Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(75)
“Fuck,” he moaned as he peeled off the glove. Bright red blood was dripping down both fingers, covering the back of his hand and making its way to the edge of his sterile white lab coat sleeve. Panicking, he reached for some gauze and held it tightly to his wounds.
“Man, I mean Doctor, I’m really, really sorry,” I apologized. That you won’t be sticking those two pathetic fingers up Jennifer McCoy’s * anytime soon . . . or anywhere near it,” I silently added with a wide mental grin.
The blood seeped through the gauze. He looked horrified. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “You’re going to have to come back or see someone else. I think I need to go to an emergency room. I may need stitches.”
“Want me to drive you? It’s the least I could do. I drive fast.” Like a maniac.
Pressing the gauze to his fingers, he dashed out of the room before I could say another word.
A cocky smile lit up my face. Did I ever mention I was a biter as a child? My biting skills had only gotten better with age. I couldn’t wait to use them on the warm, silky flesh of the delicious Jennifer McCoy. And make my mark.
Mission accomplished.
Chapter 14
Jennifer
I spent Saturday afternoon with Libby at Chaz’s downtown studio—a large, high-ceiling, exposed beam loft located in the heart of the Fashion District. Chaz had invited us to pick out dresses from his All That Chaz line for the exclusive art gallery gala he’d invited us to later in the evening. It was an opening for a painter who went by one name that rhymed with his—PAZ. He’d scored the invitation through the co-owner of the gallery, who was one of his major clients. After much leg-pulling, I’d convinced Bradley to come along. He hated these kinds of things, so I promised him we wouldn’t have to stay long. His idea of an exciting night out was a boring night in—ordering takeout from his favorite vegan restaurant, watching reruns of nineties shows on Netflix, and going to sleep early with a quick f*ck thrown in. We were barely engaged but acted more like an old married couple.
Sunlight beamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. As I plowed through the racks of dresses, each one more dazzling than the one before, my mind was distracted. I couldn’t stop thinking about my boss. I could barely eat my breakfast this morning. I was too roused up from his sensual massage that affected him as much as me, and when he told me my lips were kissable, I almost jumped out of my skin. The drive home was painful. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. The whole way, I had to keep my legs crossed to quell the throbbing between them, and my eyes anywhere else but on him. Oh, that heart-stopping, gorgeous face with that cocky dimpled smile and those piercing ocean-blue eyes that burnt holes through me. If it wasn’t for the seat belt, I might have jumped him and gotten us into a major accident.
Visions of him naked danced in my head. Those long muscled legs and chiseled arms. His broad shoulders. I hadn’t actually seen his chest or ass, but in my mind’s eye, they were sculpted male perfection just like the rest of him. And then there was his cock. That magnificent tower of sexual power. Fuck. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. My pulse was in overdrive, and the lingering ache between my legs wouldn’t go away.
When he’d texted me earlier to thank me for the referral to Bradley, my whole body lit up. Not just my eyes. I’d longed to hear his voice, that sultry, manly voice. How badly I’d wanted to call him back. I’d fought back the urge by convincing myself he might still be in a pain and not be able to talk. Despite his cockiness, I’d found myself caring about him as much as I wanted him in forbidden places. There was something seriously wrong with me. Here I was engaged to be married to the man I’d been with for over five years, and I was melting over another I’d known for less than a week. A deep pang of guilt knotted my stomach and sent a shiver down my back. Was fantasizing a form of cheating? I couldn’t focus on picking out a dress.
“Darling, let me help you find something,” offered Chaz, coming to my rescue. “You seem distracted.”
That was a fact.
I continued to listlessly scour through the dozens of dresses. “They’re all so short, Chaz.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “That’s the point, Jenny-Poo. They’re f*ck-me dresses. You know, you seriously need to change your look. Sometimes you dress like someone’s mother.”
I cringed. He was right. I was not very adventurous when it came to fashion. And I definitely didn’t dress with sex appeal in mind. I lifted a sparkly pink number off the rack. My size—four. “What about this one?”
“One of my faves, but not right for tonight. An art gallery opening requires an LBD.”
I arched my brows. “An LBD?”
He shook his head with amused disbelief. “A little black dress, honey.”
I watched as he shuffled through the dresses until he landed on one to his liking; he yanked it off the rack. A smile lit up his face. “Perfection. This one is calling your name.”
He held it up in front of me. It was itsy bitsy and strapless. Folding it over his arm, he pivoted on his heel and told me he’d be right back. In a flash, he returned with a pair of sparkly black stilettos with spiky six-inch heels that looked like they could stab someone. “They’re your size. Try these on with the dress.”
“Where’s the try-on room?”