Page 9 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Connor

I hold out my arms, and she falls into them—against my bare chest, right over the wound. Pain zings up my spine, sharp and electric, but it’s nothing compared to the jolt of her touch. Slim fingers. Pale. Nails short, unpainted. Unadorned. And yet, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

I pull her closer. Her hair brushes my cheek, and I dip my head, breathing her in. Lush roses. Sultry jasmine. A trace of vanilla. The scent hits hard—feminine, intoxicating, fucking lethal.

I caught it from her hair tie in the bookshop. It gutted me then.

Now, with her in my arms, it’s more than scent—it’s sacrament. It sinks into my blood, holy and overwhelming.

My groin tightens. My scalp tingles. I want to drop to my knees and worship her—her scent, her softness, the quiet chaos she stirs in me. I grit my teeth to keep from groaning.

I've spent weeks watching her, imagining what it’d feel like to hold her. But nothing could’ve prepared me for this. She’s soft, curvy, all temptation. I want to grip her hips, feel the give beneath my fingers—but that would ruin everything.

She just met me. I might feel like I know her, but to her, I’m still a stranger. I can’t afford to fuck this up. Not when every cell in my body is screaming to claim her.

Our eyes lock. Her pupils are blown wide, just a rim of green circling the dark. And something inside me stills—then detonates.

The space between us hums, molten and alive. The world narrows to her gaze—steady, open, unflinching—and the quiet truth it holds.

She sees me.

Not the biochemist. Not the operative. Not the heir trying to make his privilege mean something. She sees past the masks, the armor, the weight I carry.

And she doesn’t flinch.

Awe unfurls in my chest, raw and unfamiliar. Like I’ve stumbled into something sacred I didn’t earn. Like I’ve been cracked open and, somehow, she accepts what’s inside.

And just like that, I know.

The world has shifted. I’m no longer the man I was five minutes ago. I’m standing in front of the woman who sees every brutal, broken part of me—and fits anyway.

My other half. My reckoning. My redemption.

I must tighten my hold on her, because she winces. “Hey—let go of me.”

Her voice brings me back to myself. Reminds me I’m holding her close, sniffing her hair like a…creep.

Why not? She already turned me into a stalker.

To disguise the intensity of feelings she evokes in me, I set her aside. "You could have hurt yourself,” I bite out through gritted teeth.

My blood pressure is still not normal from having seen her trip and almost face-plant.

“You could have knocked out a tooth, or broken your nose, or scarred your face.” The thought sends another pulse of anger through my veins. My pulse detonates in my chest.

I cannot bear to think of how she almost left a permanent mark on her beautiful face. I can’t. I lower my chin.

“Your clogs; get rid of them.”

“Excuse me?” She gapes.

Goddamn, that came out too abruptly. I fight for composure and manage to calm my blood pressure somewhat.

“Your clogs are too big for you. Your gait changed right as your heel lifted. That only happens when the shoe’s too loose—which means, they’re new or borrowed—and your foot’s trying to grip.”

I glower at the offending yellow contraptions.

“And judging by the slight swelling at your ankle? You’ve been on your feet for hours.”

I swivel my gaze up to her face.

“Did you skip your last break? You’re a doctor; you should know better than that.”

“I… You…” She seems to be at a loss for words.

“It’s not a criticism. Just an observation.” I try to soften my words.

“My clogs are borrowed,” she says slowly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“You’re my doctor. You’re here to treat me. That makes it my business. If you hurt yourself, it’ll have to be me taking care of you , not the other way around. And why not wear a pair of shoes that fit—preferably ones that don’t look this hideous?”

I glower at the yellow, closed-toe sandals with the thick, rigid soles. What I don’t tell her is that they emphasize the delicateness of her ankles, even swollen.

“What are you, the Sherlock-of-shoes?” She scoffs.

I nod at her feet. “Am I, or am I not, right about those?”

“I haven’t had a chance to buy new sneakers, so you’re right about that.” She waves a hand in the air and takes another step back as if to put distance between us. “And you’re very observant.”

I see patterns. Connect dots most people don’t even notice. Though, in this case, it was simple deduction. “It was nothing.” I shrug.

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic, or modest.” She’s talking a little too fast. Clearly, she’s nervous. That only adds to her appeal.

Toe-to-toe, she barely comes up to my chest. I'm, at least, a foot taller than her. I’ve always been a big guy.

I’ve learned, over the years, how to relax my body so I appear non-threatening on my undercover missions.

But next to her curvy, petite form, I feel like a giant. I sink back onto the examination table.

She takes that as an invitation to get on with her examination. "You’re going to need stitches.” She peers at my forehead and begins gathering the items she'll need.

I slide my thighs apart in invitation. She hesitates. Then, because that’s the best way to examine the wound I sport, she steps between them.

Her cheeks flush, but her fingers are confident when she pulls out a pencil-shaped flashlight and shines it in my eyes.

Blinded, I blink, then manage to keep my eyes open. She makes a humming sound which could mean anything, in the way that doctors often do.

She switches off the flashlight and places it aside.

Then moves her finger in front of my eyes. I follow the direction.

"No concussion.” Movements brisk, she touches the skin next to the dried blood on my forehead.

My muscles jump. Sensations zip up my spine.

It takes everything in me not to groan. I curl my fingers into fists, press my feet into the floor, and will my body to relax.

Impossible, when every tendon in my body seems to have turned to steel.

And the muscle between my legs to granite.

