Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(46)

“Yes.”

I trace my finger up her bare arm because I love the smooth, soft feel of her skin and she wriggles her ass back against my dick . . . and that feels pretty awesome too.

“I have to go. I don’t like leaving the boys alone too late.”

“I figured you were going to say something like that.”

Violet turns over in my arms and kisses me slow and deep, running her hands gently through my hair.

“Will you call me tomorrow?”

“Definitely. Maybe we can grab lunch?”

“Lunch would be good.”

I throw my leg over her waist, keeping my weight off her as I climb off the bed. She takes her folded glasses from the nightstand and puts them on to watch me get dressed.

With my jeans on but open and my shirt hanging unbuttoned from my arms, I bend down and kiss Violet’s lips—brushing her hair back, with all the tenderness that’s currently crushing my ribcage.

“I had a great time tonight, in case that wasn’t perfectly clear.”

Her lips stretch into a smile.

“Me too.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Vi.”

“Okay. Good night Connor.”

But just as I reach the bedroom door, I make the mistake of glancing back to look at her—and like the power of Medusa, my dick turns to stone.

She’s not doing anything blatantly sensual—just lying back in that large, girly bed with those glasses on, wearing a pretty well-fucked expression and watching me with languorous eyes.

Her hair is dark as midnight in the low light—loose and wavy, splayed out in shiny strands against her skin and on the pillow all around her. The white comforter comes to her waist, but her right knee is bent, angled out invitingly, and the rosy buds of her nipples are high and tight—just begging to be sucked.

And I’m so tempted to rip this shirt right back over my head and pounce on her. To kiss her hard, stay the night. It would be so good.

But it’s only a pipe dream right now. A fantasy.

Because Dad-life calls and there are three great kids who need me at home. So I grip the doorknob behind me without turning around, so I can keep looking at her, and then I back out of Vi’s bedroom and out the front door.





CHAPTER TWELVE


Violet


“Sir, please don’t try to get up.”

For the next few weeks Connor and I continue to see each other. We go to the movies or out to dinner, and we come back to my house for long, sweaty, sex-filled hours. Sometimes we go jogging and have sex in the shower afterward.

Sometimes we skip the jogging and just go right to the sex.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

And I didn’t know sex could be like this. Playful and teasing, rough and dirty, tender and intimate. Sometimes all at once.

But always incredible. Always with an intense connection between us—drawing us together—before, during, and long after.

“What did he drink? Was it just alcohol or drugs too? You won’t get in trouble but I need to know.”

Sex is an amazing part of our relationship—but it’s not the only part. We talk too. Flirty conversations in the car and deep, naked ones in bed. We text about our day when our schedules don’t coincide—we joke and make each other smile.

Sometimes we don’t do anything at all. We hang out at my house—happy just being together.

“Run a line. Start him on fluids and pump the stomach.”

We . . . progress. Our relationship evolves, becoming steady and a part of our everyday lives. Our normal. I can feel it happening—not too fast, not too slow. The perfect pace.

Perfect for us.

“Whasshapenning? Wheremy? Hey, letgo. Letmego!”

At work, we keep a slightly more formal distance. I mean, everyone knows—we don’t hide anything—the people Connor and I work with are our friends. And what happens in Vegas might stay in Vegas but what happens in the ED gets told to everyone else in the ED. Plus we have to report the relationship to HR because, apparently, there was a lawsuit a few years before my time and now HR is scarred for life—so any time two people in the same department are dating, that’s what you have to do.

But we keep it strictly professional.

All the time.

Mostly . . .

“Jeremy, you need to calm down. I’m going to put an IV in your arm so we can give you medicine and get you better,” I tell the college kid who’s neck deep in alcohol poisoning—which could lead to coma and death. He was dragged in, totally incoherent, by his fellow fraternity brothers.

A lot of people don’t know this, but nurses do: rage isn’t the most dangerous emotion to have to deal with.

That trophy goes to paranoia, every time.

“Nah! Nogetaway!”

Jeremy starts thrashing the minute he sees the needle. I grab for his arm, trying to hold it down without sticking either of us—but panic makes him strong.

“Help! Aliens! Haaalp!”

He roars something about probes and abductions, but it’s hard to make out with all the kicking and flailing.

He throws out his left elbow in the struggle, catching me in the nose—snapping my head back and making my vision white out.

“Son of a bitch!” Connor shouts.

Someone hands me a cloth and I press it to my face, tasting blood in the back of my throat and feeling wet warmth on my lips.