Page 39 of The Grumpy Doc's Surprise Delivery

“It’s just past midnight,” he says softly. “So we have a little time yet.”

I take a deep breath, taking in his musk, not wanting to forget it. “A little time for what?”

He rolls over and leaves me shivering as I lose his warmth against me. But he doesn’t move far. He gets up onto his hands and knees and looms over me, dipping forward so I can feel his breath against my skin. “A little more time for this.”

With that, he presses a kiss into my shoulder and starts making his way down my body, tracing a line of kisses like he’s following a treasure map. He definitely acts like he’s found gold when he reaches my hot core, because the things he does with his tongue are like magic.

I cry out and my hips buck, pleasure overtaking my body, making me writhe and moan under every touch. A couple of times, I manage to crack my eyes open to look at him, and the sight of him there between my legs almost feels as good as the way he is moving his fingers.

But not quite.

When I’m wrung out and exhausted again and dizzy on pleasure, he crawls back up to take me into his arms. We kiss and the taste of my wetness covers his lips, and his hardness presses against my leg. “Don’t you want to take me?” I ask breathily.

“Of course I do,” he murmurs. “But if you’re too tired, I can wait.”

“I’m not too tired,” I say, kissing him again, looping my leg over his.

Still facing each other, embracing, he slips inside and we move together, our hips in rhythm, our breaths falling in tandem. It’s a slow and intimate thing, not like the passionate, loud lovemaking from before.

This is so real I could call it true love.

Is that crazy? To love a guy I’ve known for a week?

But he’s everything I wanted the man of my dreams to be. He isn’t perfect, but when he puts his mind to it, he’s thoughtful and kind. He works hard. He’s wickedly funny. He seems like he would be loyal and faithful.

What more could I want?

The next thing I know, he’s shaking me gently awake.

“Emma? Emma, wake up.”

“Wha…?”

“It’s three thirty. You should think about getting up.”

“I have to leave?”

In my half-asleep, postcoital state, that seems like the worst thing in the world. Having to leave these warm, strong arms, this bed. Returning to reality. For the first time in my whole life, I don’t want to go back to work.

Liam sits up and I whine, not wanting him to go. The groan he lets out tells me he feels exactly the same. “Here,” he says, handing me his phone. “Give me your number.”

I obey, typing the digits in and adding my name. Then I text myself, my own phone dinging in the corner proof of it. This wayI have his number too, so even if he flakes out on me, I can still reach him.

If he was being serious, though, he will reach out. If this meant anything to him, he’ll go through with seeing me again.

If he feels even a fraction of what I’m feeling right now, there’s no way he’ll forget me.

Slowly, I peel myself out of bed and pull my clothes on. I’m not fully packed, but fortunately I made a head start yesterday, so it shouldn’t be too tough to shove everything else in my bag.

The hard part is going to be saying goodbye.

When I’ve brushed my teeth and packed up, I knock on Liam’s door. He’s looking tidier too, like he’s showered and pulled himself together. It’s like our night together has vanished, the only proof of it ever existing in our minds and hearts.

“Well,” I say hesitantly. “My taxi will be here soon.”

“I hope you have a good flight.”

“You’ll text me, won’t you?”

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