Page 14 of Desperate Desires

Just like my height. I was five foot three inches tall, no more no less. All the Davis women were five foot three.

Now, from my mom I’d received a pair of tip-tilted breasts. Compared to my ass, they were kind of small. But they remained perky even after turning thirty, which I just had.

I was glad about that, bras being the bane of my existence.

I hated the things.

But I always wore them when I worked. I skipped one time, trying a camisole instead, and Dr. Cross’ eyes had been glued to my chest during a meeting in one of the subzero temperature conference rooms in the hospital.

There was nothing I could do about it. I mean, I couldn’t prove he’d been leering at me, but ever since then, I made sure to have substantial padding to cover my nipples.

On my days off, I wore tank tops or camisoles. For me, it was all about comfort. Like the shoes I wore. Mostly sneakers and Crocs.

Even my choice of hairstyle was less for fashion’s sake, and more for my own sanity. I was currently in my microbraid era and was so damn glad my stylist had talked me into it.

It was easy to maintain, and I could wear my hair up or down, add sexy curls when I wanted to dress up, or just pull it into a ponytail to get the weight off my neck when I was working.

I’d been toying with dying my hair, but for now I kept my tresses a glossy dark brown color.

My skin was good, and I had a great routine for moisturizing and keeping pimple free—something I was extra thankful for, knowing how difficult it was for those with skincare issues to maintain healthy self-care regimes.

I’d had acne in high school, and it was a bitch. Coral, Micky’s cousin, suffered from the same hormonal acne and we found a great dermatologist we went to together. It was a hard road, but it was fine now, and luckily, I had no scars from the experience.

The point was, I was a hard worker. I accepted my flaws as my own, and I worked on them. But no matter what I did, I still tipped the scale at one-ninety.

Yes, I did exercise regularly, fuck you very much. My diet was fine, too. Even when I was on call, I did my best to eat well.

After all, I was a doctor. It was sort of programmed into me to avoid fried foods and sugary, grease-filled things. But what I did eat, I guess I just ate a lot of it.

I had a very healthy appetite.

My self-esteem was fine. I was a realist, and I knew I was plump, but I was also smart, honest, and yes, pretty.

Maybe not Ono pretty.

But pretty all the same.

Shit.

This was getting ridiculous. The man was hurt and in danger. I had no idea if that meant I was in danger, too, and that should be the first thing on my mind. Or maybe the second.

Really, I should be thinking of ways to get him the hell out of my house. I should definitely not be imagining the bat-sized cock that had been outlined in his boxer briefs.

Or the way his cobalt blue eyes seemed to glow in the darkness.

Or the feel of his pillow soft lips when he’d kissed me.

Why did he do that, anyway?

Maybe he was out of his mind with pain? But that seemed unlikely.

I’d jokingly called him Tough Guy, but really, he was one. It was a rare man who remained awake through most of treatment I’d given him.

He was that, and then some. Rare, beautiful, mysterious.

Beautiful?

“You are losing it, Shelly Davis,” I muttered to myself and sat down on the small rocking recliner I kept in the bedroom.

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