Page 11 of Fixation

ANDERSON

M y alarm clock wakes me up thirty minutes after I’m done fixing the soup.

First things first—checking on my girl. I mean, my patient.

Her warm presence welcomes me as I take the last step down the stairs. Her body lies perfectly still beneath the blankets I drew over her.

An invitation.

No.

I sedated her, and she needs to be tended to.

That sounds better.

“Let’s have a look at you,” I address her in the same tone of voice I use at the hospital.

She doesn’t answer, which is fine by me.

I don’t need her consent to take care of her. She’s here, isn’t she?

Yes, she is.

Her fever keeps going down. Sweat beads line her forehead, wetting the roots of her hair. Her neck glistens.

Good sign. Real fucking good.

Same as before, I don’t need to press my knuckles to her forehead and savor the warmth, but I do it anyway.

Dammit, she feels nice. Skin is mildly warm. Soft as well.

I crave more of it. So I take it.

Yes, like that. My fingers tracing hot paths over her cheek. Her delicate jaw. Those pouty lips and chin.

The longer I touch her, the more my control slips.

But her mouth, it’s fucking seductive. I take it too. I’m being unethical as fuck while I dip two fingers between her lips. Up to the first knuckle.

Her lips wrap around them. I want my cock there.

Can’t.

This isn’t a part of the checkup. Pushing the thermometer in her mouth is.

Nodding to myself, I go ahead and do that.

Any healthcare professional would.

Not with their dicks hard, but it doesn’t matter, but that’s a minor detail. The temptation to fuck her mouth, that’s my problem.

I’m stronger than that. I am.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Thank fuck, it’s done.

102.0

Better. Much.

Her IV bag is empty. I’m going to change it. Harper needs her fluids and minerals.

It won’t be long before I see her furious emerald eyes. Hear my name on her lips.

Yes.

“Such a good patient,” I praise her while I change the bag, then start cleaning her up.

I dip the washcloth into the new ice water bowl I placed on the treatment cart while the soup was cooking on the stove. In careful movements, I dab it over her forehead, her temples.

Repeating the motion, I soak it with ice water and squeeze it over her hair. Dab a dry washcloth over her ears to prevent the fluid from entering them.

“You’re doing great.” My stethoscope, that’s been cleaned, hangs around my neck. I take it in my hand, leaning closer to her. “Let’s listen to your lungs and heart, Miss Arlington.”

I start with the blanket, pulling it down to her knees.

Fuck, she looks so good wearing my clothes. Every time I see her in them—like the time I took them off to insert the catheter briefly to help relieve her—my heart beats louder. Faster.

Possessiveness floods my blood. Focusing on her medical needs is verging on impossible.

The idea of failing her is the worst of them all.

“I’m going to just move those out of the way,” I say between clenched teeth, shoving her clothes up to her stomach. My knuckles brush her delicate skin. A forbidden temptation. “Like I said, I need to have a look at you.”

A pang of need has my cock throbbing.

Can’t have that. Can’t think of how painful my erection is.

Can’t.

I arrange the sweatshirt and shirt over her breasts. My pulse skyrockets at how beautiful she is. How perfect. The desire I have for her is a beast. A visceral ache.

Those round and biteable tits. Her nipples are pink and hard at the first touch of cool air.

Her skin prickles, and, God, what I wouldn’t give to lick her. She’d taste like heaven on my tongue. Like hell and decadence. I’d devour each and every one of her goosebumps.

Ignoring these urges is the right thing to do.

Her heart. Her lungs.

Her checkup. That’s why she’s naked beneath me. Have to remember that.

Same as I’ve done dozens of times, I adjust each earpiece of the stethoscope in my ears. The diaphragm goes above Harper’s heart.

I stifle a growl as the sound of each beat, each pulse of energy, reaches me.

Listening to another person’s heart has always been as clinical as scrubbing in for surgery. Never been like this. Never has it stirred any emotion in me.

Nothing’s gripped my heart and yanked as much as hers does.

Nothing.

Possessiveness. Desire. A need so dark I can’t put a name to it.

They all pulse in me while I listen to her.

Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

My God.

She’s got me so distracted that I can’t focus on counting her heartbeats.

I’m a fool who stands in my basement, with a hand on my stethoscope and both eyes on her chest.

She was going to put her life in someone else’s hands when she was carried into the hospital.

In those of another doctor. A handful of nurses.

All of them are adequate.

But they aren’t me.

Never again.

My ribs crack. Wanting her is too much.

Having her here is a never-ending test.

