"One hundred and ten," he says, still unsatisfied.
He pulls my hips back to meet him and then I can feel him freeing himself from his scrubs. He grips my hip with one hand while shoving my panties aside with the other. Then he pushes forward until he's all the way inside of me.
I'm grasping the couch with two desperate fists when he pauses to listen to my heart again. "Lily," he says with mock disappointment. "One twenty. Not quite where I want you."
The stethoscope disappears again and his arm curls around my waist. His hand slides down my stomach and settles between my legs. I can no longer keep up with his rhythm. I can barely even stay on my knees. He's somehow holding me up with one hand and destroying me in the best possible way with his other hand. Right when I start to tremble, he pulls me upright until my back meets his chest. He's still inside me, but now he's focused on my heart again as he moves his stethoscope around to the front of my chest.
I let out a moan and he presses his lips to my ear. "Shh. No noises."
I have no idea how I make it through the next thirty seconds without making another sound. One of his arms is wrapped around me with the stethoscope pressed to my chest. His other arm is tight against my stomach as his hand continues its magic between my legs. He's still somehow deep inside me and I'm trying to move against him, but he's rock solid as the tremors begin to rush through me. My legs are shaking and my hands are at my sides, gripping the tops of his thighs as it takes every ounce of my strength not to scream out his name.
I'm still shaking when he lifts my hand and places the diaphragm against my wrist. After several seconds, he pulls the stethoscope away and tosses it to the floor. "One fifty," he says with satisfaction. He pulls out of me and flips me onto my back and then his mouth is on mine and he's inside me again.
My body is too weak to move and I can't even open my eyes and watch him. He thrusts against me several times and then holds still, groaning into my mouth. He drops on top of me, tense, yet shaking.
He kisses my neck and then his lips meet the tattoo of the heart on my collarbone. He finally settles against my neck and sighs.
"Have I already mentioned tonight how much I like you?" he asks.
I laugh. "Once or twice."
"Consider this the third time," he says. "I like you. Everything about you, Lily. Being inside of you. Being outside of you. Being near you. I like it all."
I smile, loving how his words feel against my skin. Inside my heart. I open my mouth to tell him I like him, too, but my voice is cut off by the sound of his phone.
He groans against my neck and then pulls out of me and reaches for his phone. He pulls his scrubs back into place and laughs as he looks at his caller ID.
"It's my mother," he says, leaning over and kissing the top of my knee that's resting against the back of the couch. He tosses the phone aside and then stands and walks over to my desk, grabbing a box of tissues.
This is always awkward, having to clean up after sex. But I can't say it's ever been this awkward before, knowing his mother is on the other end of that ring.
Once all my clothes are back in place, he pulls me against him on the couch and I lie down on top of him, resting my head on his chest.
It's after ten now and I'm so comfortable I debate just sleeping here for the night. Ryle's phone makes another noise, alerting him to a new voice mail. The thought of seeing him interact with his mother makes me smile. Allysa talks about their parents some, but I've never really talked to Ryle about them before.
"Do you get along with your parents?"
His arm is stroking mine gently. "Yeah, I do. They're good people. We hit a rough patch when I was a teenager, but we worked through it. I talk to my mother almost daily now."
I fold my arms over his chest and rest my chin on them, looking up at him. "Will you tell me more about your mother? Allysa told me they moved to England a few years ago. And that they were in Australia on vacation, but that was like a month ago."
He laughs. "My mother? Well . . . my mother is very overbearing. Very judgmental, especially of the people she loves the most. She's never missed a single church service. And I have never heard her refer to my father as anything other than Dr. Kincaid."
Despite the warnings, he smiles the whole time he talks about her.
"Your father is a doctor, too?"
He nods. "Psychiatrist. He chose a field that also allowed him to have a normal life. Smart man."
"Do they ever visit you in Boston?"
"Not really. My mother hates flying, so Allysa and I fly to England a couple of times a year. She does want to meet you, though, so you might be going with us on the next trip."
I grin. "You've told your mother about me?"
