Page 71 of Detention with Daddies

I rub my chest against the burning emotion and take my seat for the dinner portion of the evening. Part of me desperately wishes that Olivia shared my table, but maybe it’s a good thing that she doesn’t. I might embarrass us both.

Make a scene without intending to.

But I am desperate for her.

The conversations at my table are dull, the logistics of running a clinic, of attending to patients in vague terms, administrative issues.

I only speak when necessary. I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything but Olivia and the way she makes her entire table laugh. How she delicately takes a bite of her steak. How she’s not afraid to clear her plate and steal a few bites off of Dr. Wright’s plate.

My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth together. I’ll probably have to make an appointment with the dentist on Monday after the strain I’m putting my molars through.

I hardly taste the food, finishing it only because it keeps my hands busy and occupies the time.

Nursing another whiskey, I wave off the chocolate cake as the speeches begin.

They’re boring. Every year, it’s the same talking points in a new order with new or old metaphors mixed in and repeated, and I simply can’t force myself to care about anything other than the woman I absolutely crave sitting with another man at another table across the room.

When it’s finally time for dancing and fundraising, I make my way across the room.

They’ve planned a paddle off this year. People donate a hundred dollars with each paddle raise, and the last one standing gets a prize. It will go on for hours.

In the meantime, the rest of the floor is open for dancing.

Waylen easily pulls Olivia onto the dance floor when the soft music begins. I circle closer.

Her dress is magnificent, but anything she wore would have been. The low plunge of her bodice shows off her milky skin. It’s not so much as to be scandalizing, but it certainly shows off the fullness of her figure. And that peek of her leg, nearly all the way up her thigh under that voluminous skirt has heat spearing me.

Nick is also hovering nearby, giving them the same attention that I am, and the moment the first song ends, he’s right behind them, cutting in and pulling her into a dance.

She’s far more relaxed with him, and I still can’t be sure if it’s admiration between them. Friendship. Or something more.

One of the donors is next, the way the man keeps a safe enough distance between them makes me believe their talk ismore shop than it is flirting. But she’s bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, and I can’t help myself.

I cut in for her fourth dance, properly lubricated with another drink gone. It should be my last one. It has to be, or I’ll make a scene and regret it.

Olivia’s eyes sparkle at me when I take her hand. She grins wide. “Hi.”

“Hello, Olivia.” I pull her closer than I should and fall into well-practiced steps. The feel of her against me flashes back to the last time I pressed her into my closed office door. This memory makes my voice gruff. “Are you having a good time?”

Her fingers play with the collar of my shirt—my jacket long abandoned at my seat. The soft touch burns through me.

“Yes. I’ve never been to an event like this before. Not as anything more than a pop in as an undergrad to take a peek before disappearing again.”

Pressing her palm to my shoulder, she looks me in the eyes, and her pupils dilate. Her attraction to me is clear enough at this moment. A small soothing note amongst the cacophony of jealousy I’m struggling against.

“You’re making an excellent impression on our donors, it seems.”

My tone must have been harsher than I intended because her head tips to the side like she’s thinking about how to interpret that comment.

I meant it as a compliment. I know better than to say anything about Waylen. Or Nick.

Now is not the time.

Instead, I tug her a little closer, enjoying the lovely way she feels against me. I want to peel her out of this dress. Taste her skin. Eat her moans. Make her so euphoric that she forgets about everyone else.

She must see it in my face because she’s breathing heavily by the time our dance is over, so I escort her off of the floor for a drink.

But even as I hand her a new flute of champagne—her fourth, I think—I can’t get the itchy feeling off my skin. The monstrous possessiveness and resentment that has me pulling her out of the ballroom once she’s down half of her drink.

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