Page 6 of Fixation

ANDERSON

N o one looks too closely when I carry Harper to her home.

No one’s lurking in the bushes or hiding anywhere on the block, either. I made sure of that before I went back for her.

I hold her close in my arms as I slip behind the alley and from there to her back door.

“I’ll take care of the meds. Soon,” I murmur into her hair, not sure if she even hears me through the fever. “We’ve got to stop at your place first.”

“Hmm.” My woman, my obsession, cuddles into me.

I could die from how much I want her.

Her forehead rests on my collarbone, her sweat-soaked hair already dampening another spot on my shirt.

It doesn’t soak through my undershirt, though. The thick fabric is a barrier between me and that wet spot.

Between my skin and her .

Infuriating.

I shake my head. I’ll have all of her on every part of me soon enough.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for over sixty days. While I’ve stalked her. Studied her better than I have anyone I’ve killed before.

I jacked off to her. Broke into her home. Barely touched her.

Those days are over. She’s here. Waiting for me to tend to her.

A sense of mission curls tight around my lungs. A revelation. I didn’t consciously become a doctor for Harper, but it sure feels like it was meant to be.

Every sleepless night in med school, every grueling shift, every ounce of discipline shaped me into the man she can count on.

For the first time, being a doctor doesn’t feel like penance.

I’m not saving lives to make up for the ones I’ve taken.

Fate didn’t make me a healer for redemption.

It made me one for her.

My jaw clenches.

Focus. You can’t spiral now.

What I need is to grab the keys from her bag.

She’s going to need her hair products, not mine. While I’d love her hair to smell like me, these thick red locks need more care than I can give.

She’ll have my soap on her skin. That’ll have to be enough.

“Let’s put you down.” I gently lower her on her doorstep, “Nice and easy.”

Touching her, washing her, tending to her…

I’ll slip if I’m not careful.

I am careful. And I won’t slip.

Her bag. It’s slung over my shoulder, the strap overlapping mine.

Our bags.

Ours.

The word loops in my head as I pluck her keys out and slide them into the lock.

I lift her bridal style over the threshold and, fuck, if that isn’t a sign.

Patience.

After stepping inside and closing the door, my lips press to the top of her head. It’s the simplest touch, yet every nerve ending in my body lights up.

My shoulders tense, biceps flexing with the effort of holding back.

I want to kiss her. Run my fingers over every curve.

Bend her the fuck over and take what I’ve been dying for.

Her.

I’ll have time to be her best and worst nightmare later.

Whatever self-restraintI have left, I have to cling to it. For as long as I can.

“This isn’t the first time that we’ve shared something, you know?” Talking to her helps get me out of my own head. Another reason why she’s so right for me. “We’ve already spent hours on end together. Each one has been special to me. Has it been that way for you?”

Sweet, passed-out Harper doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t have to. We’ll have our whole lives to have these conversations.

There’s just the matter of ending things with the Bratva.

They might not let me go as easily as I initially thought. Sergey hasn’t mentioned anything about our contract being over soon.

I’ll fight everyone, Harper included, to have her in my life, in my bed, in my future. All fucking mine.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let him win. I won’t even let you win. We’re in it for the long haul. Forever.” With that settled, I’m done wasting time here. Her keys are in my scrubs pocket, and I head toward the stairs. “You’re mine. Always have, always will be.”

We’re in her bedroom when she whispers, “Cold.”

Her hot breath against my neck goes straight to my cock. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, desperate to hold back the wave of need.

My control is hanging by a thread, and it’s fraying fast.

Can’t let it happen.

I slam my eyes shut, thinking of this one thing that might take the edge off.

That’s easy. Imagining the last time I almost lost a patient on the operating table.

My head pounds. Jaw tics.

Yes. Perfect. The immense sense of frustration does it for me.

It simmers now that I’ve brought it to the surface. My pulse refuses to slow.

You did end up fixing it. He did survive.

Ha. Right. As if that makes anything better.

Only a fuck-up surgeon would be comforted by nearly failing, which I’m not.

Although the memory is infuriating, at least it has achieved the desired effect. I’m only half out of my mind with the need to fuck Harper.

“Hmm.” She stirs, but otherwise stays fast asleep.

With rage pulsing through me, I stare at her. Admire her. Marvel at our connection.

She trusts me.

It’s way too early for that.

A twisted part of me likes the idea of having to work hard for her. So I can have her.

I want her to make me work even harder.

“Hmm.” Again.

“Yeah, you get me.” A small, rare smile plays on my lips. “Right from the start, I could tell we were meant to be. Your subconscious knows that. The rest of you will too.”

“Hmm.”

Before I step into her bathroom, I lay her down on her bed.

I mourn the loss of her warmth, but I’m not weak. I won’t curl up next to her.

Technically, it wouldn’t hurt me or my plans. I’m vaccinated regularly. I won’t catch whatever she might have.

But hugging her isn’t what I’m here for.

I’m here to help.

Detachment is a powerful thing. I’ve used it while killing strangers.

I’ve used it when a family member sobs outside the OR, begging for a trauma patient to live.

And I’ll use it again.

That same detachment will carry me through what needs to be done. It’s what helps me cocoon her inside her blanket and step into the bathroom instead of crawling into bed beside her.

