Dr. Good by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Eighteen

Miller

I can’t believe how close I was to saying I love you.

The words were right there, whispering across my lips, roaring out to be spoken as I stared into the eyes of my queen. It was like my seed was surging around my body with vicious speed, telling me to claim her right now, not to worry about her telling me we’re moving too fast.

But then the waiter dropped the food and it was like it was fate, stopping me before I made a mistake, before I ruined what we’re building.

I watch as she takes a bite of her burger, closing her eyes to savor the taste. I love – love, there’s that word again – the way she enjoys her food, fueling her thick curvy body so she’s ready to carry our children into this world.

She opens her eyes and giggles, swallowing, and that gets my beast mind flitting to other times she might swallow. I imagine her on her knees, her gorgeous breasts freed, staring wide-eyed up at me as her throat flutters the same way it is now.

“This is so delicious.”

“It is,” I agree, even if the taste of her hot pussy was so much better, so much more satisfying.

I push the thought away, focusing on our date.

“So, you were going to tell me when you started writing.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, was I now?”

“Yes,” I smirk. “You were going to give me a comprehensive history. So, tell me, Macie. What made you want to be a writer?”

“It’s a cliché, but it’s the truth. I can’t remember ever not wanting to be a writer. It might have had something to do with my aunt. After my family… when it was just me and my aunt, it wasn’t like she became this mother figure or anything. She was still very much dedicated to her work. So the times we were closest were when she was writing and I was sitting in her study with her.”

Her whole face lights up as she describes this. I’ve heard that phrase countless times before. But it really happens with my woman, her cheeks blooming, her expression blossoming for me.

She looks like there’s light bursting from inside her.

“Would you write in there with her?”

“Not at first,” she says. “I’d take a book and sit in the corner, listening to the sound of her writing as I read. It’s funny… after her death, I actually recorded myself at her typewriter so I could play it back, you know, sort of like ambient relaxing music.”

My chest squeezes at the thought, a vivid feeling moving through me, lighting up parts of me I didn’t even know existed before Macie came into my life.

“That’s beautiful,” I say.

She tilts her head at me, spunkiness coming into her expression. Watching the sassier parts of her personality emerge is going to be one of the greatest joys of my life, I just know it.

“Do you know how strange it is hearing you get all emotional, Miller?”

I chuckle, nodding. “Yeah, I do. Because it feels strange. But it’s beautiful. Just because I’d tear every bastard in here to pieces if they tried to touch you, it doesn’t change that.”

She bites her lip, nodding.

“I started to write for a school project,” she says after a pause. “I’d always wanted to be a writer, but I guess I’ve always been shy. I was nervous. About failing. About starting. I don’t know. But then I got this school project to write a story and my aunt sat me down and made me write every time she did… and do you know what’s funny?”

“What?” I say, enraptured.

“There wasn’t even a school project. My aunt asked my teacher to set me the task just so I’d have a reason to start writing. That’s why I can’t blame her for having a drink every now and then, for traveling the country, and leaving me alone so much. Because she cared, Miller. She really cared.”

I reach across the table and brush a warm tear from her cheek.

She lets out a laugh, shaking her head. “I’m okay. Look at me, crying all over my burger.”

“Thank you for sharing that,” I say. “Really. It means a lot. I want to support you, Macie. I want to help you in any way I can to become the writer I know you can be. Anything you need, no matter how crazy, no matter how expensive, I’m here.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Maybe just let me rant about writing every now and then? That was my aunt’s deal. She’d always let me rant about my characters and stuff until my vocal cords were raw.”

“Deal,” I say. “I can’t wait to see your name in lights.”

“Authors don’t really get their names in lights. Unless they become freakishly huge.”

“Then that’s what we’ll have to do.” I grin widely. “Make you the biggest author in the world.”

She giggles. “I don’t know about that. Just getting a book published would be a massive achievement.”

“How far have you got so far?” I ask.

She glances down at the table in that way of hers, a gorgeous combination of shyness and budding confidence I will never get tired of watching her. The war taking place inside of her is one of the most fascinating things I’ve ever had the honor of being a part of.

I can’t wait for the years to progress, for her natural sassiness to break through her natural shyness.

“Not very,” she says. “The problem is I fall in love with a story and then commit myself to that. I think about it all the time. I obsess about it… and then about a quarter of the way in, I think of a better idea and I abandon the project. I’ve done this with nine books. Nine. So this book – my tenth – I made a promise to myself I’d finish it, no matter what ideas I get along the way.”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” I tell her. “Having too many ideas is better than having too few, right?”

“Well, yeah… But I also can’t let those ideas derail me like they have been.”

“Then I’ll make that my mission,” I declare with a savage grin. “I’m going to force you to finish this book, no matter what it takes. Even if I have to chain you to the damn desk.”

She giggles musically, lighting up a thousand different parts of me. “How could I type if I was chained up, huh?”

I chuckle. “Okay, fair point. But I can always find other ways to persuade you.”

Her eyes widen as though she knows what I’m hinting at, as though she knows I’m thinking of sliding my hand down between her legs and rubbing her supersensitive clit every time she reaches a writing milestone, bringing her to a shivering orgasm every five hundred words.

“I think that might be more of a distraction,” she murmurs. “But… yeah, I’d like that.”

“Wait.” I sit up with hot fire moving through me, the food forgotten as I take in the much tastier sight of my woman. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That I’m ready?”

I nod with primal fury moving through me.

“No, I’m not saying that. I don’t know if I am. But I also know what I’m like. And I don’t think I’m ever going to feel one hundred percent ready. I think maybe I have to trust what you said, that I’m not going to disappoint you even if I’m convinced I am.”

“Let me take the lead,” I growl, my voice shivering with carnal need at this new development. “You don’t have to worry, my perfect virgin writer. I’ll show you how goddamn sexual you are.”

She bites her lip, releases it, forks at her plate with a shiver moving across her expression. “It’s funny, but I’ve always felt sexual, you know, in my internal life. In my mind, I’m the most confident person in the world when it comes to that stuff. But it’s never translated to reality…”

“Until last night,” I growl, reading her as I’ll always be able to.

“Exactly.” She nods. “Last night was just crazy. And when it was happening, I wasn’t thinking like this. I was wholly in the moment. I wonder if that’s what it’d be like if we… you know.”

I reach across the table and tuck her hair behind her ear, savoring the way she shivers at the gesture, as though reverberations of lust are moving through her.

“Do you have any idea how cute you are when you get all shy like that?”

She reaches up and touches my hand. “Just don’t be angry if I’m not what you hope I am.”

“What did I say before?” I snarl. “You already are. Now eat your damn food. I need to get you home.”

I pick up my burger and take a monstrous bite, smirking – with my mouth closed, I’m not a complete animal – when she lets out an adorable giggle.

“You’re crazy, Miller.”

She’s right. I’m completely certifiably crazy about her.

Her words dance through me, tempting me to claim her right here.

The savage buried deep inside of me – my whirring seed and my pounding desire – tell me to leap across the table and wrap my arm around her waist. The need tells me to bend her over the table and pull up her skirt, grabbing her ass cheeks as I guide my engorged helm to her hot pink hole.

But I have to hold myself back, at least for a little while longer.