Read Online His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia by Theodora Taylor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Theodora Taylor
Ads: Link
closet with towels in it, but it’s right behind the door, which means you have to actually close the door all the way to get to it.”
“Thanks, Doc,” he says. Then he presses a kiss onto my forehead and disappears into the bathroom.
It should feel like a reprieve. But it really, really doesn’t.
In fact, it feels like I’ll never let go of the breath I’m holding as I rush over to the dresser and pull out the warmest, most body covering-est pajamas I own.
The one thing I know is I don’t want to be standing around like an awkward fool when he returns. So I get into bed. Pull my good-enough-for-seven-years comforter over my legs, and the hardcover novel off my nightstand. I pretend I’m reading a Karin Slaughter thriller as opposed to thinking.
Thinking about how crazy I am for sleeping with a patient. One who has amnesia. Thinking about what I’ll say when he comes out of the bathroom.
And having no answers for any of it.
But when the door opens, all pretenses of reading come to a dead stop. Before he’d gone into the bathroom to take his shower, I’d tied a plastic bag over his cast and told him where to find a towel, expecting him to use both. And he had. But while the plastic bag is still wrapped around his forearm, the towel is draped casually around his neck. More of an afterthought than anything else.
And as hard as I try not to respond to the sight of him naked, I feel my entire body heat as he approaches my side of the bed.
I’m a doctor, but I haven’t worked with adult patients in nearly a year. And John doesn’t look like any patient I’ve ever encountered, naked or otherwise. His body is hard and solid, packed with powerful muscles. Gym or hard labor, I have no idea.
Or maybe prison , my rational brain points out. I think of all the rap videos I’d seen growing up. The ones with hard-bodied singers crowing about how much time they’d done in jail.
But he doesn’t have any tattoos, I notice. And I’ve never met an ex-con without at least a few tats. This guy doesn’t look like an ex-con. More like a muscular system model who just crawled out of one of my old anatomy text books.
His muscles move like cords beneath his skin as he walks over, his heavy cock swinging lewd and uncaring between his legs.
“Tried my damnedest to get this off by myself,” he says when he stops in front of the bed. “But I couldn’t do it.”
Only when he holds up the cast with the plastic bag wrapped around it do I get what he’s talking about. But by then it’s already too late. My mouth is watering in ways it definitely shouldn’t at just the thought of…
Thanking God for the ability most doctors develop to control shaking hands, I untie the plastic bag’s knot and toss it into the nearest waste basket, without a thought toward recycling.
“You okay?” he asks. Probably because I’ve yet to look at him.
“I’m…” fine, fine, fine my rational mind screams at me. But when I open my mouth, the truth falls out. “Thinking.”
He tenses, his lazy gaze becoming sharper and less amused. “Thinking about what?”
I squeeze my lips into my mouth, biting them a little before I confess, “About what we did this morning. About how I was crazy to do that with you. I was trying to help, but I’ve only made things worse. A lot worse.”
He considers my words, and I brace myself for an extremely awkward conversation about stepping back and reconsidering our actions.
But then he asks, “Where’re those condoms?”
“What?” I ask, not quite understanding.
“I made you a promise about using condoms the next time. So where are they? I assume you got some, being a medical professional and all.”
He’s teasing me. I can see how amused he is by the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, and I don’t quite know how to respond.
I swallow. “Um, yes, I do have condoms in my nightstand drawer, but—”
“This one right here?” He’s already bending over and pulling the drawer
“Thanks, Doc,” he says. Then he presses a kiss onto my forehead and disappears into the bathroom.
It should feel like a reprieve. But it really, really doesn’t.
In fact, it feels like I’ll never let go of the breath I’m holding as I rush over to the dresser and pull out the warmest, most body covering-est pajamas I own.
The one thing I know is I don’t want to be standing around like an awkward fool when he returns. So I get into bed. Pull my good-enough-for-seven-years comforter over my legs, and the hardcover novel off my nightstand. I pretend I’m reading a Karin Slaughter thriller as opposed to thinking.
Thinking about how crazy I am for sleeping with a patient. One who has amnesia. Thinking about what I’ll say when he comes out of the bathroom.
And having no answers for any of it.
But when the door opens, all pretenses of reading come to a dead stop. Before he’d gone into the bathroom to take his shower, I’d tied a plastic bag over his cast and told him where to find a towel, expecting him to use both. And he had. But while the plastic bag is still wrapped around his forearm, the towel is draped casually around his neck. More of an afterthought than anything else.
And as hard as I try not to respond to the sight of him naked, I feel my entire body heat as he approaches my side of the bed.
I’m a doctor, but I haven’t worked with adult patients in nearly a year. And John doesn’t look like any patient I’ve ever encountered, naked or otherwise. His body is hard and solid, packed with powerful muscles. Gym or hard labor, I have no idea.
Or maybe prison , my rational brain points out. I think of all the rap videos I’d seen growing up. The ones with hard-bodied singers crowing about how much time they’d done in jail.
But he doesn’t have any tattoos, I notice. And I’ve never met an ex-con without at least a few tats. This guy doesn’t look like an ex-con. More like a muscular system model who just crawled out of one of my old anatomy text books.
His muscles move like cords beneath his skin as he walks over, his heavy cock swinging lewd and uncaring between his legs.
“Tried my damnedest to get this off by myself,” he says when he stops in front of the bed. “But I couldn’t do it.”
Only when he holds up the cast with the plastic bag wrapped around it do I get what he’s talking about. But by then it’s already too late. My mouth is watering in ways it definitely shouldn’t at just the thought of…
Thanking God for the ability most doctors develop to control shaking hands, I untie the plastic bag’s knot and toss it into the nearest waste basket, without a thought toward recycling.
“You okay?” he asks. Probably because I’ve yet to look at him.
“I’m…” fine, fine, fine my rational mind screams at me. But when I open my mouth, the truth falls out. “Thinking.”
He tenses, his lazy gaze becoming sharper and less amused. “Thinking about what?”
I squeeze my lips into my mouth, biting them a little before I confess, “About what we did this morning. About how I was crazy to do that with you. I was trying to help, but I’ve only made things worse. A lot worse.”
He considers my words, and I brace myself for an extremely awkward conversation about stepping back and reconsidering our actions.
But then he asks, “Where’re those condoms?”
“What?” I ask, not quite understanding.
“I made you a promise about using condoms the next time. So where are they? I assume you got some, being a medical professional and all.”
He’s teasing me. I can see how amused he is by the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, and I don’t quite know how to respond.
I swallow. “Um, yes, I do have condoms in my nightstand drawer, but—”
“This one right here?” He’s already bending over and pulling the drawer
Similar Books