Where I lose my shit all over again.

Because fuck me.

Harper’s hamper is full.

I drag a hand over my jaw, cursing myself all over again.

Forgetting tomorrow’s her laundry day just adds to the long list of my sins.

First, I missed the signs of her getting sick. Now this.

“You don’t have to worry about your laundry, Miss Arlington,” I vow as soon as I’m back at her bedside.

“This is a home visit. That means I’m here to do everything for you.” Since putting her clothes in the washing machine will take some time, I grab another blanket from her closet and pull it over her. “Consider this as a complimentary service. A compensation for my negligence.”

Before I return to her laundry, I watch her. This fevered, fragile thing wrapped up exactly how I want her.

Her red mane and flushed face peek out. Her gentle features, tinted in surgical gray-blue, make her look like something laid out on a sterile table under the moonlight. Ready for me.

I place one pillow on either side of her body so she won’t roll over while I’m in the other room.

One more gaze, and I leave for the basement. Since Harper hasn’t worn anything white this week, I throw everything together into the washing machine.

Everything but one of her black sports bras.

For the longest second of my life, I consider what to do with it. The sweat has dried, but Harper’s smell lingers. Clean. Soft. Gentle.

There’s so much of her in that one piece of clothing.

The ghost of her breasts, the shape of where her nipples peaked. It’s basically etched in fabric, vivid as if she were standing right in front of me.

I know exactly how it looks on her. I’ve tracked her on more than a few jogs.

Every route, every pace, every glance over her shoulder is burned into my memory.

In my defense, she needed me there to protect her while she was on her own.

New York isn’t the safest place.

My mouth opens on its own, triggered by the memory of her sweat-slick skin.

“Fuck.” I press my lips back together. My teeth gnash as blood pumps in my veins.

I’m not just hard anymore. Not just throbbing. Precum dampens my boxers.

No amount of self-loathing will solve this. Jerking off with her sports bra is a necessity. It’s the only way to bleed off enough of this hunger so I don’t lose control when I’m around her.

The only solution for my predicament.

I’m obligated, as her doctor, to be as professional as I can.

For her, I shove down my scrubs, freeing my cock.

I wrap myself in her bra, pretending it’s Harper’s small palm around me. Imagining that the fabric of her sports bra is her soft hand around my lungs.

“You feel so good, Harper.” I lean on her washing machine, my head bowed low as I fuck my fist. “Such a good girl.”

I always praise her when I get off. When I watch her, I wish I were inside her, telling her that I need to fill her up with my cock.

With my babies.

But this is what I have to work with. So instead of growling it to Harper, I whisper here, in her basement. “Good girl, take it,” I say. “You were made for me.”

She can’t hear me yet, but she will.

She will .

Images of Harper flash before my eyes.

The thick waves of her hair. Her delicate fingers against my chest. They’re calloused, though it hardly shows. Even that part of her is softened. Beautiful. Inviting.

I fuck my hand harder. Jerking my hips as if I’m rutting into my sweet patient’s pussy. As if I’m making her wet. Making her soak my cock.

More. I call for more memories of her plump lips and how they rested on my collarbone. The shape of her breasts.

Another pulse of precum leaks from my throbbing head. I rub it over her sports bra and go back to thrusting.

That’s how I’ll fuck her mouth. Deep, brutal, relentless.

That’s how hard I’ll go when I claim her pussy. Her ass. When I fuck the tight space between her breasts.

She’ll have her hand curled around my dick, and I’ll help her.

I’ll roll my hips. Thrust. Jerk into her.

“Yes. That.” I’ll teach her what I like, after learning about her pleasure points. What makes her come the hardest. “Good girl. Just like that.”

We’ll have that. We will.

Sure, it’ll take some convincing…

That thought, of forcing myself on her—“Oh, fuck .”

Some manipulation…

My eyes roll to the back of my head. I squeeze myself because that’s what being in her pussy will feel like. Impossibly tight. Painfully so. So good. So good and?—

If neither convincing nor manipulation works, then I’ll put her to sleep, just for a little while.

She belongs to me.

I’ll own her, whether she likes it or not.

That last thought pushes me over the edge. Throws me head-first into oblivion.

I come hard, spilling my cum into the washing machine. Marking her other clothes.

Then another deviant thought crosses my mind.

The clothes already stained with my cum. Why would I wash something so deliberate, so personal?

She’d be a walking dream. Wearing my seed.

No.

I shake my head and toss her used sports bra into the dirty pile. Add soap to the machine. Turn it on.

The whole point of jerking off was to stop these dark desires.

Seeing her in those filthy clothes would wreck me. I’d be hard in a fucking second.

And besides, it’s not sterile.

I shove the idea down and let the machine work.

Then I head up, taking the stairs two at a time. The farther I get from those marked clothes, the calmer I feel.

More controlled.

More calculated.

“I’m here.” I am, right by her side, resting the back of my hand on her forehead.

Fuck, she’s hot.

I’m more resolute than ever. More intent on treating her.

“Be right back,” I whisper, lowering my lips to the heated skin of her forehead. “Have to run you a cold bath. It’s for the best.”

She offers me a shiver and another one of her sweet hums as a response without coughing.

I’ll take it.