"Of course," he says. "This is kind of a monumental thing, you know. Me having a girlfriend. She calls me every day to make sure I haven't screwed it up somehow."
I laugh, which makes him reach for his phone. "You think I'm kidding? I guarantee she somehow brought you up in the voice mail she just left." He presses a few keys and then begins to play the voice mail.
"Hey, sweetheart! It's your mom. Haven't spoken to you since yesterday. Miss you. Give Lily a hug for me. You do still see her, right? Allysa says you can't stop talking about her. She is still your girlfriend, right? Okay. Gretchen's here, we're having high tea. Love you. Kiss kiss."
I press my face against his chest and laugh. "We've only been dating a few months. How much do you talk about me?"
He pulls my hand up between us and kisses it. "Too much, Lily. Way too much."
I smile. "I can't wait to meet them. Not only did they raise an incredible daughter, but they made you. That's pretty impressive."
His arms tighten around me and he kisses the top of my head.
"What was your brother's name?" I ask him.
I can feel a slight stiffness in him after I ask that. I regret bringing it up, but it's too late to take it back.
"Emerson."
I can tell by his voice that it's not something he wants to talk about right now. Instead of pressing it further, I lift my head and scoot forward, pressing my mouth to his.
I should know better. Kisses can't seem to stop at just kisses when it comes to me and Ryle. In a matter of minutes, he's inside of me again, but this time it's everything the other time wasn't.
This time we make love.
Chapter Fourteen
My phone rings. I pick it up to see who it is and I'm a little taken aback. It's the first time Ryle has ever called me. We always just text. How odd to have a boyfriend for over three months that I've never once spoken to on the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hey, girlfriend," he says.
I smile cheesily at the sound of his voice. "Hey, boyfriend."
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"I'm taking the day off tomorrow. Your floral shop doesn't open until one o'clock on Sundays. I'm on my way to your apartment with two bottles of wine. You want to have a sleepover with your boyfriend and have drunken sex all night and sleep until noon?"
It's really embarrassing what his words do to me. I smile and say, "Guess what?"
"What?"
"I'm cooking you dinner. And I'm wearing an apron."
"Oh yeah?" he says.
"Just an apron." And then I hang up.
A few seconds later, I get a text message.
Ryle: Pic, please.
Me: Get over here and you can take the picture yourself.
I'm almost finished preparing the casserole mixture when the door opens. I pour it into the glass pan and don't turn around when I hear him walk into the kitchen. When I said I was just wearing an apron, I meant it. I'm not even wearing panties.
I can hear him suck in a rush of air when I reach over to the oven and stick the casserole inside. I might reach a little too far for show when I do it. When I close the oven, I don't face him. I grab a rag and start wiping down the oven, making sure to sway my hips as much as possible. I squeal when I feel
a piercing sting on my right butt cheek. I spin around and Ryle is grinning, holding two bottles of wine.
"Did you just bite me?"
He gives me an innocent look. "Don't tempt the scorpion if you don't want to get stung." He eyes me up and down while he opens one of the bottles. He holds it up before he pours us a glass and says, "It's vintage."
"Vintage," I say with mock impression. "What's the special occasion?"
He hands me a glass and says, "I'm going to be an uncle. I have a smoking hot girlfriend. And I get to perform a very rare, possibly once-in-a-lifetime craniopagus separation on Monday."
"A cranio-what?"
He finishes off his glass of wine and pours himself another one. "Craniopagus separation. Conjoined twins," he says. He points to a spot on the top of his head and taps it. "Attached right here. We've been studying them since they were born. It's a very rare surgery. Very rare."
For the first time, I think I'm genuinely turned on by him as a doctor. I mean, I admire his drive. I admire his dedication. But seeing how excited he is about what he's doing for a living is seriously sexy.
"How long do you think it'll take?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Not sure. They're young, so being under general anesthesia for too long is a concern." He holds up his right hand and wiggles his fingers. "But this is a very special hand that has been through almost half a million dollars' worth of specialty education. I have a lot of faith in this hand."
