frame.
She wanted him to. Oh, how she wanted him to. But she knew the money was in specialties, like surgery and oncology to name a dastardly few. It wasn’t in emergency medicine. And pumping out a junkie’s stomach or patching up a battered wife didn’t make for glamorous cocktail conversation.
Thanks to Cody, she had to consider that maybe, just maybe, some doctors actually cared about helping people. Which meant that if she’d looked harder, maybe she could have found one. Someone who could have saved David.
But wouldn’t that put his death on her ?
Oh God. She couldn’t go there.
She wouldn’t.
Chapter Seven
----
T HE DOORBELL CHIMED at one o’clock sharp. Julie’s stomach fluttered in spite of herself. Stomping on the butterflies, she took her time pulling on a parka and mittens, then descended the stairs at a measured pace.
She opened the door, her lips schooled into a frown. And there he stood, all six-foot-sexy of him filling out his ass-hugging jeans and battered leather jacket, looking for all the world like he’d galloped in off the range to ride roughshod over the bluebloods of Boston.
Those stupid spurs jangled in her head again. Her palms popped a sweat in her mittens. She fought his hotness with all her might.
Then he dimpled up. His whiskey eyes crinkled. And the butterflies squirted out from under her boot and did a happy dance in her stomach. Before she could stop it, she broke out in a smile, stepped toward him as if she expected him to kiss her.
Which he did. Oh yes, he dropped his chin and laid his warm lips on hers, kept them there, and it wasn’t a hey-it’s-nice-to-see-you kiss. No, this was a let’s-go-inside-and-get-naked kiss. It seared her lips, spreading out from there like flame consuming paper, eating away the resistance she’d drummed into her brain, lighting up every cell, every sinew.
Her mittens slid over his shoulders. His arms closed around her. Out of her head flew all her inhibitions. Her parka rode up; she felt his heat on her belly, soaking through her sweater. His cock, hard and heavy, defied their layers, scorching her skin through denim and wool. She parted her lips, taking his tongue, giving him hers, letting them dance the dance that their bodies demanded.
He cupped her ass in one bare hand, slid the other up her back, inside her shirt, under her bra. His thumb brushed the curve of her breast and both of them moaned. He shoved her bra up, took her weight in his palm. Her breast seemed to swell, overflowing his hand. He thumbed her nipple. Her legs tried to buckle.
He dragged his lips across her cheek. Scraped his teeth down her jaw. “Inside,” he murmured, breath hot on her throat, “take me inside.”
Inside.
Inside her house. Inside her body.
Inside her defenses. Inside her heart.
Fear trumped passion. “I can’t,” she said, and took a step back. He opened his arms and released her.
Embarrassed for reasons she couldn’t even identify, she turned away from him, yanking off her mittens, adjusting her bra with sweaty fingers. In the glass pane of the door, she saw his reflection. The hunger in his eyes, the disappointment on his face.
“I’m sorry,” she said past the lump in her throat.
He caught her gaze in the glass, gave a rueful half smile. “Should’ve kept my mouth shut. We could’ve done it right here in the snow. I wouldn’t have minded.”
She tried to smile back at him, the kind of smile that would gently tell him she took responsibility for letting things go too far, and at the same time push him away, back into the role she’d assigned him.
But the smile wouldn’t come. She was practically paralyzed, confounded by emotions that just wouldn’t jibe. She hated that he was a doctor, but loved how funny and kind and incredibly generous he was. He scared her down to her DNA, made her doubt rock-solid beliefs, but she wanted to strip off her clothes and rub against him like a pussycat.
She couldn’t process it.
She wanted him to. Oh, how she wanted him to. But she knew the money was in specialties, like surgery and oncology to name a dastardly few. It wasn’t in emergency medicine. And pumping out a junkie’s stomach or patching up a battered wife didn’t make for glamorous cocktail conversation.
Thanks to Cody, she had to consider that maybe, just maybe, some doctors actually cared about helping people. Which meant that if she’d looked harder, maybe she could have found one. Someone who could have saved David.
But wouldn’t that put his death on her ?
Oh God. She couldn’t go there.
She wouldn’t.
Chapter Seven
----
T HE DOORBELL CHIMED at one o’clock sharp. Julie’s stomach fluttered in spite of herself. Stomping on the butterflies, she took her time pulling on a parka and mittens, then descended the stairs at a measured pace.
She opened the door, her lips schooled into a frown. And there he stood, all six-foot-sexy of him filling out his ass-hugging jeans and battered leather jacket, looking for all the world like he’d galloped in off the range to ride roughshod over the bluebloods of Boston.
Those stupid spurs jangled in her head again. Her palms popped a sweat in her mittens. She fought his hotness with all her might.
Then he dimpled up. His whiskey eyes crinkled. And the butterflies squirted out from under her boot and did a happy dance in her stomach. Before she could stop it, she broke out in a smile, stepped toward him as if she expected him to kiss her.
Which he did. Oh yes, he dropped his chin and laid his warm lips on hers, kept them there, and it wasn’t a hey-it’s-nice-to-see-you kiss. No, this was a let’s-go-inside-and-get-naked kiss. It seared her lips, spreading out from there like flame consuming paper, eating away the resistance she’d drummed into her brain, lighting up every cell, every sinew.
Her mittens slid over his shoulders. His arms closed around her. Out of her head flew all her inhibitions. Her parka rode up; she felt his heat on her belly, soaking through her sweater. His cock, hard and heavy, defied their layers, scorching her skin through denim and wool. She parted her lips, taking his tongue, giving him hers, letting them dance the dance that their bodies demanded.
He cupped her ass in one bare hand, slid the other up her back, inside her shirt, under her bra. His thumb brushed the curve of her breast and both of them moaned. He shoved her bra up, took her weight in his palm. Her breast seemed to swell, overflowing his hand. He thumbed her nipple. Her legs tried to buckle.
He dragged his lips across her cheek. Scraped his teeth down her jaw. “Inside,” he murmured, breath hot on her throat, “take me inside.”
Inside.
Inside her house. Inside her body.
Inside her defenses. Inside her heart.
Fear trumped passion. “I can’t,” she said, and took a step back. He opened his arms and released her.
Embarrassed for reasons she couldn’t even identify, she turned away from him, yanking off her mittens, adjusting her bra with sweaty fingers. In the glass pane of the door, she saw his reflection. The hunger in his eyes, the disappointment on his face.
“I’m sorry,” she said past the lump in her throat.
He caught her gaze in the glass, gave a rueful half smile. “Should’ve kept my mouth shut. We could’ve done it right here in the snow. I wouldn’t have minded.”
She tried to smile back at him, the kind of smile that would gently tell him she took responsibility for letting things go too far, and at the same time push him away, back into the role she’d assigned him.
But the smile wouldn’t come. She was practically paralyzed, confounded by emotions that just wouldn’t jibe. She hated that he was a doctor, but loved how funny and kind and incredibly generous he was. He scared her down to her DNA, made her doubt rock-solid beliefs, but she wanted to strip off her clothes and rub against him like a pussycat.
She couldn’t process it.
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