Coming ine box set, p.146
Coming in Hot: Rescue Me Box Set, page 146
Deciding that I should just follow the damn instructions and make the stupid tomato sauce—I was a trained trauma physician, after all. How bloody hard could it be?—I checked out and loaded the bags into my car. I sent a quick text to the bar manager at Ian’s brewery to make sure he was there working, then headed into Detroit. I still possessed a key to his condo and used it without a qualm. I lugged the bags inside, noting the general, out-of-character messiness of the place with a slight tremor of self-satisfaction.
Within a few minutes, I had the recipe on my iPad propped on the counter and was chopping tomatoes, pureeing them with the other crap, and generally making a huge mess. By the time I got to the slicing of the eggplants, I had realized that I had the sauce on too high—bubbles of the stuff hitting the fan hood above it being a dead giveaway. I adjusted it, added some kind of artisanal olive oil to the cast iron pan and carefully followed the directions for dredging the eggplant through an egg and milk mixture before coating them with breadcrumbs.
While the first two of the slices sat in the oil, not really cooking as fast as I assumed they should, I got the casserole dish ready and pulled the hunk of way-too-expensive parmesan cheese out so I could shred it. I think between realizing I’d forgot to pre-heat the oven, managing the sensitive, sweet spot for the sauce simmer, and nearly shredding the entire heel of my hand off with the cheese, I forgot that I’d cranked up the burner under the eggplants to get them going like the damn video that kept replaying on my tablet screen.
I dropped what remained of the cheese so I could grab a paper towel to press to my now bleeding hand without allowing for some kind of physics anomaly that stated that the angle of reach across the stove should be calculated more carefully. As it was, I hit the handle of the pot where the sauce was somewhere between a rolling boil and simmer, managing to dump the entire contents of the thing on to the floor.
“Motherfucker!” I jumped back, even as the hot liquid splattered my legs that were exposed thanks to the pair of Ian’s gym shorts I’d grabbed since all this cooking made me sweaty. I stared down at the mess in dismay and a growing sense of defeat. At that moment, the smoke alarm blared, drawing my attention back to the skillet where my carefully dredged and breaded eggplant slices now resembled smoldering hockey pucks.
“God damn it,” I muttered, as I stupidly put my hand on the skillet handle to move it off the flames. The heat seared my flesh, sending a jolt of pain to my brain that shut down the part that knew damned well that the floor was coated in sauce. I stepped back, my bare sole sliding to one side as I flailed around, trying to find a place on the stove I could grab that wouldn’t give me third-degree burns. All the while the alarm wailed as the kitchen filled with smoke.
That’ll teach me to cook, I thought, as I dropped to my ass on the wooden floor. I got up slowly, trying to decide which emergency to handle first when I saw that I’d managed to shove the cast iron pan full of eggplant hockey pucks onto the burner that had been hosting sauce that now coated my legs and palms. In a strange, objective way, I watched the blackened circles of former vegetable burst into flames while I stood, coated in marinara, one hand with half the skin scraped off, the other likely in need of a graft.
At that moment, as tears of frustration burned my eyes, I burst out laughing. It was classic Lillian. I try to do something nice and domestic to prove something to a guy I should have called weeks ago, and I proceed to burn his God damned building down. My laughter bordered on hysterical by the time the door flew open and Ian coated the flaming skillet with white foam from a fire extinguisher. I was doubled over, cradling my injured palms to my chest, unable to catch my breath thanks to my outburst of inappropriate mirth.
He grabbed my elbow and yanked me out of the smoky kitchen before gathering me close and holding me tight until I stopped giggling. I looked up at him, my eyes streaming, my chest still hitching with mirth. “Oh…my God…I’m….I am so sorry.” I said these words, meaning one thing and knowing I wasn’t being specific enough.
“You are officially banned from all kitchens ever, going forward, amen,” he intoned, gathering me all the way up and carrying me, Rhett Butler-like, into his bedroom.
“Wait, wait,” I insisted, even as he was lying me back and tugging off the boy shorts and the be-splattered tank top. “Did you turn off the stove?” I held my injured hands up over my head, all pain in them dissipated in the face of my impending happy place.
