Page 67 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

A woman has never looked at me with genuine desire before. It’s always been about what I can give them—my connections, my family name, the Sterling fortune.

But her? She’s looking at me like I’m the only man in the world, and it’s fucking with my head so badly, I scoop her up into my arms.

She squeals in surprise, then immediately melts against my chest, resting her head on my shoulder. Her lips brush the sensitive skin at the side of my neck, and a tingling sensation fills my body, sparking nerve endings I didn’t know existed.

“What about the laundry?” she murmurs.

“I’ll do it. You need to stay on the sofa.”

A part of me is already arguing back. You could put her down right here on the bed instead. You could stay. I shut those thoughts down.

Her head lifts, those blue eyes meeting mine, and I want to protest. Want to tell her to lay her head back down because I’m enjoying this new feeling, and I want more of it.

I cross the living room and lower her to the sofa, my hand lingering on her waist. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I lean down and kiss her briefly before I force myself to pull away.

She moans, her fingers clutching at my shirt. “More.”

“Soon. The word is out before I can stop it, and I catch myself too late… I just told her this couldn’t happen again, and here I am promising her more of it. “I need to sort out the laundry and check on dinner before you make me burn it,” I fire back over my shoulder, walking away, putting distance between us before I lose the thread of whatever sense I have left.

Her head twists back to gaze at me from the sofa cushions, and she’s beaming like my words have made her happier. Which can’t be right, can it? I never say the right thing. Never say enough. My ex made that clear… but I guess with her, it’s different.

“Okay.” She bites her bottom lip, her cheeks flushing that gorgeous shade of pink.

She’s so pretty when she blushes. I need to force myself to move before the pasta bake burns in the oven, and I forget about the laundry entirely.

Heading to the laundry room, I pick up the detergent bottle still lying on the floor where we left it. My foot isn’t throbbing anymore. I think all the blood decided to migrate to my dick instead. I ignore my uncomfortably tight jeans and focus on pouring the liquid into the dispenser, loading the clothes, and turning on the machine. Before I leave, I roll up the throw rug. Just in case. If she decides to come in here during the few hours when I’m not around, I can’t have her tripping again. I tuck it into the closet before going into the kitchen.

My body feels lighter than it has in years.

But I know it’s only because we’re in the safety of this house. As soon as I leave, I’ll be reminded of what I’ve done. What line I crossed.

Before I take the pasta bake out, I glance over at the living room. She’s lying on the sofa, her injured foot propped on a pillow. And suddenly, I’m picturing myself curled up with her—her head on my lap, my fingers threading through her hair, both of us content in the comfortable silence.

I’ve never felt this way before. Never wanted that kind of intimacy.

The realization makes my heart twist with a dangerous mix of desire and anguish.

I could see myself falling for this woman.

We eat on the sofa because there’s no way I’m making her hobble to the dining table. She moves as I approach, pushing herself up from her reclined position and tucking her bad leg up onto the cushion in front of her, still propped on a pillow, making room beside her.

I balance both plates carefully, handing her one before settling beside her, close enough that our thighs touch, her elevated foot resting just past my knee.

“This smells amazing,” she says, her eyes widening as she takes in the golden-brown cheese crust. “You actually made this from scratch?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” I stab my fork into the pasta, trying not to feel ridiculously pleased by her reaction. “I’m not completely useless in the kitchen.”

She takes her first bite, and her eyes roll back. A small moan escapes her throat that goes straight to my dick.

“Oh, my God,” she mumbles around the mouthful. “This is incredible. Like, restaurant-quality incredible.”

I shrug, but warmth spreads through my chest. “It’s just pasta.”

“It’s not just pasta.” She takes another bite, chewing slowly, like she’s savoring every flavor.

“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

The question catches me off guard. I focus on my own plate, uncomfortable. “My mom.” I clear my throat. “She used to make this every Sunday.”