A DARK FALL: The Published Edition

Three

It's too hot. I'm too hot. More immediate though is the warm, tight clenching that's begun low down in my belly—or lower. Yes, definitely lower. Nearer to my thighs and in between them. Instinctively, I move toward the desk for something solid to lean on as he comes to a stop not far from me. I swallow as I take in the full sight of him, slowly savoring the image, tasting it on my tongue.

Absent of blood, he's dressed in a perfectly tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off an expensive watch, and immaculately cut gray trousers. He looks exactly like the dangerous, fierce, edgy male model I remember.

It's comforting to know my memory didn't exaggerate his face or his body or the deep intensity of his eyes. It's his mouth I can't stop staring at though. Full lips curled up into a sexy, knowing smile as his eyes glitter deliciously in the dim light.

I'm aware my mouth is open too wide, so I close it. I can't do anything about the unbelievable heat flooding my body. I'll just need to deal with it.

As we continue to stare at one another, it occurs to me that he looks as though he's enjoying himself; enjoying watching me disintegrate in front of him. Oh, god, is that what I'm doing—disintegrating? Oh, please let me look more in control than I feel. I could try speaking, saying something—anything.

Before I get the chance to think, he speaks.

"Doctor." He grins playfully. His voice is low and sexy like I remember it. Do I remember it being sexy? Am I admitting that now? I mean, he's still not my type. He's still the sort of man I'm sure I've been warned to stay away from.

"You?" I manage. Christ, it's pathetic. My parents paid a lot of money for an expensive education, and that's all I have. Three whole letters.

His mouth twitches mischievously. "Me," he says.

I nod once, unable still to find words. I really want to act like the Cambridge Medical School-educated woman I am, but he's having a strange effect on my head . . . and my ability to form sentences and breathe.

"I don't . . . understand. How are you here?" I ask. What I really mean is, how am I here with him, but that's a more complicated thought than my mouth is able to verbalize.

He smiles a full smile before flicking his tongue over his lower lip. I feel a quiver over my entire body. Christ, what a smile. I knew it would be special. With a mouth like that, it had to be. It's gorgeous, sexy, and a little wicked. His teeth are a straight white line with two sharp pointed canines at each side. They make me wonder if he bites. I feel a tingling on my neck as the image gains momentum.

"I own this place," he says, sounding faintly embarrassed.

I frown, confused. "You're not the dizzy barman?"

He looks marginally confused before smiling again. "Nah. Sorry to disappoint you."

Finally, my brain gets it. Finally.

"Wait—you sent the invites? To my surgery? It was you?"

He nods, watching me closely.

"Why?"

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, less playful. "I wanted to see you," he tells me. "To thank you for what you did."

His manner is a strange mix of forced politeness, as though he isn't used to it, as if the words and even the tone are unnatural to him. I like it though. It's rough around the edges, and it tickles my ears and skin.

I glance at his neck. His shirt, open at the collar, reveals the flash of a white bandage covering the knife wound I stitched together exactly eleven days ago. He shifts slightly on his feet, and his scent washes over me: that same heady mix of manliness I can almost taste on my tongue. It's more intense than I remember. Everything about this feels intense. Jesus Christ, what even is this? This isn't me. I don't have pathetic, girly reactions to good-looking men, no matter how good-looking. It doesn't happen. It has never happened.