"We never had our postwedding sex-a-thon. Unless you don't want to," he teased, his shirt halfway down his arms. Big, thick, delicious arms she wanted to feel wrapped around her.
"Oh, I want to," she said.
"Then, why are you sitting over there?" he asked, and the hunger in his eyes made her heart flutter.
"I'm enjoying the view."
"You'll enjoy it more on the bed."
She'd never known him to be impatient, but rather than wait for her to get up on her own, he walked over to her chair and scooped her up, then tossed her onto the bed.
He did seem to enjoy manhandling her, and weirdly enough, she liked it.
Bare chested and beautiful, Luc climbed up with her, kneeling on the mattress, straddling her thighs. "So, about this shirt."
She looked down at the totally unsexy but comfortable T-shirt she'd thrown on this morning. "What about it?"
"It needs to go."
No problem. She made a move to pull it over her head, but he said, "Allow me."
He grabbed the front of her shirt in his fists and gave it one good tug. She gasped as the fabric came apart in his hands.
"Better," he said, looking satisfied with himself. He was literally tearing her clothes off. And she liked it.
He unfastened her jeans and tugged them off, though she had the feeling that if he could have torn the denim, he probably would have ripped those off of her, too. But now he was eyeing her bra, and thank goodness for the front clasp or he may have tried to rip that off, too.
Of course the panties were the next to go. Had she been wearing socks he would no doubt rip those, as well.
Luc sat back to admire his work. "You're perfect," he said, his eyes raking over her. He cupped her breasts, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He knew from their wedding night how crazy that made her.
"Tell me what you like," he said, pinching hard enough to make her gasp. "I'll do anything."
"Anything. Everything." Just keep touching me.
His brow lifted. "Anything?"
The look in her eyes must have said it all. She wasn't sure what she was getting herself into, but she didn't care. In the past she never would have suggested such a thing. She would never leave herself so exposed. The ramifications would have scared her to death. Amazing what trust could do.
And boy did he "do" her. And kept on doing her. For two solid hours. Until he'd established an up-close-and-personal relationship with every inch of her body.
"I need to rest," she finally said, limp and draped across the bed, her head hanging over the side of the mattress. The comforter lay on the floor, the bottom sheet had come loose and was halfway off, and the top sheet was...well, she wasn't sure where that had gone.
"Finished already?" he asked, but his smile said he was teasing her.
"Aren't you supposed to roll over and go to sleep?" she said.
"You don't want me to do that."
She did and she didn't.
Her stomach rumbled and she realized that not only was it dinnertime, but she'd skipped lunch today.
"No more sex until you feed me," she said.
"We could go out. We never did get that candlelit dinner I promised you."
"Would I have to get up and get dressed?"
"I highly recommend it."
That sounded romantic and all, but putting on clothes and fixing her hair was just too darned much work. "Or we can make sandwiches and eat in bed."
"Are you sure you don't want to go out?" he asked, looking as if he was still raring to go. Did he ever get tired?
Her legs were so weak from being overextended-she hadn't realized her feet could go that far over her head-she wouldn't make it to the front door. "Some other time."
"Sandwiches it is," he said, hopping off the bed. He actually hopped. Then he pulled his slacks back on, walked to the door and, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, said, "I'll be back. Don't start without me."
Not a chance.
She must have dozed off, because he was back in what seemed like seconds, a tray propped on one palm.
"Dinner is served," he said, setting it right on the bed.
She dragged herself into a sitting position, noticing that he was hiding something behind his back. "Whatcha got?"
"Let's call it dessert."
"Can I see what it is?"
He held up a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup, wearing that lascivious grin, and all she could think was, Oh boy, here we go again.
* * *
The rest of the week flew by. Luc and Julie tried to make time for one another, but life kept getting in the way. Luc had hoped to spend Sunday with Julie, but she had already promised Megan she would volunteer for the pet adoption fair, to find homes for the animals displaced in the storm.
The following Monday Luc was sitting in the cafeteria catching up on his reading while he ate a late lunch, when someone sat down across the table from him. He glanced up from the medical journal, expecting to see a colleague sitting there.
It was Amelia.
He cursed silently. He had no other patients in Pediatric, and hadn't seen her since the consultation last Monday. To be honest, he hadn't given her much thought, either. But that hadn't stopped her from seeking him out. She'd come to his office several times hoping to "catch him" and he heard that she'd objected rather firmly when his resident came to check in on Tommy in Luc's place.
As careful as he'd been to avoid her, here she was anyway, invading his space. Other than information about her son's care, he had nothing to say to her.
"Someone has been avoiding me," she said in a singsong tone. Her smile said she thought she was being cute, when in reality, it was just annoying.
"Is there something I can help you with?"
Her smile wavered. "I saw you sitting here so I thought I would stop and say hi."
"Hi," he replied, knowing that wouldn't be the end of it. He recognized that determined look on her face.
"It would be nice if we could talk."
Nice for her maybe. As far as he was concerned they had nothing to say to each other. "I have an extremely busy afternoon."
"You know you can't stay mad at me forever, Luc."
He wasn't mad, just disinterested in whatever she had to say. She seemed hell-bent on getting him to concede his feelings, but the truth was, he didn't have any. At least, not the kind she expected him to have. "As Tommy's surgeon, it's critical that I remain impartial. I'm sure you can understand."
"I just want to talk," she said. "I've missed you. Haven't you missed me even the tiniest little bit?"
His blank expression had her frowning.
"You're playing the tough guy. I get it."
"I'm not playing anything," he said. "I'm just trying to eat my lunch in peace."
"No need to get snippy," she said, in the voice one might use while addressing an impatient child. "I'm just trying to be polite."
Had she used that tone with him six years ago? And if she had, how did he stand it?
He looked across the table at her. Really looked. He wondered what it was about her that he had found so appealing. She was attractive, in a debutante sort of way. Never a hair out of place, her makeup applied to perfection, her clothes designer and expensive. And he had been a penniless college student, working two jobs, struggling to keep up with her high expectations. Which seemed ridiculous now when he considered the generous weekly allowance her father provided. And if that wasn't enough, all she had to do was ask and he would supply her with yet another credit card.
Her parents thought that Luc, the lowly son of a rancher, wasn't good enough for their precious daughter. But Luc knew he was destined for great things, and he was proud of all that he'd accomplished. He wondered what her parents would think of him now, and realized he didn't really give a damn. But he sure had back then. Amelia wanted the prestigious role of a surgeon's wife, but not the work and sacrifice it would take to get there. But like any other young resident he'd had to pay his dues, and Amelia had no patience to wait around for him.
"So, how is your mother?" she asked him. "I heard that she's been ill."
"She's recovering."
"She must get lonely in that big house all by herself. Maybe I could come visit her someday."
Not a good idea. His mother never liked Amelia. That girl is too big for her britches, she used to say. There was nothing his mother liked less than pretension, and Amelia's nose was-as his mother liked to say-locked in an upright position. His mother's wheelchair made Amelia feel awkward, as if by going anywhere near it she might catch something.