“Unlike some people, I know how to properly work one, so yeah. Now shut up and let me kiss you.”
I did just that, clinging to him like the lifeboat he’d become, one I’d finally admit I wanted. His lips were delicious and familiar, like coming home after a long, arduous, most unpleasant trip. His warm, strong hands caressed my face, tangled in my hair, ran down my arms, hips, and legs. As his lips left mine and made their way down my neck to my shoulder, I raised my hands up over my head and reveled in the sensation of this, of him—my man—doing the things to me he’d spoiled me with for so many months. But when he reached my breasts, he stopped cold.
“I know. I’m like Frankenstein’s Bride anymore. Sorry. Is it that much of a turn-off?” I looked down at him from where I was propped on pillows, watching his expression for any hint of disgust at the ugly scar that marred my torso. The pain in burned and/or scraped raw palms flared as if in response to the stoppage of pleasure.
He touched the top of it with his fingertip, then ran it down between my breasts and their oh-so-eager nipples. He followed this with the lightest touch of his lips, making feathery kisses all the way down to where it ended right above my stomach. When he looked up at me, his eyes were midnight dark with emotion.
“Never ever, ever scare me like that again.” His brogue was pronounced as it always got when he was horny—something I’d delighted in discovering in our early days of fucking around. “Ach, Lil,” he muttered, propping on one elbow and continuing to tickle the scar with one finger. “My love.”
I smiled and put his fingers to my lips. After kissing each of his knuckles, I placed that hand on my breast. “All that attention to my scar is making this guy super jealous,” I insisted. He grinned up at me, then leaned over to take the other nipple into his mouth while he tugged the “jealous” one to a hard, painful peak. “Yeah. Now that’s more like it.”
I reached for his zipper, but he stopped me. “No. I’ve gone way too long without doing this, and I miss it so you will lie back and let me do what I want. Got it?”
“Yessir,” I said, as he made his way down my body, not leaving an inch of my skin un-kissed or un-nibbled or un-teased. By the time he finally settled himself between my thighs, tossed my legs up over his shoulder and dug his fingertips into my hips to move me closer, I was giddy with happiness.
He dove down, licking the edges of my labia and teasing my clit with his thumb. “In your mouth, Ian. Take it, hurry…I’m gonna come, baby.” I sighed as I closed my eyes and let it happen. He hummed with content and released my flesh, rising up from between my legs, his lips wet and shining with my juices. I lay there, pulsing and sighing in the aftermath, watching him watch me. The man was the emperor of orgasms, without a doubt, and only made it sexier when he insisted on watching me, all parts of me, as I would climax.
But this day, instead of studying my pussy as it spasmed and contracted, he watched my whole body, his face flushed red as I writhed beneath him. “You are so perfect,” he whispered, moving off the bed and standing at my feet. “I should hate you. I shouldn’t let you back in my life, but God help me I can’t stop myself.”
“Come here but take those off first,” I said, pointing to his jeans and shirt. He hesitated, hands on his hips, his brow furrowed. “Ian…I…I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I never should have kept that—”
His frown deepened as he kept his distance.
I swallowed hard. “I should not have kept our baby a secret for as long as I did.”
He crossed his arms.
I sighed. “I never should have kept it a secret at all.” To my surprise, tears formed and dripped down the sides of my face. “It was weird because…well, because I wanted to be pregnant with your baby and that was just so…I don’t know…so strange to admit to myself. I would wake up every morning and think ‘oh, right I’m gonna have Ian’s baby’ and it would take me hours to wrap my head around that as something I wanted.” I paused. He lifted his shirt up and over his head, making me breathless at the sight of his firm, slim torso, at the light dusting of graying hair on his chest and the dark line of it below his navel. “I’m stupid. I’m emotionally useless. I hate all people, but I love you.” I sucked in a breath. “I love you, Ian Summerfield. Now get your ass naked and get back in this bed.”
