Page 126 of Love Sick

“Mmm-hmm.”Because I love you.“Is that something you can help me with?”

His hand slides to grasp mine, linking our fingers, and he tugs me on top of him. “Like this?”

“However you’ll give it.”

Take me.

Own me.

Please.

The remaining space between us vanishes as we meet in an urgent kiss. He tightens beneath me. Every muscle wakes and clenches, and his arms become iron bands around me.

My insides melt into liquid heat. His hands slide down my sides and cup my thighs. He pulls and I obey, spreading my legs around him.

Magic sparkles between us, both of us struggling to get closer, taste more. He strokes and caresses everywhere he can reach with the ultrafine, barely there touches he’s learned turn me on the most. In his arms, I’m a live wire and he’s my ground.

Our connection is breathtaking—it always is—and I’m whispering his name with the little air I have. He hums his agreement, and grasps my hips, thumbs digging into the little divots beside the bone. I sit straight and let him guide the rhythm.

He knows this part of my body far better than I ever have. His hands are gifted at so many things, but this…this is my favorite.

One hand drifts over my chest while the other slips between us and ensnares me with pleasure. Heat unfurls. I brace myself on his chest. The moonlight glints in his eyes. They’re fixed on me as I ride him.

It doesn’t take long.

It never takes long.

He fractures me every time—a task I’d previously believed impossible.

Ecstasy dawns. Golden light breaks over my horizon, then scatters inside my body like a lens flare. Sunstars sparkle deep in my belly, and I barely have a moment to breathe before he flips me to my back and starts all over again.

I whisper his name into his skin, hoping he can hear the love and devotion, the reverence, the tenderness and affection.

Afterward, when he’s asleep and I’m nestled in his arms once more, the brave, head-over-heels woman in my subconscious lurches forward.

“I love you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t stir.

* * *

Maternal Fetal Medicine is a subspecialty of obstetrics that deals with high-risk pregnancies. Everything from diabetes to congenital anomalies are followed in the MFM clinic. It should be fascinating. Instead, I spend my days standing in a dark ultrasound room, watching a tech scan babies. I then sit in the consultation room with the patient while the attending explains said ultrasound.

Shadowing at its finest.

Two MFMs lord over this clinic, Dr. John and Dr. Hoffman. Constantly vying for my attention, the divas complain if I spend too much time with one or the other.

John is a large man with little personality. He’s bipolar in his attitude toward me, either mildly jovial or flat-out nasty. He has an unhealthy obsession with pointing out the baby’s nasal bone on ultrasound.

“See this baby’s nasal bone? Such a beautiful nasal bone.”

Every. Single. Time.

The quartet of harpies who serve as ultrasound techs naturally hate me as I am apparently a deterrent to all women who work in health care. Their saccharine smiles never touch their eyes when they look at me. Sweet to the patient’s face, the claws always emerge in the privacy of their computer room.

Mandy is the worst of them. “My arm hurts after that scan. The bitch needs to lose a few pounds. Couldn’t get a good picture of the baby’s profile because her fat rolls were in the way.”

I lean on the door since no chair has ever been offered to me. “God forbid you don’t get a shot of that nasal bone.”

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