Dr. ER (St. Luke's Docuseries #2) Read online

  She smiled, looser already, and plopped onto the stool to her left. “I don’t. Trust me, with those two shots, the edge is officially gone.”

  “Well, then,” I said with a laugh, taking the seat to her right and signaling the bartender for two more. “I guess I better catch up.”

  We didn’t say anything else as the bartender prepared my shots, placed them on the counter, and took my payment.

  Something was going on inside of Harlow’s head, but I wasn’t the guy to try to figure it out. I didn’t spend my time musing over complicated women and wondering about the things that made them that way. I was out to entertain and be entertained, and at the end of the day, if both of us got physical gratification out of it, all the better.

  I’ll admit I had to fight the urge to wonder—and ask—with Harlow, though. An urge that had never before existed.

  I tamped it down and swallowed both shots one after the other as she looked on. The heavy, seductive beat of the music pulsed inside my chest, but a part of me still thought this wasn’t a good idea.

  Immediately, I ordered two more. I had a higher tolerance than she did, and if the way she was smiling at me was any indication of things to come, far be it for me to let her have a good time all on her own.

  Rinse and repeat, the same routine with the bartender, the same routine with the shots, and a high buzzed in my veins.

  “There,” she shouted over the music before reaching out and grabbing me by the tie almost violently. “Now we can dance.”

  I followed her lead once more, the hold she had on my tie not giving me much choice as she dragged me out onto the dance floor and plastered her body to my own.

  I still had one working brain cell that was trying to reject her flipped switch—a fast transformation from objection to demand in the area of physical contact—but the combination of alcohol and her breasts against my chest did a pretty good job of turning it off.

  “Get ready, Scott,” she taunted. “You may have some fancy footwork at fancy parties, but I’m gonna teach you how to really dance.”

  Selena Gomez’s “Good for You” filtered through the speakers as she pushed back away from my body and swayed, running her hands across her own chest and down to her hips, until they were inside the slit on her dress and against the perfect skin of her tanned thighs.

  I swallowed thickly and swayed, enthralled as she turned her back to me and let her head drop back.

  My lingering groan slid perfectly into the rhythm of the song. Why is she so fucking sexy?

  Reaching out, I grabbed onto her hips and pulled her ass against me. She went with it, settling her head onto my shoulder and moaning at the obvious sign of my excitement.

  Good Christ.

  The salty, sweet taste of her skin as her throat hit the tip of my tongue was the last thing I remembered from the inside of that bar.

  Stumbling, bumbling, fucking fumbling, I pulled at the zipper on the back of her dress as she unbuckled my belt and the button on my pants and shoved them down off of my hips.

  The door of my apartment shutting behind us rang out like a gunshot, but neither one of us slowed down. Her throat was highly addictive, like sugar on a tart strawberry, and I couldn’t stop going back for more.

  “God, Low,” I hummed against her skin, still fighting with her fucking zipper. She pulled back out of my arms, and the swollen, well-used state of her lips made my dick jump.

  “Don’t ruin this by talking, Scott,” she teased, a sexy as hell smile on her face as she reached around her back to free herself from the demon-zipper dress on her own.

  Thank fucking goodness.

  She got it pretty easily, pulling it down and dropping the dress from her shoulders to bare her breasts before forcing it gently over the curve of her hips and stepping out of it.

  Sweet Lucifer, her nipples were peaked and perfect, the rosy, brownish hue unlike any color I’d ever seen before—and I’d seen a lot of nipples. Christ, it was like I’d been color-blind my whole life, and Harlow had bought me the special glasses.

  I hopped on one foot and chucked one shoe and then the other before shucking my own pants and ripping my already torn open shirt—compliments of Harlow—off and letting it fall to the ground.

  She looked on hungrily, a little grin curving just the corner of her abused mouth, as she stood there in nothing more than a sheer black thong.

  I attacked.