He smiled and unzipped his jeans, slipped them and his underwear down to the floor, kicked them aside but remained standing, apart from me. He put a hand on his dick. “This? This is what you want?”
I nodded, my mouth watering at the sight of it. He kept smiling and stroking himself until I spotted a bright bead of cum at the tip. I licked my lips and got up on my hands and knees. “Bring it to me,” I whispered. “Right here, in my mouth.”
He took a few steps forward, still stroking himself, faster now, his breathing ragged in my ears. I put my injured hands on his hips and pulled him to me, lapping around the edges of his head where he was the most sensitive. He groaned and let go of himself.
“No,” I said, putting his hand back on his cock. “I want to watch.” He tangled fingers in my hair and pumped at his cock with the other hand while I teased and licked and stuck my tongue into the slit. “Come, Ian,” I muttered around his most intimate flesh. “Come so I can taste it.”
He grunted and shoved his hips forward. I captured most of it in my mouth but let the rest coat my neck and breasts. “Nice,” I said, flopping back into the pillows, wiping my lips with the back of my hand and grabbing a tissue from the box beside the bed. “I missed that,” I said as I blotted myself clean. He dropped down beside me, his arm over my torso.
“What are we gonna do about food?” he said, nuzzling my breasts as I closed my eyes for a pleasant cat nap in my man’s arms. “And we probably should do something about your hands.”
“Let’s worry about all that later,” I said, stroking his arm. “Sleep first.”
But he was already there.
We woke about an hour later and took a long shower together. He loved to wash me all over, including my hair and as he did it, caressing softly, making me feel like a spoiled but content child in his arms, I reflected that this was yet another thing I’d missed. As I was congratulating myself on making this move, for taking this step toward him before we grew too far apart for repair, he dropped to his knees and kissed my stomach.
“I want to have a baby with you,” he muttered. I sighed and stroked his wet hair. “I want to watch you grow big with it, to glow with health and happiness this time.” He looked up at me. “So I guess we’d better get married.”
Shocked, I took a step away from him, which I could do since his shower was big enough to hold a family of five. He rose and began to wash himself, leaving me in my mouth-hanging-open stupor. I remained silent as he turned off the water, got out and handed me a towel.
“What?” he asked as he dried off then tucked the towel around his waist. “You look like someone ran over your dog. Be careful, you’ll give a guy a complex.” He wrapped me in my towel and pulled me close, kissing my forehead, my eyelids, my nose, my cheeks. “Marry me, Dr. Zane?”
I kept my nose pressed to his damp chest. “Um. Okay.”
“Good. Glad that’s settled.” He let go of me unceremoniously and patted my butt. “I’m bloody well starving. Let’s figure out if anything in the kitchen is edible.”
I watched him head out into the bedroom, whistling under his breath. “Um, Ian?”
He turned and dropped his towel before pulling on a fresh pair of boxers. “Yes, my love?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” My voice sounded tinny to me as if it were coming from a telephone. But my heart beat normally. My pulse wasn’t racing. I was as calm as an inland lake on a windless summer day. I loved this man. And I would marry him. I’d deal with my own inner battles and doubts later. I held up my left hand and pointed to the correct finger. “I may be low maintenance in some areas, but I expect something that makes a statement right about here.”
“Oh right.” He pulled something form the beside table drawer. I was positively humming in eager, unfamiliar anticipation by the time he grabbed my hands and applied some ointment to them, then covered them in light bandages from the first aid box he was holding. I sighed and let him do it, realizing I’d jumped way to many guns thinking he’d be doing anything else right then.
He kissed the knuckles. “No more cooking, okay?” I grinned and pressed my lips to the top of his head, happier than any human being had a right to be. He reached back into the drawer of the table next to the bed, then tossed me a ring box. A Tiffany ring box.
I bobbled in a few seconds with my bandaged hands, then opened it, my heart racing, my skin breaking out in a cold sweat at the sight of the what lay in the dark velvet interior.
“That enough of a statement for you, oh low-maintenance one?”