A test I’m going to fly through.

Enough of my sanity slides back in place that I’m able to finish what I started. I listen to her heart.

Nothing’s out of order. No sign of distress.

Her breathing is just as important.

I remove the restraints and help her sit, then press the diaphragm to her back. I’m quiet, listening to the sounds coming from behind one of her lungs, then the other.

They’re good. Clear.

Lowering her to her back again, I listen to her chest.

Blissfully clear too.

If it were a virus or a bug, I would’ve heard something.

Which leaves us with the only diagnosis that makes sense—stress.

I’ve been there to witness Harper’s demanding lifestyle for the past two months.

Four or five a.m. alarms.

Thirty minutes to wash her face, brush her teeth, and have her coffee. Half an hour is all the time she gives herself to be completely disconnected from the world.

In those thirty minutes, she stares outside the window while I stare at her. When I’m not in the OR, obviously.

From there, her life revolves mainly around her business.

Emails. Calls. Designs.

She burns her fingers at least once a week with her blowtorch. It boils my blood to see her damage what’s mine.

Every time I catch sight of it, my hand is close to snapping my phone in half.

Three weeks ago, I even hurled it against the wall. The one that connects our houses.

As soon as I could check out what I’d been missing, I got it fixed and saw the old footage on my new phone.

Harper jumped at the abrupt sound. Then she laughed at herself, murmuring something about imagining things, before going back to her current project.

Enough about me.

There’s never a day she doesn’t push herself to the limit.

Yet she still finds time to jog. To have a rare visit from her friend, Darla. She always offers her family a smile, a laugh, and her patience.

This woman gives and gives and gives.

Her cup is empty at the end of the day.

Not on my watch.

I smooth over her clothes, arranging them back to how they were. Tuck her under the covers. Climb up the stairs to the kitchen before she wakes up.

Any minute now.

In the kitchen, the soup takes a couple of minutes to reheat on the stove while I stir it.

She’ll thank me for keeping her here for observation. For the mandatory rest.

Sick desires curl around my chest when I imagine how it will go. Her gratitude won’t happen overnight.

Most likely, she’ll understand how good I’ve been to her only a minute before she leaves. Just as I expected.

It’s either that, or I’m not letting her out of here.

Aromas of chicken and spices fill my home again.

I’d love nothing more than to have a bowl myself.

No time.

I need the calories, though, so I settle for a protein bar. Devouring it, I chase it down with a glass of water.

Good as new.

“Hello?” Her faint voice echoes up the stairs, through the crack in the door.

Ten steps and I’m already there, her meal in my hands. “Coming.”

“Oh, no.” She sounds broken.

My chest warms at the thought of putting her back together.

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” she whispers to herself. I hear her, regardless, as I descend the stairs.

“No.” On bare feet, I reach the basement. “It wasn’t.”

I reach her .

This time, she isn’t struggling against her restraints. She isn’t at peace, either.

Her eyes are narrowed, bouncing all over the room. Her chest heaves. Lips pinched.

“What do you want from me?” It’s too fucking adorable, the way she grinds her teeth. The way she snarls at me.

She’s trying to see how serious I am about her.

She’s about to find out.

“I thought I was clear before.” I stop at the edge of the bed, tilting my head. “I want you to get better.”

A little roar vibrates in her chest when she notices the bowl in my hands. “You’re crazy if you think I’m eating that.”

“I said, I wanted you to get better.” My tone broaches no argument. “For that to happen, you need to eat.”

“I think…I think you lied when you said you were a real doctor.” The cogs are moving in her head.

It shows through her expressive eyes. I wait for her to say it.

“Or-or…Right. Fuck. You’re not a doctor.

You’ve been stalking me. You’re a weirdo who works from home.

That’s how you knew I left the house when I did.

How you could just get up and leave. Follow me from there to the hospital.

There—not sure how—you stole these scrubs from a real doctor, called yourself a surgeon, no less?—”

A thrill runs through me. She understands the depth of my devotion, even though she’s got some of the facts wrong.

She sees me.

She was always supposed to be mine.

“—then you appeared in the ER. Like it was a coincidence. You liar. You stalker.”

Her cheeks burn bright red. I don’t miss the way her eyes linger for too long on my tattoos. Don’t miss that little gasp that’s followed by a scowl.

Oh, she hates herself for liking me.

Any emotion is a good emotion, I guess.

“A real doctor would’ve helped me. Actually helped me.” Those baby growls will be my undoing. I’m quick to catch myself, to fix my expression into a solemn one. “You stole me, you monster.”