Page 92 of The Potter

At least until Friday, when I have to face Calista at the deposition regarding Logan’s death.

Just thinking about it has me losing rhythm, and Halle doesn’t miss it. “Stay with me, Vance,” she pants out, squeezing my hand. “Feel me.” She pulls my hand, stretching my arm up her chest to her heart. “Feel all of me.”

With her heart beating faster than usual, I focus on its steadiness as her pussy grips my fingers. She’s right, I am here. With her.

And, right now, as her sweet cunt spasms around my finger, that’s enough.

“I hope you brushed your teeth.”

I pause towel-drying my hair and arch a brow at the naked woman in my bed. “Come again?”

She grins, getting up, her tits bouncing with the motion, and grabs my hand. “I’m just saying pussy and garlic spaghetti is a bad combination.”

“We’ve crossed a line with this conversation.” I shake my head, letting her pull me onto the bed.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Vance. Even esteemed doctors can have bad breath. It’s nothing to ashamed of.” She takes the towel from me and looks longingly at my dick that she rode on the bathroom counter prior to my shower, which is where she had to come up with this whole bad breath thing.

I narrow my eyes. “I brushed my teeth—prior to you sucking me off, actually.”

We’re seriously having a bad breath discussion.

“I’m teasing.” She pops me with the towel before climbing on the bed and settling onto my lap, facing me. “But seriously, are you ever insecure?” She places the towel on my head and takes over drying my hair, which feels absolutely incredible.

“I get insecure,” I tell her. “Clearly, you’ve witnessed a few of those moments.”

“I mean with your body.” Her tone lowers, and I think I know where this line of questioning is going.

“Most of my scars are on the inside.” I can hear her disappointed exhale. “But there was this one time, in med school…” I pull the towel away and toss it on the floor. “I was drunk and thought my scalpel was a straw.” I flash her a wink. “One of those rich-people-metal-ones.”

She laughs.

“It wasn’t until I dropped it on my bare foot, that I realized it was my scalpel I left lying out on the dresser when I was practicing cuts on fruit.” I hold my foot up, letting her get an up close and personal view of the jagged scar that nearly cost me a pinky toe. “Eight stitches and a never-ending ribbing from Astor later, I have a nasty scar that prevents me from ever wearing another pair of flip-flops.”

At closer inspection, Halle throws her head back and laughs a deep belly sound. “You’re full of shit. You’ve never worn flip-flops.”

This woman…

“I’ll have you know, I was much cooler in college.”

“I highly doubt that.” She lets out another chuckle. “Dr. Potter would never be caught in anything other than expensive loafers.”

“I wear tennis shoes in the operating room,” I correct her. “It’s better for my knees.”

And back, but that’s not the point.

“Why not have the scar fixed if it bothers you?”

And this is what she really wants. Validation.

“Do you think because you had scars revised that you’re somehow less of a woman than the people who live with their scars?”

She doesn’t respond, and I take that to mean yes.

I sigh. “The scars will always be there, Peach. It doesn’t matter how small or noticeable they are. The fact is, they are part of us. But that doesn’t mean we have to allow others to have the knowledge they exist. Scars are the windows to our past. No one is entitled to that experience. So, I leave the scar on my foot because it’s a scar I don’t mind revisiting, though it still makes me self-conscious of the way my foot looks in a pair of flip-flops.”

I chuckle, hoping I don’t fuck up what I’m trying to say.

“But the deep scars… the ones inside that I don’t want anyone to see… those have only been opened for one person, and she managed to refine them into something manageable.”

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