Page 19 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

But when my cock slides into Poppy’s tight, wet heat, parts of my body relax that have been tense for years. There are muscles in my back that I forgot existed, they’ve been clenched for so long, and now I’m unspooling on top of her, elbows sinking into the mattress.

“Poppy. Fuck .” I bury my face in her throat, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m overcome. It’s just—I’ve dreamed about this so many times. Pictured the way she’d taste, the sounds she’d make, the salt on her skin.

Tonight, Poppy is more chlorinated than in most of my daydreams, but she’s perfect. This is perfect.

“Are you okay?” I manage, lifting my head up to inspect her flushed face. “Does it hurt?”

She laughs and licks my cheek. “It stung a bit at first. But no, not anymore.” A tiny wriggle illustrates her point, and the bolt of pleasure drags a moan from deep in my chest.

“Fuck. When you move like that, I feel everything. The way you’re gripping me, sucking me deeper; how wet you are. Everything .”

“Good.” Poppy bites her lips as she smiles, both wicked and shy, and rolls her hips against mine again. With each rock, she grinds me deeper, makes me throb. “I want you to feel it all. I want you to take what you need.”

Ah, shit.

And look: I’m a doctor. I’m not supposed to take at all. I’m supposed to give and give and give, scooping out my soul for everyone else. I heal and sacrifice. I’m supposed to be selfless. Always in control.

And now? “Fuck, your body. Your tight little pussy. Yeah, that’s it. Sigh for me. Good girl.”

I’m not in control right now.

My only saving grace is that Poppy is gone too, her lashes fluttering and her skin dewy with sweat.

We’re drunk on each other. She writhes beneath my body, scoring my back with her fingernails as I pound her into the mattress, and gives as good as she gets.

She fights me, but she’s yanking me closer, not pushing me away.

“Oh my god,” Poppy wails, hooking a thigh over my hip.

Opening herself up even wider for me. “So this is what all the fuss is about. Ugh. I just want you stamped all over me, Doc. Want to feel you inside me every time I sit down tomorrow. I want to smell like you for weeks, so just—drench me in your pheromones. Go on. Mold my pussy to your cock.”

Shit.

“Stop making me laugh, you little weirdo.”

But Poppy yanks my hair, cackling. And this moment is just like her: wild and strange and vivid. Almost too good to be true.

For the first time in years, I am so, so alive. The buzz of pleasure rattles my teeth.

“You’re going to come for me. You’re going to show me what that feels like.”

She nods eagerly, suddenly the shy student again, and there are so many layers to this girl. So many shades of her to learn and love. My fingertips skate through her slippery folds, and then I find her clit. Rub steady circles over her nub.

“Oh!”

I grit my teeth, temples aching. “That’s it. Come for me.”

I’ve seen this before, of course: the way Poppy shatters into a thousand pieces when she comes. The way her eyes go unfocused and her lips part. Color floods her cheeks, and her whole body trembles.

I’ve seen it before, but now I’m feeling it. Now I’m wedged deep inside, in the eye of the storm.

I hold off for as long as I can. Until her spasms fade to aftershocks, and Poppy melts into a sweaty puddle. Then I sit back on my heels, grip her hips, and shove deep.

It hurts , letting every ounce of tension go like this, my broken gasp echoing around the bedroom.

I’m pretty sure I leave part of my soul inside my girl.

“Whew,” Poppy says once she catches her breath a few minutes later, patting my chest where I’ve collapsed by her side. “Nice work. Guess all that cardio is good for something.”

I snort. And there’s only one way to stop Poppy’s nonsense: to roll my dead weight on top of her, hiding my grin in the pillow as she thrashes and squeals.

* * *

Five years later

I wait until the doctor leaves the room and the door snaps shut before I lunge for the clipboard at the foot of the hospital bed.

“Whit.” Poppy prods me with her blanket covered foot. “You’re not supposed to look at his notes. Come on.”

And fine, no, I am not Poppy’s doctor. I shouldn’t hover over every single detail. But if she thinks I’m going to just sit back and relax while my wife—while my whole damn world— gives birth to our child, without double checking the doctor’s work? She’s wrong. Very wrong. There’s too much at stake.

“Your blood pressure is a little high.”

An empty plastic cup bounces off my shoulder. “That’s all you, dumbass.”

Ugh.

Fine . Fine.

“I don’t like this,” I grumble, abandoning the clipboard and striding around the bed. When I sink toward the chair, Poppy grabs my hip and yanks me onto the bed. “Careful!”

I could have squashed her. Could have squashed them both. Jesus Christ.

Except Poppy’s giggling, pushing me to lean back against the headboard and using my shoulder as a pillow. Her dark, silky hair tickles at my throat, and our chests rise and fall in time.

Heaven.

“You’re funny when you freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“I never get to see you like this, Whit. Losing your cool. Such a treat.” A slender hand curves over her belly, and I huff before covering it with my own.

This is not the noble affair I wanted it to be. I wanted my wife to feel safe; I wanted to swoop around the maternity ward like a superhero. Whipping the other doctors into line and fetching her an endless supply of ice chips. Making sure everything is perfect for her.

“Sorry,” I mutter into her hair. “I’m making this harder, aren’t I?”

“Never.” Poppy tangles our fingers together, hands still resting on her bump. “I’m so glad that you’re here. I’m always glad you’re here. Everything’s better with you.”

Ah, fuck.

Same. I feel exactly the same way. Before Poppy, all the colors in my life were muted; I barely registered tastes and smells. And now, with her at my side, everything is so vibrant and raw, and life is so beautiful that some days I almost can’t stand it.

I swallow, shifting against the thin mattress, and steal a glance at the closed door. Out in the corridor, the constant sounds of the hospital are muted: ringing phones, idle chatter, the squeak of dinner cart wheels.

“You know what’s supposed to help this process along?” I trail our joined hands over the hard curve of her belly. Her hospital gown is thin and soft, bunching beneath our wrists as our hands dip between her legs—

“Looks good,” the doctor clips out, marching through the door in his blue scrubs.

He’s too busy frowning at another set of test results to see us snatch our hands back, both our faces guilty, but Poppy’s shoulders are shaking so much from silent laughter, I need to get off the bed.

I stare out of the window, forcing away the constant arousal I feel near Poppy, and watch the city lights glitter instead.

“It’ll be a few hours yet,” the doctor’s saying. No shit. That’s crystal clear from the charts.

But I’m not going to be an ass about this. I’m not going to let my nerves take over, because my wife deserves better.

I shoot Poppy a reassuring smile, and she beams back, melting against the headboard.

“We’ll find ways to entertain ourselves,” she promises the doctor.

Ha.

I stare out of the window again, heart pounding.

When he leaves, this time I follow to the door. I raise an eyebrow, waiting for Poppy’s frantic nod before I spin the lock.

We’ll open it again soon, once I’ve turned her into a panting, pleading mess on this hospital bed. Once I’ve made her cheeks burn and her eyes spark with mischief.

“You sure about that, worrywart?” Poppy’s voice is thick with amusement.

I smirk and turn to face her. “Oh, yeah. Trust me—I’m a doctor.”