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I nodded. “Apology accepted.”
“I should have known Simon was suffering. He was my best friend and I had no fucking clue that he was—" Harry squeezed me tighter. “Suicidal.”
I held him, waiting for him to continue. His hands ghosted over a scar on my back and my heart thumped rapidly. But Harry continued, lost in his memories.
“I should tell you that the hospital actively encouraged me to take time off from work after Simon died. Four months ago, I, ah, clashed with the hospital’s head registrar in a very public corridor, in front of families and patients. It wasn’t pretty. HR thought it was a good idea for me to get my head sorted on leave. An investigation though started into bullying and the work conditions that led to Simon’s suicide.
“Dr Larcombe came to Simon’s funeral, which was awesome. George found out later that I’d taken leave from work and why, and then he still offered me work as a locum at his surgery. I figured it was a good distraction with the anniversary of Simon’s death coming up, and I needed to get out of my parents’ house and out of the city and do something new.”
His breath shuddered and I ran my fingers up and down his back, pressing my cheek against his heart, hoping to give him comfort.
I don’t know how long we spent out on the balcony holding each other. Harry shifted and rested his forehead against mine. I didn’t know I’d been crying until he slowly ran his thumb across my cheek.
We stared, the moment dragging on, when eventually his eyes lowered to my mouth.
When Harry left Ballydoon in a month, I wanted to remember everything about his body and how it had felt under my touch. With one hand, I fanned my fingers across his chest and he leaned into my touch, sighing. My other hand roamed over his pecs and down to his ribs, exploring the feel of him.
Shit, he was leaving in a month.
He’d made it clear his time in Ballydoon was a distraction from his big city life. Maybe that meant I was a distraction, too. But right now, I didn’t care. There were things I could do to leave a memory of me. That I cared about him.
I wanted his lips on every part of me.
“I am happy to oblige, Firebird,” Harry smirked.
Shit, I said that out loud.
His smirk faded as he cupped my jaw. “Why do you hate doctors?”
I opened my mouth but several seconds passed before I could answer. “I don’t hate you. I just … I’ve been hurt before.”
No more words came. Not right now when his body was pressed up against mine, his mouth so close.
My lips brushed against his as I whispered, “I want to kiss you, Harry. Need to kiss you.”
Harry shook, his fingers tightening their grip around me.
“I waited all week for you to say something, do something. Now I’m doing something about it, Harry.”
I kissed him again, running my tongue along his lips, begging him to open up. Harry didn’t hesitate, claiming my mouth with his, our kiss desperate and hungry.
He broke our kiss, and I whimpered as he left a trail of kisses up my neck, nipping my earlobe. I pleaded with him to do things to me in an incoherent string of words as his lips continued their journey down to my collarbone, and then stopped.
He stared at where my dress plunged down.
“This dress is truly fucking spectacular,” he hissed, before shaking his head and meeting my eyes. “I didn’t make any moves on you because you were grieving. I didn’t want to take you away from that.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“So,” Harry swallowed hard, “if you want to stop—”
“No. Please. Touch me,” I pleaded.
Harry traced a finger around the side of my breast. “Here?”
I nodded.
He covered my breast with his hand and swore.
