time for me to tell her to call the morgue.

  “I’m going to need a little help in here,” I tell her. “Mrs. Probst just passed away.”

  “Why aren’t you doing anything?!” Brian screams at me.

  “Mr. Probst,” Yuri says. “You need to come with me.”

  “Fuck you!” he shouts. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my mother, and you’re just letting her die!”

  “Brian,” I say in as calm a voice as I can muster given the situation, “you need to come with me.”

  “You’re just going to leave her here?” he asks, his anger turning to grief and confusion.

  “No,” I tell him. “A couple of doctors are going to come in here and help me move her to a gurney, all right? I’m sorry, but this is what she wanted.”

  Brian’s in tears now, clutching his mother’s hand.

  I’ve had patients die before. I’ve been in the room when it’s happened, but it’s never happened in my office.

  After a few minutes, a couple other doctors and a few nurses are in my office and we’re lifting her as carefully as we can onto the gurney. Brian’s just standing off in the corner of the room now, watching us in silence.

  For now, we leave the gurney where it is. I’m not about to tell Brian that he has to leave his mother’s side.

  “If you want,” I tell Brian, “we can give you a few minutes with her.”

  He’s wiping his nose with his sleeve and doesn’t say anything.