The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance. Carol Marinelli
you see that?’
I stood from the bed and crossed my arms over my body. ‘No. No. No. I can’t. I just can’t.’
‘Why are you so worried about what people will say?’
I turned back to look at him. ‘I spent most of my childhood being laughed at. I can’t bear people sniggering at me, or—worse—pitying me. If I were to tell everyone now I was jilted the night before my wedding they’ll howl with laughter or cringe in pity. It’s too late. I have to keep it quiet. I have to.’
‘Come here.’ His voice had a commanding tone to it I found wonderfully soothing. It was like he was going to take charge—please, don’t tell my bra-burning mother I said that!—and make everything right for me. I sat beside him on the bed and he took one of my hands in his. ‘You don’t have to keep pretending. The longer it goes on the harder it’ll be to undo. People will understand. They really will, sweetheart. Trust me.’
It really got me when he called me that. A lot of men utter endearments without making them sound genuine. But I wasn’t convinced a tell-all in the staffroom was going to work for me. Besides, I didn’t have the guts to do it. My childhood scars were too deep, too raw to have them scraped open by even one giggle or chuckle. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please, try and understand.’
He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes holding mine in a tender look. I don’t think anyone—no man at least—has ever looked at me like that. He looked like he really cared about me, about my feelings, about my insecurities. ‘I do understand. It’s tough when things don’t work out the way you’d planned. But you’ll get over it in time.’
I gave him a narrowed look. ‘Please, don’t tell me you feel sorry for me.’
He stroked his thumb over the back of my hand. ‘I feel sorry you feel so pressured to fit in that you can’t be honest with people. But you don’t have to hide or pretend with me, okay?’
I could feel a little wobble of my chin, which was the closest I’ve got to crying in a very long time. ‘Okay.’ It was barely a whisper but it sure felt good to say it. To admit I trusted him to keep my secret safe.
He trailed a finger over the back of my hand. ‘There’s a way around this.’
I suppressed a shiver as his finger travelled to the underside of my wrist where my pulse was skyrocketing. ‘There is?’
His eyes scorched mine. ‘We could have a secret relationship.’
I noted the word ‘secret’. Not my favourite word right then, but still. I swallowed as his finger made a lazy circle against the skin of my palm. It felt like he had touched me intimately, stroking me to arousal. ‘I want you to know I don’t do this sort of thing normally.’
‘I know.’
I looked at him again. Directly. Staunchly. ‘I mean it, Matt. This is totally out of character for me.’
He gently brushed a strand of hair back from my face. I had always longed for a man to do that to me. Andy never seemed to notice my tendrils, even the ones I’d deliberately staged to hang loose so he could push them back. ‘Maybe we need to get this thing between us out of our system. What do you say?’
‘Well,’ I said, tapping my finger against my lip for a moment, ‘I do have a couple of stipulations.’
‘Which are?’
‘This bed, for one thing.’ I stood up and put my hands on my hips again. ‘If I’m going to have bed-wrecking sex with you, then we at least need to start with a bed that’s not already wrecked.’
He gave another lopsided smiled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘You are one crazy girl.’
‘But you like me, right?’
He stood and brushed his fingertips down my cheek, his smile, even as it faded, still making my insides turn over. ‘I hope you don’t catch my bug.’
‘Thanks to my parents, I have a robust immune system.’
He gave one of my Dorothy from Oz pigtails a gentle tug. ‘You’re going to need it.’
I REMADE THE bed with fresh linen and dumped the other in the laundry downstairs. I would have set on a load but I had other priorities right then. When I came back up Matt was standing next to the bed with just a towel draped around his hips. I went to him as if I’d been doing it all my adult life. It felt so natural to walk into his open arms and feel them come around me like strong, warm bands.
He smelt divine, soap and shampoo and his own male smell, and he was warm and still a little damp from the shower. I was damp too. I could feel my body stirring in response to his closeness; the maleness of him against my softer contours was enough to send my senses spinning.
His mouth came down to the side of mine, touching and teasing the corner of my mouth in a tantalisingly little prelude of what was to come. I turned my head so his lips came into full contact with mine. I wasn’t in the mood for preludes. I wanted the whole damn symphony and in forte.
His mouth was warm and firm and moved against mine with devastating expertise. There was amazing choreography in our kisses. There were no nose bumps or tooth scrapes; instead, there was a natural affinity between our mouths, a graceful coordination like watching two brilliant dancers working the ballroom floor. My response to him was purely instinctive. I hadn’t even thought I was a particularly good kisser until I had come into contact with his mouth.
His tongue stroked along my bottom lip and I made a sound of approval as I welcomed him inside. The warm glide of his tongue over and under and around mine made my insides contract with lust. His hands pulled me against him, his fingers digging into my buttocks to hold me against where his blood pounded with desire. I could feel the hard ridge of him swelling against me. It made my body restless to get even closer. I could feel the tingling and tickling of my inner core, an ache and pulse of longing growing more intense by the second.
His hands began working their way under my jumper, sliding his palms over my bare skin to find my breast. I made a little gasping sound as his fingers pushed aside my bra and made flesh-to-flesh contact. He cupped me first, and then he rolled the pad of his thumb back and forth across and around my nipple. It was the most exquisite torture. All the nerves beneath my skin leapt and twirled and pirouetted.
I wanted to touch him to give him the same pleasure he was giving me. I tugged at the towel covering him and it fell to the floor. I stroked my fingers down his hard, flat abdomen, stringing out the anticipation for him as I slowly made my way to my target. He sucked in a harsh-sounding breath as I claimed my prize. He was iron hard and yet his skin felt velvet smooth. I felt the throbbing pulse of his blood against my hand. I squeezed and stroked in turn. I circled my fingertip over his tip, where pre-ejaculate fluid was beading. It was an erotic reminder of the primal impulses going on in my own body, the silky dew that moistened my inner walls in preparation for the thrust and glide of his body.
He helped me out of my clothes with gentle but urgent hands, using those same hands to stroke over my flesh as he uncovered it. I felt like a present he was unwrapping, a present he had waited a long time to claim. He kissed every inch of my décolletage, along the scaffold of my collarbones, dipping his tongue into the suprasternal notch between.
His mouth came back to mine, plundering it with increasing vigour, as if the tight hold on his self-control was under enormous strain. I kissed him back with passionate enthusiasm, my tongue dancing and duelling with his. He tasted so fresh, a combination of mint and salt and sexy maleness. He had shaved during his shower but his skin still rasped against mine in a way that made me feel incredibly feminine.
Once I was in nothing but my knickers, his hands came up and cupped my face. I liked it that he hadn’t stripped me naked, that he’d allowed me that final barrier to make me feel less pressured, less