  Forward in a flurry of motion, I grabbed her by the hips and lifted her until the length of her legs wrapped my waist tightly, and I carried her until her back bumped into the wall at the mouth of the one hallway in my apartment.

  She grabbed and yanked at my hair, and the nerves stood on end. One breast and then the other, I feasted on everything they had to offer, nipping and sucking until mottled red rose to the surface of each.

  More, more, more, give me all of it, Low.

  Her hips rolled against mine, and my cock poked out of the top of my boxers in search of her sweet heat.

  She weighed next to nothing, but holding her against the wall wasn’t conducive to my best work.

  I pulled her up, burying my face in between her perfect-handful-sized breasts one more time and licking.

  Every inch of her skin tastes like perfect summer fruit.

  Christ, I think I’m already addicted.

  She let her head drop back, a soft, audible thud breaking the pants of our labored breathing as it made contact with the wall.

  I put a hand to the drywall and pushed off before moving my lips to her sweet throat again and sucking there, stopping just shy of marking her skin, as I walked us back to my bedroom and dropped her in the middle of my king-size bed.

  “Scott,” she rasped, and my dick started to ache.

  I lost the only clothing I had left, my boxers and socks, and followed her down, reaching up and to the side until my fingers met the knob on the top drawer of my nightstand.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she was sure if she wanted to do this, but I choked on the words as I sent them back down. If she didn’t want to, she’d say it. And I’d respect it.

  But until then, this was the best almost-sex I’d had in years—maybe ever—and I’d be damned if I was going to let being too polite ruin the moment.

  Back to the task at hand, I opened the drawer and grabbed a condom before shifting to my knees between her legs and rolling it down my length.

  She licked her lips and sat up, moving her hand on top of mine to assist, and just like that, any lingering doubt fled the building.

  Urgency clawed at the line of my spine and robbed me of some of my finesse as I fell forward on top of her, our heavy, panting breaths the only thing filling the room, reached between us to pull the gusset of her panties to the side, and thrust myself in to the hilt.

  Fire built in my back as she scored it with her fingernails and closed her eyes in ecstasy, the roll of her groan nearly guttural.

  I could relate. I was feeling pretty fucking splendid myself.

  One thrust led to two as I lost myself inside of her tight heat and moved my hands over every inch of her body. She moaned as I grasped at her hips, the thin material of her thong driving me crazy as I set a rhythm. Like a quick squeeze of a hand, her pussy clamped down on me and sucked at me until I’d lost any semblance of control.

  I roared, I heard it ring in my own ears it was so loud, as I ripped the material on both sides of her hips clean through.

  Bliss, pure and carnal, took hold of every last cell of my body as we climaxed together in a way I’d never ever fucking forget.

  I might have been blind to the look on her face as she came thanks to my own pleasure, but I swore I could feel it bleeding in through the inky blackness behind my eyelids.

  We’d hardly spoken, but the roughness of her cry and the sting of her teeth as they marked my shoulder as hers said all of the words—maybe all of the words in existence—for us.

  Slowly and reluctantly, I removed my arm from my fac
e. I blinked, closed my eyes, and blinked again. Streaks of sunlight penetrated the unfamiliar window and damn near blinded me with its hot, white rays. A bit disoriented, I sat up and curiously scanned the bedroom that wasn’t mine. The room was sleek yet personalized—king-sized bed, white sheets, white comforter, and a few pieces of perfectly selected art hanging on the walls.

  Where in the hell am I?

  Scooting to the edge of the bed, I dragged my feet off the mattress and rubbed my knuckles into my eyes. I stretched my arms above my head and yawned as I watched my legs dangle above the light hardwood floors. The instant I stood up, my eyes caught my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror beside the white armoire. Cripes. I’m naked…

  Where in the hell were my clothes?

  Across the bedroom toward the door, I scanned the space until I caught sight of my dress haphazardly strewn across the floor like it’d been dragged into the room by a stampede. Hazy—yet somehow very real—memories of last night filtered into my brain.

  The party. Drinks with Scott. Dancing with Scott. Sex with Scott.

