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“Dr. Bentley…” Griffin’s gaze jumps back to me. “This is Katelyn.”
“Michael, please,” the man says, looking at me as he puts the ice on the nightstand. He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress before pulling out a pair of nitrile gloves.
Parting my hair, he starts to examine the wound.
“We’re fine here,” he says without looking at Griffin. “You can go.”
Griffin folds his arms across his broad chest and plants a hip against the dresser, the action firmly rooting him in the room. A side glance at Bentley reveals that the man is smirking. Before I can study the rest of his expression, a jolt of pain forces my eyes shut.
“I find I always get more open answers from my patients without an audience,” Bentley continues.
Fighting fresh waves of nausea, I sneak a look at Griffin. He remains implacable.
“Don't expect this one to tell you anything,” he snorts.
Bentley cups the sides of my face. His thumbs deliver a casual stroke along my jaw. This—or something else—pulls Griffin away from the dresser and over to the bed. He wears a deep scowl on his handsome face, the expression making him look even fiercer than usual.
I close my eyes before he can catch me studying him.
Does Montgomery have a possessive streak?
Resisting the temptation to peek at him a second time, I chew at the inside of my cheek. I remind myself that I am nothing more than Griffin’s fuck doll for the week. He is not possessive because there’s nothing to be possessive over. And he’s the one who called Bentley here. He knows the man has to put hands on me.
So why is Griffin so uptight?
Realizing Bentley hasn’t moved the entire time I’ve kept my eyes closed, I look at him. He is staring at my face. A soft smile graces his lips. In all aspects, he looks the perfect example of patience—a sharp contrast to the hot glare Griffin is leveling at the doctor’s head.
Once more, Bentley dismissively addresses the billionaire.
“I can’t start until you leave, Grif.”
Montgomery shoves his hands in his pockets. His gaze hooks mine for a second.
“I'll be right across the hall if you need anything.”
“Okay,” I acknowledge, my voice hesitant as I continue to puzzle over Griffin’s reaction to Bentley touching me or why he thinks he has to remain for the examination.
The doctor waits for the door to shut before he drops his hands and chuckles lightly.
“I hope you don't mind my needling him, but he can't stay without your permission and I realize it might be hard for you to tell him to get out.”
“What do you mean?”
I have a sinking feeling that I already know what Bentley means. Catching a smug smirk crawling across his face confirms my suspicions.
“You're injured, my dear, and Griffin is used to getting his way…” He isn’t enough of a gentleman or a professional to leave it at that. His tongue takes a small, decidedly sensual and subconscious lick at the center of his lips before he shines a penlight in my eye. “Especially in his own bedroom.”
I should be paying attention to the exam, but thoughts race rampantly through my mind. Why wouldn't Griffin admit to this being his bedroom? And how the hell does the doctor know where Griffin’s tastes run?
Leaning close, Bentley checks my ears. He is a little too close. I can smell the not-so-subtle spice of his cologne. Worse, I can feel the warm rush of his breath against my skin.
Putting the scope and light down, he dresses the cut on my head as he asks me questions about my vision, pain level, hearing and any nausea. Satisfied with the answers I give, he runs his fingers through my hair to probe the rest of my skull.
He moves slowly in everything he does and his body seems to brush against me far more than it should. Instead of eyeballing my scalp, his gaze shifts restlessly back and forth between my eyes and my lips.
He might have a medical excuse for checking my pupils, but my lips have no part in the diagnosis of a possible concussion.
“How long have you known Griffin?” he asks.