I walk over to him and press my lips to his palm. "I'm a little fond of this hand, too."
He slides the hand down to my neck and then spins me so that I'm flush against the counter. I gasp, because I wasn't expecting that.
He pushes himself against me from behind and slowly slides his hand down the side of my body. I press my palms into the granite and close my eyes, already feeling the rush of the wine.
"This hand," he whispers, "is the steadiest hand in all of Boston."
He pushes on the back of my neck, bending me further over the counter. His hand meets the inside of my knee and he glides it upward. Slowly. Jesus.
He pushes my legs apart, and then his fingers are inside me. I moan and try to find something to hold on to. I grip the faucet, just as he begins to work magic.
And then, just like a magician, his hand disappears.
I hear him walking out of the kitchen. I watch as he passes the front of the counter. He winks at me, downs the rest of his glass of wine and says, "I'm gonna take a quick shower."
What a tease.
"You asshole!" I yell after him.
"I'm not an asshole!" he yells from my bedroom. "I'm a highly trained neurosurgeon!"
I laugh and pour myself another glass of wine.
I'll show him who the tease really is.
*
I'm on my third glass of wine when he walks out of my bedroom.
I'm on the phone with my mother, so I watch him from the couch as he makes his way to the kitchen and pours himself another glass.
That is some seriously good wine.
"What are you doing tonight?" my mother asks.
I have her on speakerphone. Ryle is leaning against a wall, watching me talk to her. "Not much. Helping Ryle study."
"That sounds . . . not very interesting," she says.
Ryle winks at me.
"It's actually very interesting," I say to her. "I help him study a lot. Mostly reviewing fine-motor control of the hands. In fact, we'll probably be up all night studying."
The three glasses of wine has made me frisky. I can't believe I'm flirting with him while I'm on the phone with my mother. Gross.
"I gotta go," I tell her. "We're taking Allysa and Marshall out to dinner tomorrow night, so I'll call you on Monday."
"Oh, where are you taking them?"
I roll my eyes. The woman can't take a hint. "I don't know. Ryle, where are we taking them?"
"That place we went to that one time with your mom," he says. "Bib's? I made reservations for six o'clock."
My heart feels like it slinks down my chest. My mother says, "Oh, good choice."
"Yeah. If you like stale bread. Bye, Mom." I hang up and look at Ryle. "I don't want to go back there. I didn't like it. Let's try something new."
I fail to tell him why I really don't want to go back there. But how do you tell your brand-new boyfriend that you're trying to avoid your first love?
Ryle pushes off the wall. "You'll be fine," he says. "Allysa's excited to eat there, I told her all about it."
Maybe I'll get lucky and Atlas won't be working.
"Speaking of food," Ryle says. "I'm starving."
The casserole!
"Oh shit!" I say, laughing.
Ryle rushes to the kitchen and I stand up and follow him in there. I walk in just as he pulls the oven door open and waves away the smoke. Ruined.
I get dizzy all of a sudden from standing up too fast after having three glasses of wine. I grab the counter beside him to steady myself, just as he reaches in to pull the burnt casserole out.
"Ryle! You need a . . ."
"Shit!" he yells.
"Pot holder."
The casserole falls from his hand and lands on the floor, shattering everywhere. I lift up my feet to avoid broken glass and mushroom chicken splatter. I start laughing as soon as I realize he didn't even think to use a pot holder.
Must be the wine. This is some seriously strong wine.
He slams the oven shut and moves to the faucet, shoving his hand under the cold water, muttering curse words. I'm trying to suppress my laughter, but the wine and the ridiculousness of the last few seconds are making it hard. I look at the floor--at the mess we're about to have to clean up--and the laughter bursts from me. I'm still laughing as I lean over to get a look at Ryle's hand. I hope he didn't hurt it too bad.
I'm instantly not laughing anymore. I'm on the floor, my hand pressed against the corner of my eye.
