Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Maybe she’ll be able to tell if the lust-filled light prompted by Miller’s photo starts to surge around me with too much flaring heat, with too much possessiveness, as though at any moment he’s going to step from the poster and charge across the room.
I imagine him hauling me to my feet and bending me over the chair, smoothing his hands up my thighs and gripping onto them firmly.
“Fuck,” I imagine him snarling. “You’re already soaked for me.”
I repress a breathy sigh, biting my lip, trying to think of calm ocean waves and chairs and freaking matchsticks… anything so I don’t have to think about the way I touched myself again and again last night thinking about Miller Marshall.
I guess this is the price I have to pay for wanting to be a writer. Not of scripts, like my aunt, but of novels.
My imagination is far too vivid and real-like as if things dreamed up in my mind can spiral into reality at any moment and there’s nothing I can do about it. I forcefully remind myself that if I voiced my innermost thoughts – my throbbing need for Dr. Marshall and his rock hard muscles – he’d kick me out of his office, maybe laughing at me, maybe shouting.
Whatever the case, it would be nothing good.
The receptionist clears her throat, peering at me over the top of her desk. She’s a beautiful glamorous woman, with shiny teeth and perfect skin and a sleek figure, the sort of figure that makes me feel frumpy and inadequate.
I bet she thinks I look like the biggest dork in the universe in my cargo pants and my hoodie, but, screw it… they’re comfy. Plus I got carried away writing this morning and almost missed the appointment, and these were the first clothes I grabbed.
“The doctor will see you now, Miss Grahams,” she says.
I nod, standing, willing my legs not to shake too much.
Maybe I should have found a different clinic once I’d searched for Miller Marshall online. I should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to face him without having the most pathetic panic episode in the universe.
I’ve never been any good at talking to men, especially not hulking behemoths with possessive eyes and iron-colored hair like Miller.
What the heck am I saying?
I’ve never even tried talking to a man like Dr. Miller Marshall before.
I walk across the office, wishing I could stop my hands from worrying at each other, but I’m afraid if I let go of my tight-clasped hands I’ll do something silly like grab the poster from the wall and hold it against my chest, against my heart, like I’m his number one fan or something.
There it goes again, my overactive imagination, throwing up nonsense.
I shake my head, willing myself to focus on the moment.
But then I reach the door and, before I can open it, Dr. Marshall pulls it wide open and stares at me.
He’s even more enthralling in the flesh, with the light shimmering across his strong jaw, glittering silver with a faint shadow of facial hair. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing me his irrepressible forearms, and his eyes narrow as they move over me.
Something inside of me sinks, a bitter voice whispering, You see. Of course, he wouldn’t want you.
It’s worse than that, even. It’s like he’s angry that I’m here.
I wonder if I’ve interrupted something, like a phone call with a lady, an important meeting, because right now he looks like he’d rather be doing anything than standing opposite me.
“You must be Macie,” he says, his voice deep and husky, just like in the interviews I watched last night.
“Um, yes,” I murmur, silently cursing myself.
Why did I have to say um?
“Okay.” He nods, stepping aside, waving me into his office. “After you.”
Chapter Two
Miller
She stands there for a few moments longer, as though the curvy young thing is trying to entice me even more than she already has. My whole body pumps with hot fire just from looking at her, with confusing goddamn fire, because I’ve never felt anything like this before.
And even if I had – which I haven’t – I never thought it would happen this quickly, like a gunshot to the gut I can’t ignore.
She’s a foot shorter than me, maybe a little more, with a body that was made to be grabbed and moved into all the perfect positions. Her hips are wide, built for bringing children into this world, meaning she’s come to the right damn place…
Me, not the clinic.
I’m the man who needs to fuck children into her perfect womb.
I need to move my fingers through her shoulder-length chocolate colored hair, cascading down with quirks and waves here and there, as though she’s silently screaming at me to smooth my hand through her locks and claim her hard.