She presses down on the skin, and pain shudders out from the point of contact. Still, I make no sound. She frowns, presses around a little more. "Does it hurt?"

Yes.

I shake my head. I’m not lying; I can bear it.

She shoots me a disbelieving look from under her eyelashes. Then presses down harder. This time, I hiss out a breath.

"So, it does hurt?"

"Just do what you need to," I say through gritted teeth. Sweat beads on my brow. She is hurting me. Just not where she imagines.

I’ve ached for her touch, but nothing prepared me for this.

My blood turns into lava, and my pulse rate kicks up. I want to divest her of those scrubs that do nothing to disguise the lush curves of her body and throw her down on the examination table, before I cover her body with mine.

But I don’t do that. Obviously. I hope none of my thoughts show on my face. But she must hear something in my words because her movements speed up. Some more digging in with her fingers, which sends little points of pain racing under my skin, and she nods.

"No ribs broken; only bruised. So, you won’t need an X-ray. You do need stitches for this, too, however."

Then she reaches over to grab the antiseptic spray from the small rolling table positioned beside us. The curve of her waist brushes my thigh, and I’m so turned on, I could come from the contact. Damn.

Then I’m gasping for air—this time, for real—as she sprays antiseptic on my wound.

I manage not to cry out. Which means, hopefully, I don’t dispel the projection of my macho persona and impermeability to pain; only so I can impress her.

She straightens. "Close your eyes."

I don’t let anyone order me around. But in this examination room, she’s the expert.

And apparently, her no-nonsense doctor’s voice is a huge turn on, as evidenced by my hardening groin.

I do as she says. She sprays the antiseptic on the cut over my eyebrow.

Then on the one on my lower lip. The resulting burn is barely a twinge.

Eyes still closed, I hear her walk around to one of the shelves. When she asks me to lay down, I oblige, hoping the part of me that wants to stand at attention is impeded by my jeans. Down, boy.

Her footsteps approach. I feel the warmth of her body as she bends over to inject an anesthetic to numb the space around the cut on my eyebrow. Her scent intensifies, exacerbating the lust dancing through my veins. After weeks of watching her from afar, I’m close enough to touch her.

My fingers tingle, but I manage to keep my hands to myself. I open my eyes and see my fill of her. She must sense my gaze, for her cheeks redden. But her fingers don’t stop moving. She finishes stitching my forehead, then turns toward the gash in my side.

When she touches the abraded skin around the wound with the cotton pad, I can’t stop the groan which boils up.

“Sorry,” she murmurs without looking up. Goosebumps pepper her skin. Interesting. And reassuring to know she feels this connection between us, too. That even though her touch is professional, the impact on her is far from it.

I sense her breathing roughen. Then she gets a hold of herself and begins to clean the wound. She follows the same protocol, numbing the space before she stitches it up.

I reach out and pocket the flashlight.

All too soon, she’s done. Snipping off the thread, she steps back.

"Keep the stitches dry. They should start dissolving within ten days. You’ll probably have a scar, though." She pulls off her disposable gloves and drops them in the bin. "It’s only going to add to your good looks, I’m sure."

"You think I’m good-looking?" I swing my legs over the side and sit up.

She stiffens. Then, rubbing antiseptic onto her hands, turns to me. "You know you are."

"It means a lot to me to know that you think so, too."

Her expression turns cautious. "Why is that?"

"Because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met."

She flushes and her eyes grow wide, then she tosses her head.

"It’s just gratitude for having stitched you up that’s kicking in.

" She pulls a tablet from her pocket, and her fingers fly over the surface.

“You're going to need to use a prophylactic antibiotic. A prescription has been sent to the hospital pharmacy. You can pick it up there. Make sure you apply it daily until the wound is healed.”

She pockets the device, hooks her stethoscope around her neck, then looks around, no doubt, searching for the flashlight.

Then she gives up and levels me with a calm, clinical, no-nonsense look. One I’m coming to classify as her 'doctor’ look.

A look which amps up the pulse in my chest…and in my wrists…and in my balls. I might have a doctor kink I was unaware of—but only when it comes to her.

“Now that we have that out of the way…” She folds her arms across her chest. “Are you going to tell me why this is the second time I’m seeing you in such a short period of time?”

“I absolutely intend to.” I lean forward until I’m peering into her eyes. “Over dinner.”

“Dinner?” She blinks, the surprise evident on her face. But she doesn’t step back. Which means, she’s not averse to the idea. Yes! I can work with that.

Then she tosses her head. “That’s very forward of you, isn’t it? I barely know you.”

“Have dinner with me, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know, including…why you’re going to marry me.”

She bursts out laughing. “That’s some ego you have.”

The mirth in her voice makes me smile. It’s not ego. It’s the truth. As she’s going to find out.

She pivots and moves toward the curtains drawn around the cubicle.

I should let her go, but after weeks of having watched her from a distance, we’re in the same room, and I can’t do it. I snake out my hand and wrap my fingers around her wrist. "Would it help if I said please?”

She stiffens, then stares down at my fingers, before looking up at me. "You’re overstepping the doctor-patient relationship."

"You’ve treated my wounds; that relationship is now over." I hold onto her for a few seconds more. Then, I slowly retract my hand. "You also haven’t told me your first name.”

Of course, I know her name, but I feel compelled to keep up appearances…for now.

She heads to the curtains, pulls them aside, then turns to look at me over her shoulder. There’s challenge in her eyes. “I’m not looking to date anyone right now.”