Page 17 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

P oppy Lennox looks so small opposite the city journalist. They’re both at my desk, the steel-haired reporter Gina Ferris opening her sleek laptop while Poppy looks on, blinking and lost in the depths of my chair.

I swear she didn’t look that small yesterday. Nor so fine-boned and vulnerable. Today’s Poppy Lennox could blow away on a stiff breeze, and just the sight of her makes my chest hurt.

All it’s done is short-circuit my hind brain. Does my shirt smell like her now? How long will that scent last?

“So. You allege that Governor Lennox sent you here against your will and falsified medical records. That he tried to keep you captive here, all because you—” Gina squints at her laptop screen “—booked a solo trip to Europe this summer.”

“Yes.” Poppy licks her lips. She’s huskier than usual, her nerves clear to see, because she knows how far-fetched that sounds. She keeps fidgeting with the curled ends of her hair. “That’s right.”

Gina’s expression does not change. She stares at Poppy, jaw hard.

And god, this is painful. How can anyone look at Poppy Lennox and not see her honesty, her innate goodness? The frightened way she’s nibbling on her bottom lip? This girl glows with how perfect she is.

In my eyes, anyway.

“My father is very controlling.”

“I can corroborate Poppy’s claims about false medical records,” I put in.

There. Gina’s eyebrow twitches, and now she’s listening, tapping away at her keyboard.

The grateful smile my ex-patient shoots me…

I don’t deserve it. By rights, she should report me to Gina too.

Because I shouldn’t hang on Poppy’s every word like I do; shouldn’t feel so raw every moment I don’t have eyes on her.

My heart shouldn’t beat in my throat as I wait for Gina Ferris to speak again.

“The accusations you have made against your father are very serious, Miss Lennox.”

No shit. Does she think we’re doing this for our own entertainment? Poppy visibly fights the urge to roll her eyes—and there she is. My firecracker. She’s got this.

I ball my fists, shoving them in my pockets. I’m leaning against the door, trying not to intrude, sweating under the white coat that Poppy loves so much.

“Almost as serious as actually doing those things,” she points out.

The reporter’s mouth twitches. “Agreed.”

The keyboard rattles as Gina types at breakneck speed. She pauses to rummage in her purse, then sets out a recorder and switches it on.

“Okay, Miss Lennox.” The office is pin-drop silent. I can’t breathe. “You have thirty minutes. Tell me your story.”

* * *

I wave Gina Ferris off at the curb, the street nearly empty this late in the evening. Her thirty minutes turned into two hours, and now the red sun is sinking below the horizon. Pale headlights swoop around the corner up ahead, and then she’s gone.

We did it. No: Poppy did it.

I glance around, the cool breeze soothing on my heated neck. In the fading light, the Honey Cove trees and buildings are tinged blue.

Someone splashes in the pool nearby as I stride across the courtyard, back to the office building. The sound is rhythmic and peaceful: a patient doing laps.

“Oh. My. God.” I’ve barely opened my office door before Poppy flies into my arms. She’s a bundle of excitement, her dark hair frizzing with it, and she’s got me in a stranglehold.

“Oh my god, Whit! I can’t believe we did that.

I can’t believe she really came. Do you think Gina will write the story? ”

Her borrowed shirt sticks to the small of her back. She’s all worked-up and sweaty, her voice hoarse from all the stress.

“Yes. Come here.”

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but there’s so much trust in the way she follows me across the room. Poppy’s my lost little lamb, hopping up to sit on the desk when I tap the wood. My shirt is so huge on her, and those sandal-clad feet kick in the empty air between us.

There’s not that much space. I’m losing an endless battle trying to keep away.

“You’re flushed,” I tell her. Poppy blushes even harder, but she lets me place two fingers beneath her jaw and feel her pulse. It slams against my fingertips, strong and a little quick. She’s vibrant; always so alive.

“Well, Doc?” There’s a mischievous glint in those gray eyes. “Will I live?”

“Difficult to say.” Uh. Who am I? Am I really doing this right now? “More tests needed, I think, Miss Lennox.”

And fuck, I’m definitely going to hell for this, but it’s worth it when Poppy lights up with pure delight. “The stethoscope?” she whispers.

Straight. To. Hell.

“Perhaps.” First, I trail my fingertips down the center of her throat, feeling the warm satin of her skin, the bob as she swallows, then skirt along her collarbone.

I slip up to the second knuckle under her borrowed shirt, watching my fingers disappear.

“Tell me your symptoms. What are you feeling right now?”

“Flushed,” Poppy says immediately, but I gave her that one. I level her a look and she grins. “And—and my heart’s racing. My palms are, um. Sweaty. My mouth is dry and my head—hey!”

I ignore the loud complaints, crossing to the sink in the corner of the room. Poppy stops grousing when I bring her back a glass of water.

“Drink. You’re a little dehydrated.”

She sips her water, so unimpressed. Three long, sullen gulps later, half her glass is drained and she’s glaring at me over the rim.

“I thought we were doing, you know. A sexy thing. Playing doctor.”

I hide a smile as I take her glass. “We are.”

All the air leaves the room as the glass clinks against the bookcase, and when I turn back around, Poppy looks dazed. Her pupils are huge, her eyes nearly black, and her lips are damp. She’s squirming on the desk. So eager she can’t sit still.