In a matter of one second, Ryle's arm came out of nowhere and slammed against me, knocking me backward. There was enough force behind it to knock me off balance. When I lost my footing, I hit my face on one of the cabinet door handles as I came down.
Pain shoots through the corner of my eye, right near my temple.
And then I feel the weight.
Heaviness follows and it presses down on every part of me. So much gravity, pushing down on my emotions. Everything shatters.
My tears, my heart, my laughter, my soul. Shattered like broken glass, raining down around me.
I wrap my arms over my head and try to wish away the last ten seconds.
"Goddammit, Lily," I hear him say. "It's not funny. This hand is my fucking career."
I don't look up at him. His voice doesn't penetrate through my body this time. It feels like it's stabbing me now, the sharpness of each of his words coming at me like swords. Then I feel him next to me, his goddamn hand on my back.
Rubbing.
"Lily," he says. "Oh, God. Lily." He tries to pull my arms from my head, but I refuse to budge. I start shaking my head, wanting the last fifteen seconds to go away. Fifteen seconds. That's all it takes to completely change everything about a person.
Fifteen seconds that we'll never get back.
He pulls me against him and starts kissing the top of my head. "I'm so sorry. I just . . . I burned my hand. I panicked. You were laughing and . . . I'm so sorry, it all happened so fast. I didn't mean to push you, Lily, I'm sorry."
I don't hear Ryle's voice this time. All I hear is my father's voice.
"I'm sorry, Jenny. It was an accident. I'm so sorry."
"I'm sorry, Lily. It was an accident. I'm so sorry."
I just want him away from me. I use every ounce of strength I have in both my hands and legs and I force him the fuck away from me.
He falls backward, onto his hands. His eyes are full of genuine sorrow, but then they're full of something else.
Worry? Panic?
He slowly pulls up his right hand and it's covered in blood. Bl
ood is trickling out of his palm, down his wrist. I look at the floor--at the shattered pieces of glass from the casserole dish. His hand. I just pushed him onto glass.
He turns around and pulls himself up. He sticks his hand under the stream of water and starts rinsing away the blood. I stand up, just as he pulls a sliver of glass out of his palm and tosses it on the counter.
I'm full of so much anger, but somehow, concern for his hand still finds its way out. I grab a towel and shove it into his fist. There's so much blood.
It's his right hand.
His surgery Monday.
I try to help stop the bleeding, but I'm shaking too bad. "Ryle, your hand."
He pulls the hand away and, with his good hand, he lifts my chin. "Fuck the hand, Lily. I don't care about my hand. Are you okay?" He's looking back and forth between my eyes frantically as he assesses the cut on my face.
My shoulders begin to shake and huge, hurt-filled tears spill down my cheeks. "No." I'm a little in shock, and I know he can hear my heart breaking with just that one word, because I can feel it in every part of me. "Oh my God. You pushed me, Ryle. You . . ." The realization of what has just happened hurts worse than the actual action.
Ryle wraps his arm around my neck and desperately holds me against him. "I'm so sorry, Lily. God, I'm so sorry." He buries his face against my hair, squeezing me with every emotion inside of him. "Please don't hate me. Please."
His voice slowly starts to become Ryle's voice again, and I feel it in my stomach, in my toes. His entire career depends on his hand, so it has to say something that he's not even worried about it. Right? I'm so confused.
There's too much happening. The smoke, the wine, the broken glass, the food splattered everywhere, the blood, the anger, the apologies, it's too much.
"I'm so sorry," he says again. I pull back and his eyes are red and I've never seen him look so sad. "I panicked. I didn't mean to push you away, I just panicked. All I could think about was the surgery Monday and my hand and . . . I'm so sorry." He presses his mouth to mine and breathes me in.
He's not like my father. He can't be. He's nothing like that uncaring bastard.
We're both upset and kissing and confused and sad. I've never felt anything like this moment--so ugly and painful. But somehow the only thing that eases the hurt just caused by this man is this man. My tears are soothed by his sorrow, my emotions soothed with his mouth against mine, his hand gripping me like he never wants to let go.