His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,36
an exception for him. He’s got narrow hips. Chiseled chest and shoulders. Ladder-rung abs with zero discernible fat. All that tawny skin. The dusting of black hair across his pecs and the way it narrows to parts below before flaring out again. The strong column of his throat as he leaned his head back. His parted lips. His eyes, heavy-lidded with passion and glimmering a vivid blue in the light.
The parts below…
No words.
Strike that. I do have words:
Thick. Long. Ruddy.
Tempting.
Let’s just say that the good Dr. Jamison gave himself a true and unforgettable handful.
Oh, the things a dick like that could do for a woman lucky enough to find out. I can only imagine the exquisite pleasure. And what was he thinking about at that moment that made it so hard? Was he watching porn on his phone or something? Thinking about the gorgeous woman he’s no doubt hooking up with later? Someone tall and thin who’s probably never struggled with her weight and enjoys drinking bone broth for dinner every night?
What I wouldn’t give for a night in bed with Dr. Jamison, his flashing blue eyes and that body. There. I said it. I know I’m in a committed relationship with whatshisname. Bruce. I know I’m not supposed to think about another man’s body sliding into place between my thighs.
But what am I supposed to do here? How can I un-see what I already saw?
Beholding Dr. Jamison like that provoked a fierce and primal response from my body. My nose still remembers his freshly showered scent and seems to have blocked all other smells from my nostrils. My heart rate hasn’t returned to normal, and at this point I wonder if it ever will. My face feels flushed. My lips and nipples still tingle. All the tiny hidden muscles between my thighs keep clenching and unclenching, needing relief. I’m convinced that if I spent another thirty seconds in that steamy bathroom with him, I’d have emerged pregnant with triplets.
“Ally? How did he look?” Kelly asks. I swear she’s holding her breath.
“How do you think?” I ask bitterly, then reach for my margarita and down the rest of it in two big gulps.
“Damn,” she mutters. “I was hoping he had a tiny dick or something.”
“No such luck.”
“Well, I’m sorry you had to see that, Ally,” she says. “But you can’t let it get inside your head. You just need to, I don’t know, block it out.”
“Block it out? Are you insane? Would you be able to block it out?”
“Look. I leave it to you, your conscience and your vibrator. What the three of you do on your own time is your business. I’m just saying that you’ve got something good going with Bruce. Please don’t let the Sphinx back into your head again. He’s not good for you. You know he’s not.”
“I know, I know,” I say, reminding myself of the way he blew up at me today. Twice. Here I am tied up in knots over him and he can’t, even now, treat me with basic respect. He still barks at me as though I’m his lowly intern. And I’m so stupid that I take the barking and somehow twist it into…
I don’t even know what to call it.
He agitates and aggravates me. He works his way into my brain like a mole digging his tunnel. He turns my own hormones against me. He scrambles all my circuits and puts my thoughts into a blender. And when he turns the blender off, lifts the lid and pours out the contents, what emerges is complete nonsense. I imagine that he’s looking at me a certain kind of way. That there’s a funny note in his voice. That there’s a hidden meaning in what he says. That he stands too close or lingers too long.
God, he’s turning me into a freaking Bonnie Raitt song.
Spending time with him makes me foolish. Pathetic. I may as well be the awkward high school freshman lusting after the homecoming king. Do you think the homecoming king ever notices the freshman trailing him around like a clingy golden retriever puppy? No. Of course not. That only ever happens in Molly Ringwald movies from the eighties.
How I think I’m going to work successfully with him this year is anyone’s guess. But I’m getting sick of myself and this self-destructive weakness I have for him.
I’m getting really sick of it.
“You know what? I’m fine,” I tell Kelly, taking a deep breath and trying my best to mean it.