Brutally Beautiful(93)

So I made her coffee. Because, well, if Samantha Matthews, whoever she was asked me to build her a boat, I would have worked on that too. Placing my hand over my own scars, I tried to think of anything but someone branding her smooth skin. Smooth ivory skin that smelled like apples and cinnamon. Smooth ivory skin that tasted like sweet sugar and felt like soft cream melting under my hands.

That * whipped me real good last night. Now I’m hard again.

The coffee mugs clanked as I slid them over the uneven wood of the butcher-block table, and midway across she just reached out, grabbed the steamy hot cup, and brought it to her lips. After the first few sips the relief in her expression was priceless and her shoulders loosened as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Please fill in some holes for me.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them. Start with your childhood, I don’t care. But I want to know everything about the woman that will destroy me when she f*cking walks out of my life,” I clipped. Damn, I was being a dick. But, it hurt like hell and I wanted to fight with her, sick twisted me, wanted her to ball up her fists and hit me.

She only offered me a tight smile.

That just made me angrier.

“Think those words are going to get me to fight with you? Think I’m going to fuel your rage, stoke the fire, Kade?” Then she leaned over and kissed me on my f*cking lips; warm wet lips that tasted like the richest delicious coffee.

“I, ah…I didn’t have much of a childhood,” she began, sitting back down on her chair. “My father was the best neurosurgeon in Manhattan, my mother a socialite. They had no time for my brother and me, so we played in the hospital while my father worked and my mother did charity work. I grew up in a very sterile environment.”

I leaned back in my chair, my anger bubbling just under my skin, yet surprisingly restrained. “Go on,” I whispered, taking a sip of my coffee. It tasted better from her lips.

“I was better known for my brains, freaky bookish ways or just being the nerd sitting quietly in the corner. I was obsessed with taking things apart and putting them back together. Breaking and fixing. I was different, so different from everyone else that surrounded me, and I knew it too, deep inside that, I wasn’t like everybody else. Instead of playing with dolls, I read my father’s medical books and my brother and I snuck peeks at the cadavers. It’s crazy to say really. And being that my father wanted my brother and me to follow in his footsteps, he let us view surgeries standing alongside the med students. Everything was always hidden from my mother though. My mother,” she chuckled, darkly. “My mother and I didn’t get along.”

“Why not?” I asked, intrigued that someone couldn’t get along with her.

“I was a reminder to my mother of her regrets and the heavy amount of wrinkles that her life delivered to her so unexpectedly. I was never going to be the gorgeous New York City socialite she always strived for me to be. There was not one ounce of sex-tape-diva in me at all. She tried to raise me to be a prim and proper wannabe-heiress. Frilly skirts, patent leather shoes, nails perfectly manicured and skinned tanned to a bronze. But my father raised me to use my brain. I was so against everything my mother wanted me to do, because it wasn’t me. I was the Goth girl in the corner, listening to heavy metal music, smoking cigarettes and cutting class to read in the hospital’s student library. I didn’t want to be anything but a doctor. I wanted to be in the middle of it all.” She sipped again at her coffee, placed the mug down, and absently stroked the rim.