me a good time, Isaac?
Geez, she was funny.
‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do. And now, I’m definitely going to bed.’ He turned again, his back straight, shoulders solid and that backside giftwrapped in jeans, all tight and firm and … her mouth watered.
What in hell was she thinking?
She watched him reach the door and felt an overwhelming desire to talk to him just a little more. She didn’t want to be on her own. And for some reason she felt a tingling down low and a need to … to what?
She hadn’t been able to think about sex for so long and now … well, right now she was thinking about it a lot. And not just because she was on the obstetrics and gynaecology rotation, although if that job taught her anything it was that women were either doing it a lot or not able to do it and wanting her to fix problems so they could do it some more.
But she deserved a little fun—and some much needed sexperience—maybe Isaac would know how she could find some. ‘Hey, Isaac, wait.’
‘What now?’
‘You have fun, right?’
She couldn’t read his expression as he turned to face her. Something between grumpy and irritated. And downright insanely sexy. ‘Sure. I work hard so I figure I should play hard, too.’
‘That’s it … that’s just it, right there. I’ve worked so hard for so long and I just want … more. Is there more? What more is there? What am I missing? How do you … you know, have fun without getting messed up in the process? Do you understand?’ She wasn’t sure she did. Not a lot of anything made sense right now. Except that Isaac had come closer and was looking at her with those bluest of blue eyes—okay, he was a little out of focus … And she wanted to stroke his hair. No, she wanted to breathe in his smell. It was smoky, very masculine. Yummy. She wanted to breathe him in and stroke his hair. ‘Is there more, Isaac?’
‘Oh. Okay, I see, we’re at stage three already.’ He disappeared into the kitchen and brought back a pint glass filled with water. ‘Drink this.’
She took a sip. He pushed it back towards her mouth and she drank a whole lot more; it was refreshing but nowhere near as nice as the Shiraz. ‘Stage three of what?’
‘It goes like this. The tipsy stage. The funny stage. The “pondering the universe” stage. Then, the “I love you, you’re my bestest ever friend” stage. And finally, the upchuck. We see it all the time at work and, trust me, you do not want to get to stage five.’
She put the glass down on the coffee table. ‘I am so not at any stage.’
‘Walk in a straight line, then, preferably towards your bedroom to sleep the alcohol off.’
She doubted she could stand in a straight line. ‘I don’t have to. I’m fine, thank you very much. Very fine indeedy.’
He held her gaze. A challenge. The heat in his eyes was flecked with serious. So nice. So very, very nice.
And very, very Isaac. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll walk.’ Oh, yes, she could do that. She could do that perfectly; show Isaac Blair she wasn’t afraid of any challenge from him.
STAGE THREE. WITHOUT a doubt things could well get messy. After spending hours dealing with this kind of stuff at work Isaac really did not need it at home, too, but he took Poppy’s hand and pulled her up from the chair. For the second time that night she bumped against him and he steadied her, feeling the softness of her body as she leaned into him. Cute that she wore old-fashioned pyjamas to bed, but with Poppy’s slightly restrained approach to life it wasn’t surprising.
The way she felt was, though. She had curves where curves should very definitely be and right now, pressed against him, they certainly chased away the London winter chill.
Hell, she’d grown up. A lot. And even though he’d caught up with her over the years he hadn’t really looked at her. Hadn’t wanted to—and she clearly hadn’t wanted anything to do with him either. Not since the night he’d held her thick dark hair while she vomited into a rose bush and cried for a man who wasn’t him. ‘Hey, careful.’
‘Oops. Sorry.’ She looked up at him through a fringe that grazed long black eyelashes and something flashed behind her deep brown eyes. Caution. Poppy’s normal mojo. She’d trodden a safe, sensible path for the last however many years—never letting herself get out of control, always steadily working towards her career goal. But there was something else in those eyes, too—something glittering—need? Lust?
First time he’d seen her let her guard down in for ever. Amazing what a bit of wine could do.
‘Right.’ He stretched a piece of tinsel along the floor. Hell, it wasn’t his problem; she wasn’t his problem. But he had to make sure she was safe. Way he saw it, he could probably do this tinsel line straight to her bedroom and she’d hardly notice. ‘Now, walk along this line and we’ll see what stage you’re at. Then you should definitely get some shut-eye.’
‘See. I can do this, no problemo.’ Her right foot rested on top of the tinsel, scarlet-painted toes pointed as if she were perfecting a gymnastic display on the barre. Left foot. Then the right flailed in mid-air, she wobbled, fell sideways and into his outstretched arms. She grabbed on to his shoulder and he got a whiff of clean citrus, shampoo possibly or shower gel. The woman smelt good. She smiled. ‘Oops again. You’re a good catcher, Isaac. Thank you for being here. You’re very kind. Very nice actually, I think. Underneath that standoffish mask. Very nice indeed. We could be friends, you know … You know a lot about me. More than anyone—’
‘Shh. Let’s concentrate on the walking thing.’ He placed a finger over her lips. Rapidly approaching stage four—he did not want to deal with that. ‘Then I think we should get you to bed.’
‘Absolutely … Is that … is that an offer?’ The heat in her body slammed against his. Her lips parted ever so slightly as she smiled.
Then closed again as he shook his head. ‘Thanks. But, no. If we were ever to do anything in bed, Poppy … which we won’t … I’d want you to be able to remember it in the morning.’
Sleeping with Poppy? Insane idea. But the thought lingered for just too long, and he hadn’t been with a woman in a while.
Absolutely not.
He gently removed her from his arm, and within a nanosecond of that touch his body zinged with a shot of pure feral desire. Here she was offering herself to him, this attractive grown-up woman—although he’d only just awoken to that fact. He could take her to bed and ease away some of the stresses of the past week. Show her the fun she so obviously craved.
Only, this was Poppy and there were a dozen or more reasons why that would be the worst damned idea he’d had in a long time. Not least the fact she was drunk, lonely and, until she’d uttered that last sentence, he would have sworn she hated his guts. He’d been there at her lowest, her weakest and worst moment, and somehow she’d never forgiven him.
Not that he’d ever cared. Impressing women past a flirty dalliance had never been on his agenda. He’d spent enough time watching too many
