Page 371 of One More Kiss

“But the sex was hot. You said multiple orgasms. Did you sit on his face? Ride him like Zorro? If he ate your pussy and did it right, then that is not a man to waste.”

And that’s when the hand I was using to cut the tape on the box slips, the box cutter going with it. Instinctively, and stupidly, I might add, I fumble for the handle of the box cutter. But in missing the handle, the blade slices deeply into my palm before clattering to the floor.

“Motherfluffer!” I scream, grasping my gushing hand with my other one.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Me? Are you kidding?” I shriek. “You were talking about Silas eating my pussy and me face fucking him. What did you think would happen?”

“Wow, he did that? I was posturing.”

“Rebecca! I’m bleeding out here!”

“Right. Don’t move.”

She races toward the bathroom in the back and returns with about a zillion paper towels. I stuff them against my hand and within seconds, the paper is saturated.

“Shit. This is deep. You definitely need stitches.”

She and I exchange a look. My hand is starting to throb. And ache. And burn. And ouch, it really hurts!! Plus, it’s bleeding so much and blood is not my favorite thing. “I have to go to the hospital?”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No! We open in ten minutes. You have to stay. I’ll go.”

“Ugh. Fine. Don’t move. Keep pressure on it.”

Rebecca orders me an Uber and… I tell her to send me to MGH. Even though it’s completely across town earning me more than one curious look about that. But I don’t take it back either. Because I know a doctor who works there. A doctor who works in the emergency department to be exact, and maybe, just maybe, I can see him and not have to wait ten hours in the waiting room.

That’s what I tell myself is the reason for that.

Not because the idea of seeing Silas again is any sort of temptation. And certainly not because the idea of his hands on me and tending to my wound and fixing me up is any sort of a turn-on. I mean, obviously it’s not. I’m profusely bleeding, for Christ’s sake.

But as the Uber pulls up in front of the hospital and the driver gives me a “good luck” and I walk through the emergency room doors into the busy waiting area and up to the front desk, I can’t help the bubble of nervous energy inside me. The one that says I’m playing with fire and dancing in the flames.

“May I help you?” the nurse behind the desk asks with a tired smile, and for some reason, I move my hands behind my back. If I tell her I need stitches, I really will be here all day waiting.

“Yes. Um. I’m here to see Dr. Silas Atwood. I’m a friend. He asked me to meet him here this morning.”

She gives me a look that says she’s not exactly buying my brand of bullshit.

“And who may I tell him is asking?”

Oh. She’s jealous. That cool once-over, and the squint of her eyes tells me she doesn’t like female competition. I doubt he’s fucking her though. She’s too snarly.

“Delaney Banks.”

A fake, I hate your guts grin, and she’s pulling up a black phone. She dials a number and then says, “Sorry to bother you, Doctor, but I have a Delaney Banks who says you asked her to come here this morning.” Shock and dismay flicker across her face as she listens. “Sure. Of course. I’ll have her wait here.” She disconnects the call and then points to the waiting room. “He said he’ll be out in a minute.”

“Thanks.”

I find a seat as far away from anyone who is coughing or sniffling or generally looking like they’re about to die in here and wait. It doesn’t take him long. Less than fifteen minutes and the two wide doors open and out steps Silas Atwood. In scrubs. With his dark hair half sticking up.

“Delaney.” The shock on his face is priceless.

“Hey. Got a minute?”

“Of course. Come with me.”

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