Dr. Good by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Nine

Macie

“It’s not much,” Miller says, standing close to my shoulder as we look over his spare bedroom. “But it’s yours for as long as you need it.”

I gaze over the massive bedroom, with the king size bed and the floor to ceiling windows with views of the city. The floor is sleek hardwood, with a fish tank taking up one wall, exotic colorful fish flitting here and there. There’s an ensuite and a gorgeous desk that looks perfect for writing.

“Wow,” I murmur in disbelief.

But then disbelief has become my resting state ever since Miller came to my apartment. When we went back upstairs to pack, I felt for sure he was going to burst into my bedroom with a vicious grin on his face. I was certain he was going to tell me the idea of me staying with him made him sick.

Why are you helping me?I wanted to scream, but I already know the answer.

He’s a nice person.

There’s nothing more to it than that.

“Not much?” I say, jolting out of my daydreams. “It’s incredible. Are you sure I can stay here?”

“Get in there.”

He laughs deeply as his hand brushes the small of my back, softly nudging me into the room.

My skin shivers with the contact, my heart drumming with insane speed at the barest touch, awakening things inside of me.

“Only if you’re sure…” I turn to him, gazing up into his eyes. “I don’t want to take advantage.”

His dark blue eyes swirl with hidden meaning, or perhaps I’m superimposing how I wished they swirled.

He drinks me in as he gazes at me. That’s what it feels like, as though he’s greedily consuming every part of me with his eyes, stowing heat-filled vignettes away for later.

But that’s what I’m doing, I realize as I gaze up at him, my eyes flitting over his tensed jaw and his pulsing temples, the tendons in his neck tight, his whole body bulging like he could erupt.

“You are not taking advantage,” he snarls.

A shiver moves through me when he puts the emphasis on you, as though he’s trying to imply he’s the one taking advantage.

But how the heck is that possible when he’s the one opening his home to me, a complete stranger?

My mind spins around and around, landing on the possibility that he’s planning on taking advantage of me in some way.

“What do you mean?” I manage to whimper.

His smirk twitches and he takes a step back, out of the room, waving a hand as he half-turns away. “Get some rest. I’ll start making arrangements for your apartment to be combed. In the meantime, try to relax. Work on your writing. Do some reading. Whatever you like.”

“I’ll try and get some sleep,” I say, knowing it’s going to be impossible with all the hectic events of today stacked up in my mind.

“Good idea.”

He turns and strides down the hallway, which is becoming his signature, leaving me to gaze at the way his back sways from side to side, to drink in the sight of his taut muscles and the way his suit jacket clings to him.

I shut the door once he’s rounded the corner, my hand straying down to the lock.

I hold it there for a few long moments, debating whether or not to turn it.

It would be the smart thing to do, the expected thing to do, lock the door to give myself some privacy and safety. But the crazy part of me – the part buried deep inside that sends pulsating waves through me faster and faster each moment – screams at me to leave it unlocked just in case…

I unshoulder my backpack and stroll over to the bed, my footsteps clipping against the floor. I packed light because I shouldn’t be here long, and this is weird enough without bringing a whole freaking suitcase.

If you decide to stay permanently, that deep-inside voice whispers, you can always go back and get the rest of your stuff.

I laugh drily and smooth my hands over my belly, shaking my head at the ridiculous notion. There’s no freaking way I’m going to end up staying here on a long-term basis.

I take my laptop from my bag and wander over to the desk, kneeling down to plug it in. The desk is large but underneath it’s bulky and I almost get stuck under there, laughing at myself because that would be one heck of an impression if Miller did decide to come back and visit me.

I can imagine him sneaking steamily down the hallway, an intense look of near-release on his face, only to find me wedged under the desk with my ass sticking up in the air.

Oh…

But what if he liked that?

What if he saw my ass sticking up and he let out a carnal growl, and then tore a savage hole in my pants and started dragging his tongue up and down my exposed pussy.

I imagine him sucking on my clit hard, making it burn, making it feel like it’s going to erupt and send shrapnel of pleasure surging through me, euphoric waves pulsing and quivering.

I leap out from under the desk.

I really need to get a grip.

If a desk is making me horny, there’s a problem.

I spend the next couple of hours trying once again to immerse myself in the story, but just like last time sinking into the prose is impossible, especially when I’ve got the memory of Miller’s hand on the small of my back, the way his touch lingered moving through me like flowing hot waves.

I grip the edge of the desk.

“Focus,” I whisper fiercely under my breath, the same way I sometimes noticed my aunt doing when I spied her at her typewriter.

She was old school and often worked at a typewriter, saying she preferred the crunchiness of the keys.

That was always the term she used.

Crunchy.

It always made me giggle when I was a little girl with no freaking clue about what she meant.

But now I know, even if I don’t use a typewriter.

It’s when the writing becomes so passionate that I start hammering the keys, properly slamming my fingers down, and the crunch-crunch-crunch noise becomes the most satisfying thing in the freaking universe.

I push away from the desk and pace around the bedroom, shaking my head at myself.

Okay, so this is getting really bad. To try and avoid thinking about Miller with his possessive alpha hands and his searing eyes I’m thinking about crunchy freaking keyboards?

I drop onto my bed and lie back, staring up at the ceiling, annoyed at myself for only getting maybe eighty worthwhile words done, and that’s being optimistic.

Writing has always been my safe place, my refuge from the world, the place I can disappear into and not have to worry about everything else.

Writing has always meant disappearing in that sense.

Macie goes, the characters arrive…

But now I feel like my real life is so much more compelling because Miller is in it, as though the fantasies I normally write about have sprung to life.

Miller is my giant.

I’m his fairytale princess.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter, as though saying the words aloud will let me realize just how foolish I’m being.

But even if I know it’s true, I can’t stop my hands from sliding down my body, down, down, until I’m sliding under my pants and down my panties.

I can feel the heat before I reach my wetness, and then I close my eyes as hard as I can and I picture the way Miller looked when he stood in the hallway, gazing hard at me, the way his jaw tightened as he devoured me with his gaze.

Only this time he doesn’t stride away from me.

He strides toward me.

“You horny fucking thing,” he growls in my fantasy. “I know you’ve been waiting for this since we laid eyes on each other.”

This fantasy version of Miller grabs my hips, grinding his manhood against me, as he lets out a feral snarl.