Page 37 of Dr. Fellow

She smiles, though it’s tight and not as bright as it was before. “My parents. They got divorced when I was in middle school. They both live in different states, but I talk to them occasionally and we see each other once a year or so. I love them to death, but they were always hot and cold growing up, so my brother’s been the most consistent thing in my life—I’m lucky to have him.”

“He’s lucky to have you too,” I offer, wondering if her family dynamic is the reason that she’s so intent on avoiding relationships. It would make sense, but it also makes my chest feel tight for some reason.

“Oh, I make sure he knows it,” she jokes before taking a long sip of wine. “Especially around the holidays when it’s just the two of us with their new families . . . anyways, enough about that. Are you ready to have your mind blown by the absolute dumpster fire that is Summer House? This season is honestly the best one in years, so I’m going to need you to zip it because I don’t want to miss a second.”

As much as I’d love to enjoy a carefree evening with her, we need to talk more about what happened at my house. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about for days, and I know that I won’t be able to relax until I get this off my chest.

“Mind if we chat first?” I ask. “You said you’ve had time to think since the other night?”

“Yep,” she answers flippantly, shifting her position on the couch.

“And?”

She rolls her eyes, placing her wine on the coffee table in front of us. “And what? I had time, but that doesn’t mean I needed it. Nothing I said the other day has changed—this was entirely for you.”

I guess I never considered that while I might need time to process everything, she might not. But it makes sense because she’s more self-assured than anyone I’ve ever met. Even when she’s opening up and showing me her vulnerable side, there’s still no wavering in her core confidence.

“I’m sorry,” I reply, searching her face. “You’re right. It was completely about me.”

Her eyes widen like she can’t believe what just came out of my mouth. “Hold on.”

She flails her body as she searches for something on the couch. When she finds her phone, she holds it up like she’s recording. “Say that again.”

“Say what again?” I ask, playing along. “It was about me?”

Morgan doesn’t reply, arching her brow as if I should know better.

I chuckle and lean forward. “I’m sorry.”

A wide grin forms on her lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words from a dumb doctor. Oh my god, they were just as satisfying as I imagined.”

Despite the dig, I find myself matching her expression because she’s not wrong—as a physician you’re paid to be right, or at least to convince your patients that you’re right. Over time, most of us let that go to our head and we have a hard time admitting fault in anything we do, even when it comes to our personal lives. I certainly felt that way until the divorce turned my world upside down and gave me the perspective that I desperately needed.

“Well, it’s a good thing you recorded then,” I reply, watching her do something on her phone. “Because I doubt it’ll happen again for a long time.”

Morgan sets her phone down. “Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere. I already sent it to Claire and Cass just in case you accidentally delete it. The caption said ‘I’ve achieved the impossible.’”

Reaching over, I wrap my hands around her ankles and tug, dragging her body across the couch. She giggles and kicks her legs wildly until I place her feet firmly in my lap, holding her steady. The movement slides the length of her T-shirt up her body, its semi-frayed hem now resting at her waist.

I can’t help myself from trailing my eyes up her toned thighs, pinpointing my focus on the thin, red material between her legs. God, it would be so easy to inch my fingers up her soft skin and rip the delicate fabric right off her.

My thumbnail digs into the arch of her left foot.“Did I say you could send a video to them?”

Morgan squeals and tries to squirm away, not expecting the sensation.

“No,” she answers once she regains her composure, thick lashes fluttering innocently up at me. “But you didn’t say that I couldn’t either.”

“Would you have listened?” I ask, amused by her playful defiance. I love the way she challenges me, but I crave more from her—I crave her submission.

A sly smirk plays across her wine-stained lips. “For the right incentive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time you misbehave,” I murmur, the words low and laden with promise.

There’s a quick flash of surprise in her eyes, followed by a slow simmer of arousal that matches my own.

“So you thought about it,” she states, studying me curiously.

“I did—you were all I fucking thought about for three days. And no matter how I ran through it, I kept finishing at the same place.”

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