I stared at the ring a few seconds, taking in its vintage-look of platinum filigree that framed a ginormous rock of a diamond. “It’s a good start.” I pulled the bandage off my left hand and slipped the ring onto my finger, holding my hand out to admire its shine and heft. “It’s perfect,” I said, meeting his eyes.
“I thought it might be,” he said, pulling me into his arms. My towel fell away, and we spent another hour working up our appetite for the Thai take-out we eventually ordered and ate, naked, and in front of Netflix, with a couple of his brewery’s beers. I never thought this level of sheer contentment would be afforded to me, and instead of doubting it, I rolled around in it, let it coat me from head to toe.
That night, I dropped to sleep in seconds, Ian’s arms wrapped around me and slept better than I had in years. We woke at some point and made love in the dark and in complete silence. At the last minute, as he loomed over me, both my legs up high on his shoulders so he could go as deep as we both wanted him to go, he asked me, “You’re not taking the shot anymore, right? I mean, you haven’t since…since…Oh God!”
I smiled up at him, hoping against all reason that I would be pregnant again, soon, preferably by the end of the week.
Chapter Thirteen
We got married at a beautiful, restored Greek revival farmhouse outside Ann Arbor that had been converted into a wedding venue. We managed to get this done pretty fast since Ian knew the owners of the place and pulled a few strings. It was a lovely, low-key ceremony with my partners, some of the ED staff, their families, and his brewery buddies in attendance. At the last minute, about a week before the festivities, I located the number for his ex-wife’s office, called Lynn and asked if she would like to attend. If not, I wanted to know if Megan would like to be my one attendant.
I don’t know what brought all this on, but I went with it.
“Of course, we’ll be there,” she said. “And Megan would be honored.”
And so that was how I married the man of my dreams while people who cared about us witnessed the whole thing. I’d even managed to finagle that father-daughter mini-reunion I’d wanted. Points for me.
We ate, drank, danced, and partied under the giant white tent until the wee hours. “Take me home, husband,” I finally said as I fell, exhausted, into his arms.
“You got it, wife,” he said. “But this whole wedding night thing…” He waggled his eyebrows. “I hear it’s kind of the bomb.”
“In our case, it’s gonna be a morning after the wedding night thing, all right? I’m beat.”
“You have made me the happiest human being in the universe today, Dr. Zane.”
“Ditto, stud muffin.” I yawned so wide my jaw creaked.
We’d decided to postpone the honeymoon since both of us were busy at work and half-hoping without saying it that I’d be pregnant soon and have to stay close to medical care. Within a few weeks, however, there was something else we had to deal with—something that was taking more than its fair share of marital energy.
“I don’t know why you’re just dismissing this out of hand,” I said for the thousandth time as I jumped into the shower after a long shift.
“I’m not talking about it anymore,” Ian insisted as he stripped off and joined me. “I have a better idea. Let’s fuck.” He ran his hands down my back and gripped my ass.
“As romantic as that prospect sounds, I want to talk.” I pushed him away. He frowned and turned to face the water. I cranked on the side nozzles full blast, which forced him close to me again. “Ian, honey, taking care of pregnant ladies is what you love best. I know it. And I promise I won’t be jealous of all that pussy you’ll be looking at and touching all day long.”
He sighed and reached for me, burying his nose in my hair. “I can’t, Lil. I just can’t. I left that behind. You know why.”
I slapped him away. “Stop distracting me. You’re wasted at that damn drug clinic. Plus, it’s not safe. Remember what happened last month?”
He rolled his eyes and picked up the shampoo. “That was a fluke. We have armed guards now, even though I don’t like them because they scare people and keep them from the treatment they need.”
“That fucking wasteoid creep almost killed your best nurse,” I reminded him, grabbing the shampoo bottle and pouring some into my hand. I worked up suds, then we traded places so I could rinse it out. I knew he liked doing this for me so this tiny rebellion was one of my ways of letting him know the full effect of my displeasure.
I tried to ignore him as he teased my nipples through the sluicing suds and hot water, but he knew my hot buttons too well, and by the time he had his hand between my legs, I was panting, and shoving him down onto the tiled bench that lined one wall.
