Page 122 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“Oh yeah?” His voice is husky. “Do you always straddle your patients?”

“Only the ones with the best abs.”

His hands tighten on my hips, pulling me closer until the heat between us is undeniable. It pulses, thick and electric, charging the air around us.

“I think,” I whisper, nose brushing his. “You need to be monitored closely.”

“For symptoms?”

“Forcompliance.”

He flips us, fast and smooth, the motion knocking the breath from my lungs in the best way. Suddenly I’m on my back, Luca hovering over me, dark eyes dancing.

“I’m very obedient,” he promises, kissing the corner of my mouth. “You want me to stay in bed?”

I nod, lips parting. “Mmm. Strict bed rest.”

He kisses my jaw. “No strenuous activity?”

“None.”

His mouth grazes my throat. “But what if the doctor initiates it?”

“Then it’s allowed,” I whisper, arching into him. “But only if I say so.”

His mouth finds mine and everything else fades—the room, the day, the worry. It’s just him and me, wrapped up in soft cotton sheets and quiet hunger. The kind that builds with every touch. Every unspoken word. Every shaky inhale.

He takes his time.

My shirt is lifted slowly, his hands dragging up my sides, mouth trailing heat over newly exposed skin. I’m not wearing anything underneath—no bra, not enough time before I stormed out the door—and the sound he makes goes straight to my core.

Fuels my ego.

“Jesus,” Luca mutters against my sternum, like I’ve just performed a miracle. “You really came over here dressed for an emergency.”

“I told you,” I whisper, threading my fingers through his hair, “I thought I’d be tending to a half-dead, feverish, pale-faced man clutching a bucket.”

“Plot twist,” he says, kissing the swell of my breast. “I’m miraculously cured. You have healing powers.”

“Don’t joke,” I murmur. “I take my fake doctoring very seriously.”

He smirks, eyes roaming over my skin like a man absolutelynottaking anything seriously. “Should I call you Doctor Nova?”

I hum thoughtfully. “Doctor Montagalo, actually.”

“Oh, that’s hot,” he says, hands still sliding beneath my shirt, thumbs teasing the curve of my breasts. “Wait—should I be faking symptoms?”

“Yes.” I nudge his shoulder until he rolls to his back, eyes wide as I straddle his waist with full medical authority. “Lay back. I need to continue the full examination.”

“Ma’am,” he says solemnly, hands tucked behind his head. “I should warn you, I’ve got a history of being a very difficult patient.”

I nod, clicking my tongue. “I’ll have to note that in your chart.”

“Will there be a punishment?”

I nod again. “Obviously.” I pause. “You probably just have a mild case of horniness.”

He clutches his chest. “Oh no! What will happen to me?”

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