  Oh. My. God.

  Last night, I’d had a crazy, slightly drunken, toe-curling, several orgasms, amazing-sex night. With Scott Shepard.

  My eyes met my reflection in the mirror again, and I couldn’t stop myself from laughing at the absurdity of the situation. I mean, I’d just had sex with someone I’d written Gossip columns about. I’d never done that. Hell, I’d made a point never to do that.

  Blame it on the alcohol?

  More like my vagina and the fact that you’re really starting to like Scott…

  I ignored the latter and focused on the first part. My horny vagina. Yeah, she was definitely to blame in this scenario. But, in her defense, Scott was walking, talking sex. After the Barron debacle, all she’d wanted was to feel good.

  The longer I stood there staring at the wanton, slightly disheveled woman in the mirror, the easier it became to pick out the details. I wasn’t just naked—I was worked over. Beard rash covered ninety-five percent of my skin, and two very large and obvious reddish-purple marks dappled my breasts. Each breast to be exact. Hickeys? Seriously?

  It was like I was fifteen all over again and experiencing my first real hookup in the back of Jimmy Velvet’s old pickup truck. Jesus Christ.

  “Good morning,” the perpetrator himself greeted me. I glanced up slowly, as if working my way through a murky pond, to find him standing in the doorway and fully dressed in a white, buttoned-up collared shirt and gray slacks.

  His deep, baritone voice, his eyes, him, all of it brought a flood of memories back into my brain. The way we’d danced together at the party. How good it’d felt to be in his arms. The terrifying things it’d made me feel and think. The way I’d internally freaked the fuck out and left him on the dance floor. Yeah, it was safe to say, last night had been a bit of an emotional conundrum for me.

  But it’d also been amazing, too.

  Fucking hell, I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that I was secretly thankful Scott had followed me after I’d abruptly left the party.

  What was happening to me?

  You like him.

  I mentally shook that thought off. Naked and in his bedroom, with a very handsome Scott standing behind me, was not the time for that kind of internal monologue.

  I wasn’t particularly modest or embarrassed by my body in its natural state, but standing completely naked, comfortably chatting with the man you didn’t expect to hook up with last night was a challenge for even the most confident of women.

  “Sleep well?” he asked with a soft smile, and I turned away from the mirror to face him.

  I didn’t miss the sparkle of enjoyment in his eye as he perused my naked and visibly hickey-fied body. And unfortunately for any chance I had at a display of self-righteousness, what I felt in response wasn’t even close to embarrassment.

  Man, I hated how good the renewed ache in my abdomen felt.

  Quickly, before my vagina could take charge again, I redirected my focus.

  “Did you seriously give me hickeys?” I questioned and pointed to both breasts.

  His smile turned amused. “I thought those were called love bites?”

  “Does it really matter what they’re called?” I spat back. “I mean, what thirtysomething-year-old man gives a woman hickeys?”

  He chuckled softly and shrugged. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

  “A little?” I pointed to the marks again. “There are two of these suckers.”

  “Personally, I quite like them there. And you seemed to like it when I was giving them.”

  “Is this how it works with the famous Dr. Erotic? You take women home, have insanely amazing sex with them, but before the night is through, you leave your mark?” I put a defiant hand to my bare hip, and he grinned.

  “Insanely amazing sex?”

  Oh, shit. Jesus, Harlow.

  “You know what I mean.”

  He raised a cocky brow. “I’m not sure I do. I’d love to know which parts, specifically, were insanely amazing.”

  I rolled my eyes and ignored any and all land mines I was sure to step on if I delved into that conversation. “You gave me hickeys, Scott! I’m not going to stand around stroking your ego!”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said with a smirk. “You stroked me enough last night to last a lifetime.”

  I groaned in annoyance. He was like an overgrown kid. “Are you always this annoying in the morning?”

  “Probably.” He shrugged. “No one has ever been around to let me know before.”