I take my stethoscope from the top desk drawer. Poppy squeaks.

“Alright, Miss Lennox. Undo your top two buttons, please.”

Shaking fingers hurry to obey. I wait, jaw clenched.

Poppy’s hiss echoes around the office as cool metal meets flushed skin. “Whit—I mean Doc. Oh my god.” She clings to the open sides of my white coat, swaying on the desk as I press the stethoscope over her heart. And I really am curious, so I slip it into my ears.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her heart is racing. Pounding fast and hard.

“Are you lightheaded at all?” I ask, slipping my other hand beneath her shirt. Poppy whimpers, the sound such a dark thrill as my fingers graze the soft cotton of her bra.

It’s not padded. There’s nothing but a thin scrap of material between her nipple and my thumb as I rub back and forth over the hard bud. Back and forth. Teasing her through the fabric.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her heart beats faster.

“Interesting.” I pinch her nipple. Another hiss. “Tell me, Miss Lennox: where does it hurt?”

“Here.” Immediately, Poppy flattens her hand over mine through the shirt, molding my touch to her breast. She urges me to cup her, to knead, to squeeze her soft flesh, and my pulse throbs in my ears as I do it. She’s the perfect fit, tailor-made for my palm. “Better,” she gasps.

I’m out of control. I’ve gone off the rails.

I don’t recognize myself. I’ve never done this before.

“You look good in my shirt,” I murmur, then drag myself back into my role. “Any other pain?”

“Down here.” Poppy’s thighs spread apart on my desk, and I inhale sharply through my nose. “There’s an ache down here, doctor.”

Doctor.

This is wrong. So wrong. It’s surely a betrayal of my oath, and shame pours through me, fast and thick, even as triumph cuts through it like sunshine parting storm clouds. It’s my touch she wants. My healing hands on that ache.

“Are you sure you want to keep going?”

I’m ragged. Ruined already.

“ Yes ,” Poppy begs. “Please, Whit.”

We both hold our breath as I flick her shorts button open. Her zipper catches, and Poppy huffs out a laugh as she wriggles, working her shorts and panties over her hips.

They drop to my office floor with a thwump. Sandals follow, kicked off in turn.

Then she’s bared to me. Legs spread, pussy glistening.

I’ve sunk halfway to my knees before I realize: I’ve never kissed her mouth. I’m about to push my tongue inside her, and I’ve never kissed her lips. Fucking hell.

Poppy squeaks as I launch to my feet, cupping the back of her head, and my mouth is too firm on hers, too demanding, taking out all the frustration I feel only for myself. But my girl tugs on my white coat and gives as good as she gets, slanting our mouths together and kissing, nipping, claiming.

Her tongue strokes along mine.

A shiver ripples down my spine.

Mine.

“Perfect,” I rasp, trailing open-mouthed kisses down her throat. I suck a bruise near her shoulder, but hey, it’s fine—I’m a doctor. “Fuck. You’re everything, Poppy. Everything I thought you would be.”

She hiccups a laugh and shoves down on my shoulders. Yes, ma’am.

My knees thump against the rug, the dull pain barely a flicker in my brain. I touch her bare knees again—fucking finally—and push them wider, wider, shouldering my way in between.

There she is: slick and swollen. Mouth-watering. My sigh gusts over her slit and Poppy moans, rocking against the empty air.

I can’t believe I’m down here, close enough to taste her arousal. Close enough to feel her heat on my cheeks.

My voice is pure gravel. “It aches, sweet girl?”

“Uh-huh.” Fingers tangle in my hair, and she’s not shy at all, twisting and tugging. Driving me wild before I’ve even begun. “So, so bad. Please, doctor.”

I bury my face against her pussy with a snarl.

She’s sweet.

Salty.

Warm and wet and quivering.

Jesus Christ.

I wanted to make Poppy squirm for me, wanted to draw out her breathy gasps, but I don’t feel in control as I kneel here, licking her from ass to clit. I’m a man possessed. I’ll die if I don’t get my fingers inside her; if I don’t feel tremors wrack her frame. If I don’t taste every fucking inch.

God.

She’s tight around my fingers. Panting so sweetly as she writhes on the desk, and I’m never leaving this office. Never getting up from this rug. If I get my way I’ll die down here, Poppy’s wetness soaking my stubble and my cock drilling a hole through my fly.

“Whit,” she wails. She’s going to tear my hair out by the roots, but I keep lapping at her clit. “Holy shit . I’m gonna—”

“Yes. Do it, sweet girl.” I crook two fingers inside her, pressing my words against her nub. “Come for me.”

It’s a detonation. Of course it is. Poppy lives her whole life in vivid technicolor; she’s an explosion of color and laughter and light.

She feels everything so fully, and this is no exception as she shudders against the desk, the wood groaning beneath her.

She yanks on my hair and cries out at the ceiling.

“Poppy,” I say, and I’m on my knees, praying. “Poppy.”

Her laugh is strangled. “ Whit .”

When she slumps down onto the desk, her grip going slack in my hair, I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve run twenty miles, not made my girl come. And I’ve got that post-run weightless feeling, too, a giddy rush of endorphins through my veins.

I kiss her on the knee, on the same spot where I touched her all those days ago.

Well.

I guess we finally crossed a line.