your patient anymore. I’ve done the financial risk assessment and based on our progress, I should have ended treatment weeks ago. Second, this is nothing.” Jessica gestured her hand between the two of them. “So don’t get your over-starched flannel boxers bound in a wad up your tight ass thinking anything is happening .” Jessica glanced over her shoulder at two sets of eyes peering in at them. She smiled. “Now, weren’t you going to show me what all my money has bought you?”
Luke drummed his fingers on the counter in a steady beat of contemplation. “We’ll make it through the evening and after you leave I’ll tell Gabe you’re not my type.”
“Not your type?” she mumbled to herself, following him down the hall. Apparently his type was submissive giraffes with weak personalities. Jessica inherited her mother’s vertically challenged gene and her father’s strong but colorful personality which was often intimidating to men. It was possible the blood “fetish” played a minor part in her one-and-done dating streak.
“Bathroom … guest bedroom … office…” Luke droned with zero enthusiasm “…master bedroom …”
Jessica veered off the tour into his bedroom. The view of the bay was nearly as amazing as his office. The bedding on the king bed was a mix of white, grays, black, and a few pillow splashes of blue. Everything was a perfect geometric configuration of modern design and immaculate order.
“This is my bedroom.” Luke stood in the doorway.
“I know. That’s what you said.” She dusted her fingertips over his dresser then the foot of the bed, mesmerized by how turned on she felt being in his personal space. “You have OCD.”
“I don’t. I’m simply entertaining guests tonight.”
“In your bedroom?”
“It’s on the tour.”
Jessica continued to his large walk-in closet.
“That’s not on the tour.”
It didn’t matter to her. The light automatically came on when she opened the door. With the same delicate touch, she ran her hand down the sleeve of one out of maybe twenty flawlessly ironed dress shirts. From a dark wood cubby she pulled out a folded hoodie and brought it to her nose.
“You’re in my closet … smelling my clothes. I think you’re crossing a serious line, Jessica.”
She turned, hugging his sweatshirt. “I hate how good you smell all the time.”
Luke leaned against the door frame with his hands casually resting in the back pockets of his jeans, shoulders pulled back, shirt hugged to his defined chest.
“It’s been distracting me for the past three months.” She took calculated steps toward him.
Luke tracked her every move with spine-tingling intensity. There was a predator and its prey, but neither one showed signs of submitting to the lesser role.
“My apologies,” he whispered.
“Liar.” Jessica rested her hands on his chest.
He regarded her with undaunted control, not retreating an inch or relinquishing so much as the slightest flinch. “What do you want?”
Jessica circled the pad of her finger over the buttons of his shirt. “That’s simple—you.”
She slid her hands up his chest to the back of his neck and pulled him toward her as she lifted on to her toes. When their lips touched, it felt like someone poured gasoline onto a small ember deep inside her that Dr. Jones had been fanning for weeks with his eyes, his smell, his militant control.
A painful urgency to feel his hands on her body set off a familiar panic in her mind. Control—she was losing it. His hands remained static in his back pockets, but for some reason that felt more dominating than if they’d been tangled in her hair. Luke controlled her with just his presence. Jessica was drowning in his taste, the way his tongue manipulated hers, and his lips overruled the urgent pace hers were desperate to maintain. It was too fast and too slow, too much, yet not enough. It was in her head— he was in her head.
“Shit!” Luke pulled away, eyes wide for
Luke drummed his fingers on the counter in a steady beat of contemplation. “We’ll make it through the evening and after you leave I’ll tell Gabe you’re not my type.”
“Not your type?” she mumbled to herself, following him down the hall. Apparently his type was submissive giraffes with weak personalities. Jessica inherited her mother’s vertically challenged gene and her father’s strong but colorful personality which was often intimidating to men. It was possible the blood “fetish” played a minor part in her one-and-done dating streak.
“Bathroom … guest bedroom … office…” Luke droned with zero enthusiasm “…master bedroom …”
Jessica veered off the tour into his bedroom. The view of the bay was nearly as amazing as his office. The bedding on the king bed was a mix of white, grays, black, and a few pillow splashes of blue. Everything was a perfect geometric configuration of modern design and immaculate order.
“This is my bedroom.” Luke stood in the doorway.
“I know. That’s what you said.” She dusted her fingertips over his dresser then the foot of the bed, mesmerized by how turned on she felt being in his personal space. “You have OCD.”
“I don’t. I’m simply entertaining guests tonight.”
“In your bedroom?”
“It’s on the tour.”
Jessica continued to his large walk-in closet.
“That’s not on the tour.”
It didn’t matter to her. The light automatically came on when she opened the door. With the same delicate touch, she ran her hand down the sleeve of one out of maybe twenty flawlessly ironed dress shirts. From a dark wood cubby she pulled out a folded hoodie and brought it to her nose.
“You’re in my closet … smelling my clothes. I think you’re crossing a serious line, Jessica.”
She turned, hugging his sweatshirt. “I hate how good you smell all the time.”
Luke leaned against the door frame with his hands casually resting in the back pockets of his jeans, shoulders pulled back, shirt hugged to his defined chest.
“It’s been distracting me for the past three months.” She took calculated steps toward him.
Luke tracked her every move with spine-tingling intensity. There was a predator and its prey, but neither one showed signs of submitting to the lesser role.
“My apologies,” he whispered.
“Liar.” Jessica rested her hands on his chest.
He regarded her with undaunted control, not retreating an inch or relinquishing so much as the slightest flinch. “What do you want?”
Jessica circled the pad of her finger over the buttons of his shirt. “That’s simple—you.”
She slid her hands up his chest to the back of his neck and pulled him toward her as she lifted on to her toes. When their lips touched, it felt like someone poured gasoline onto a small ember deep inside her that Dr. Jones had been fanning for weeks with his eyes, his smell, his militant control.
A painful urgency to feel his hands on her body set off a familiar panic in her mind. Control—she was losing it. His hands remained static in his back pockets, but for some reason that felt more dominating than if they’d been tangled in her hair. Luke controlled her with just his presence. Jessica was drowning in his taste, the way his tongue manipulated hers, and his lips overruled the urgent pace hers were desperate to maintain. It was too fast and too slow, too much, yet not enough. It was in her head— he was in her head.
“Shit!” Luke pulled away, eyes wide for
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