Page 40 of Beach Reads
She’s tight around my fingers. Panting so sweetly as she writhes on the desk, and I’m never leaving this office. Never getting up from this rug. If I get my way I’ll die down here, Poppy’s wetness soaking my stubble and my cock drilling a hole through my fly.
“Whit,” she wails. She’s going to tear my hair out by the roots, but I keep lapping at her clit. “Holyshit. I’m gonna—”
“Yes. Do it, sweet girl.” I crook two fingers inside her, pressing my words against her nub. “Come for me.”
It’s a detonation. Of course it is. Poppy lives her whole life in vivid technicolor; she’s an explosion of color and laughter and light. She feels everything so fully, and this is no exception as sheshudders against the desk, the wood groaning beneath her. She yanks on my hair and cries out at the ceiling.
“Poppy,” I say, and I’m on my knees, praying. “Poppy.”
Her laugh is strangled. “Whit.”
When she slumps down onto the desk, her grip going slack in my hair,I’mexhausted. I feel like I’ve run twenty miles, not made my girl come. And I’ve got that post-run weightless feeling, too, a giddy rush of endorphins through my veins.
I kiss her on the knee, on the same spot where I touched her all those days ago.
Well.
I guess we finally crossed a line.
Poppy
Dr Whitaker is a freaking dream.With those steady chocolate brown eyes; the firm jaw under that stubble; the way his head tilts when he considers me, his gaze roaming up and down my body…
I’ve won some karmic jackpot. There’s no other explanation. I must have done something super selfless in a past life, because it’s late on a Friday and I’m in the doctor’s office for the third night running, perched on his epic thighs.
“It makes no sense that you’d have a lap like this.” I wiggle to make my point, and big hands clamp on my waist, holding me still. “Aren’t doctors all reedy and overworked? Fueled only by caffeine addictions and savior complexes?”
“You’re half right.” His voice is amused in my ear. Deep and rough.
I wiggle again, grinning at the wall. “Oh, poor Whit. Want me to make it all better?”
That exasperated huff is my new favorite sound. Or, no: maybe it’s the ragged groan Whit lets out every time he licks between my legs. Or the shocked inhale he makes every time we kiss. Or the rustle of his white coat as he wraps me in his arms.
Yeah. Dr Whitaker makes a lot of really delicious sounds.
“That won’t be necessary, Poppy.” He grips me tighter, stops me from grinding against the hard line of his cock, and the big, shiny soap bubble of my happiness pops just like that. I wrinkle my nose at his desk.
See, Dr Whitaker may put his hands on me every chance he gets, but apparently it’s a one-way street. I’m not allowed to peel off his white coat. Not allowed to slip down onto the rug and tug his belt buckle open. Believe me, I’ve tried.
That won’t be necessary, he always says, like I’m a waitress offering sugar in his coffee. No blow jobs, thank you, not today.
Does Whit not want me like that? Is it because of what I told him that first time, whispering my confession into his shoulder as he stood between my legs afterward, hugging me against his chest?
“I’m not—I’ve never done this before.”
He’d paused, clearly surprised. But he didn’t push me away, did he? And it didn’t stop him from licking me again every day since.
So. My v-card is probably not the problem.
“Gina Ferris called earlier.” Whit’s chest rumbles against my back as he speaks. His thumbs stroke up and down my ribs. Up and down. “They’re running the story tomorrow. It’s nearly over, Poppy.”
“Vengeance,” I mumble.
His laugh jolts me forward an inch. “Yes. Vengeance. And then you’ll be free to live your own life. In fact,” he leans away, tugging his desk drawer open, “this is for you.”
It whispers against the desk as it lands. A passport application form; one to replace the one my father took from me. So I can finally go on my trip.
I swallow around the lump in my throat.
