Nine
Poppy
Dr Whitaker is a freaking dream.With those steady chocolate brown eyes; the firm jaw under that stubble; the way his head tilts when he considers me, his gaze roaming up and down my body…
I’ve won some karmic jackpot. There’s no other explanation. I must have done something super selfless in a past life, because it’s late on a Friday and I’m in the doctor’s office for the third night running, perched on his epic thighs.
“It makes no sense that you’d have a lap like this.” I wiggle to make my point, and big hands clamp on my waist, holding me still. “Aren’t doctors all reedy and overworked? Fueled only by caffeine addictions and savior complexes?”
“You’re half right.” His voice is amused in my ear. Deep and rough.
I wiggle again, grinning at the wall. “Oh, poor Whit. Want me to make it all better?”
That exasperated huff is my new favorite sound. Or, no: maybe it’s the ragged groan Whit lets out every time he licks between my legs. Or the shocked inhale he makes every time we kiss. Or the rustle of his white coat as he wraps me in his arms.
Yeah. Dr Whitaker makes a lot of really delicious sounds.
“That won’t be necessary, Poppy.” He grips me tighter, stops me from grinding against the hard line of his cock, and the big, shiny soap bubble of my happiness pops just like that. I wrinkle my nose at his desk.
See, Dr Whitaker may put his hands on me every chance he gets, but apparently it’s a one-way street. I’m not allowed to peel off his white coat. Not allowed to slip down onto the rug and tug his belt buckle open. Believe me, I’ve tried.
That won’t be necessary, he always says, like I’m a waitress offering sugar in his coffee. No blow jobs, thank you, not today.
Does Whit not want me like that? Is it because of what I told him that first time, whispering my confession into his shoulder as he stood between my legs afterward, hugging me against his chest?
“I’m not—I’ve never done this before.”
He’d paused, clearly surprised. But he didn’t push me away, did he? And it didn’t stop him from licking me again every day since.
So. My v-card is probably not the problem.
“Gina Ferris called earlier.” Whit’s chest rumbles against my back as he speaks. His thumbs stroke up and down my ribs. Up and down. “They’re running the story tomorrow. It’s nearly over, Poppy.”
“Vengeance,” I mumble.
His laugh jolts me forward an inch. “Yes. Vengeance. And then you’ll be free to live your own life. In fact,” he leans away, tugging his desk drawer open, “this is for you.”
It whispers against the desk as it lands. A passport application form; one to replace the one my father took from me. So I can finally go on my trip.
I swallow around the lump in my throat.
This is where Whit could say something. Where he could ask me to stay with him. If he said the words, I’d agree in a heartbeat. It was never really about the travel, not at all, it was about having a choice. Deciding my own fate.
I wait, the silence taut in the office.
The words I desperately want to hear don’t come.
“I can help you, if you like,” Dr Whitaker says instead after a moment, tapping a finger on the form. “We’ll get you out of here, Poppy, I promise. Out to see the world.”
Ugh. My fingers are numb as he presses a pen into my hand, his chest so hard and warm against my back. And when Whit brushes my hair over one shoulder, trailing soft kisses down my neck as I write, my chest cracks open. Everything hurts, and tears sting my eyes.
“Good girl.” He bites down gently on my shoulder, and I suck in a shaky breath, forcing my pen to keep moving over the page.
I’ve won the jackpot, alright. Had a taste of heaven. But I don’t get to keep him, do I?
* * *
There are blog articles and TV features. The flash of cameras every time I walk past the Honey Cove gates. So many phone calls, Whit sets up a special filter on the institute phone lines, and a million and one questions from Janice at the poolside.