  I’m sorry…what? He didn’t notice how momentous that statement was in my head, obviously. Because if he had, he wouldn’t have kept fucking talking. “Does it help if I tell you I made breakfast?”

  I schooled my face into neutrality as my mind whirled over the fact that Scott never kept women around until the morning, and yet, here I was. In the morning.

  Just focus on the breakfast, Harlow. You like food. Focus on the food. I could think about the rest of it later—or never.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Scrambled eggs.”

  Eggs? Bo-ring. I yawned. “Meh.”

  “With bacon,” he added, and I shrugged in indifference.

  He smirked. “And pancakes.”

  Wait…pancakes?

  I fought the urge to drool, and my eyes perked up of their own accord. “Just plain pancakes?” I questioned skeptically.

  He shook his head with a smirk. “Blueberry.”

  Oh, hell fucking yes. Plain pancakes were one thing, but blueberry pancakes were a whole other level of I can’t resist them.

  “Coffee?” I questioned, and he nodded.

  “Freshly brewed and ready.”

  “Fine,” I agreed and strode toward the doorway with my shoulders and chin held high. “You’ve convinced me,” I said generously as I came to a stop in front of him. “But I’m only agreeing to the breakfast for the pancakes and coffee. Not for the conversation.”

  He grinned and, without warning, wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me toward his body. My feet stuttered to comply, but he didn’t even give me time to refuse before his soft, full lips were pressed against mine. A soft lick later, I opened to him, and his mouth claimed me in a mind-altering kiss that knocked me straight off my game.

  His hands followed suit, sliding up my bare back with a soft, seductive, knowing touch, and instantly, I shivered.

  When his fingers slid into my hair, his tongue still dancing with mine, a moan left my throat before I could stop it. God, this man can kiss. My motherfucking toes curled into the plush carpet of his bedroom.

  It’s no wonder I let him give me hickeys and fuck me stupid last night.

  His mouth moved from my lips to my jaw to my neck, a slow, perfect path to get his warm breath to my ear. Goose bumps skated across my skin. “I thought last night was insanely amazing, too,
Low. You were insanely amazing,” he whispered. “And just so you know, I’ve never given a woman hickeys before in my life. You’re a first.”

  He pressed one last soft kiss to my still-wanting lips and then leaned back with a smirk. And before I could stop him, he snuck a quick spank to my bare ass and strode down the hall and toward the kitchen.

  “Hey!” I shouted toward him, and he just chuckled.

  “C’mon, feisty!” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s eat some pancakes!”

  Normally, I’d do the opposite when someone was trying to boss me around. Normally, I’d be stubborn and tell him to shove his breakfast food up his ass.

  But pancakes.

  Blueberry pancakes.

  Yes, I was just doing it for the blueberry pancakes. For distraction.

  Too bad him making me breakfast, as it turns out, is an even bigger deal for him than letting me stay until morning.

  My asshole mind really knew how to bury the lead.

  I finished changing into my scrubs and tossing my shit into my locker before pulling my iPad out and connecting to the internet.

  Like it was old hat, I went straight to Harlow’s column on the Gossip site with a click of my favorite bookmarks menu. I knew she’d published a new one today since that was the excuse she’d used when leaving my apartment right after pancakes yesterday morning.

  It was all still a little weird to me, the fact that I’d cooked the pancakes in the first place, followed by her being the one to decide to leave. Normally, I was all for the escape act—actually, I was usually the one executing it—but the sex was never that good.

  I wanted another round. Or twenty.

  Still, I reminded myself. There’s time for that.

  I was so used to cramming all of the sex I wanted into one day to avoid a commitment. But Harlow seemed even less eager to settle down than I was, so in this case, I could probably keep the fling going longer.

  I waited with a smile on my face while the page finished loading, only to have it melt off nearly instantly.

  Ryan Reynolds Sets More than Blake on Fire

  Well, shit. I’d have thought this one would be about me for sure. I had her fucking claw marks on my back as evidence that I set her on fire.