Page 38 of Carnal Urges

It’s like kissing a frozen, angry brick wall that hated you and everything you stood for, had been nursing a lifelong grudge against you, and had made a vow of honor that it was going to kill you to avenge the murder of its father.

Declan’s mouth is hard, cold, and unyielding. Somehow, his lips transmit that they’d rather be injected with the Ebola virus than suffer the absolute disgust of meeting mine.

He curls his hands around my shoulders and pushes me away. Holding me at arm’s length, he glares at me like I’m a puppy who just shit on his favorite pair of shoes.

Thunderclouds gathered over his head, he says darkly, “Don’t. Ever. Do that. Again.”

“I won’t. Apologies.” My laugh is small and embarrassed. “Sometimes my self-confidence goes a little overboard.”

“Youthink?”

“Um. Yes. It’s not my fault, though.”

“Don’t elaborate. For the love of god, don’t say another word.”

“It’s just that most men are sort of… easy. I guess you’re not.”

“No,” he snarls, lip curled. “I’mnot.”

He’s holding me away from him like I’m contagious. Like he’s wishing there were an open window right behind me. Or a bottomless pit.

Needless to say, it’s deflating. I’m obviously losing my edge. Or maybe it’s my mind I’m losing. I could’ve sworn he looked at me with longing.

I turn away and sit on the edge of the bed, folding my hands between my knees and avoiding his eyes.

Without another word, Declan spins on his heel and walks out.

When he returns many hours later, he brings another man with him.

“The doctor,” he announces, then leaves the two of us alone.

After the door slams shut behind Declan, the small man in the blue suit removes his hat and sets it on the coffee table. He sets his black bag beside the hat and removes a stethoscope.

“There’s nothing wrong with my heart or lungs. It’s my head we need to be worried about.”

The doctor straightens and looks at me. He’s about sixty, with white hair and a kind smile. “Just following orders to be thorough, dear. I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh. Right. Where do you want me?”

He gestures to a chair, which I sit in. “So you’re a mafia doctor? That must be an interesting line of work. How many gunshot wounds have you stitched up?”

The doctor turns and gazes at me, looking like he’s enjoying some private joke.

“What?”

He says warmly, “Mr. O’Donnell warned me that you were chatty. There’s nothing worse than a quiet woman, I told him, because it only means they’re up to no good. He seemed to think you were up to no good regardless.”

He puts the buds of the stethoscope in his ears. “Careful about getting on his bad side, miss. He’s got a bit of a temper.”

“His bad side?” My laugh is dry. “You say that like he has a good one.”

“Draw a deep breath, please.”

The doctor presses the end of the stethoscope against my back. I inhale, he listens, then moves it to the opposite side of my spine. I draw another breath, and he listens again.

“He does. He’s one of the best men I’ve ever known.”

I say drily, “You must not get out much.”