“That . . . makes sense.”
Noah scratches at the back of his neck, looking out of sorts, finally clearing his throat as he rises from his desk chair. “Okay. So I’ll just . . .”
I don’t remember going to a complete standing position, and I notice my pulse has picked up a few dozen beats in anticipation. I reason that it is nothing more than a biological response, some hormonal nonsense that I have no control over. I have to remind myself that this is business, just a necessary thing that we have to do to keep up our ruse.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Yeah, you can.”
I sidestep the desk to try and meet him halfway, wanting to get this over with.
It’s a damned hug, I think. Stop acting like a schoolgirl.
I can see Noah struggling with it, the awkwardness of it all, and I try to ease the tension by holding my arms out and giving him what I hope is an encouraging smile. “Lay it on me, I guess.”
“Right.” Yeah, he still looks entirely too serious for my liking. It makes this weirder. “I’ll just—”
He reaches out like he’s approaching a baby deer, hands cautious of where they are touching as his large frame invades my personal space. I feel his fingers at my waist first, his thumbs skimming across the front pocket of my scrubs as his palms apply a light pressure on either side of me, and the sensation of his hands curling around to find the small of my back makes my breath catch. I hope he didn’t hear it.
“Sorry,” he whispers again. “I’ll be quick.”
I think I nod, but he’s too close for comfort now, his scent clouding my senses as he pulls me to him. I close my eyes when my cheek presses against his chest, the button of his doctor’s coat biting there slightly as I feel his face press into my hair. At first, I think I’m imagining the way one of his hands seems to climb higher on my spine, but when it presses between my shoulder blades as if trying to bring me closer, I have to reevaluate that assessment.
I realize I’m waiting for it, suspended in a state of wanting to hold my breath and breathe in deep as I wait for his skin to touch mine and leave behind a piece of himself. I feel it in a brush of his nose first, the faint sound of him inhaling as the tip of it skims along my throat, and I swallow thickly as my fingers unconsciously curl into the fabric of his coat to steady myself. Which is necessary since my knees are doing that stupid Jell-O thing again.
He’s shaved since the last time he did this, his cheek smooth when it presses warm against my neck, and I could be imagining the way he trembles ever so slightly, but I don’t think so. There’s a sound in his chest like a groan but softer when his throat slides across mine, and again there is that all-over tingle that prickles over my skin in response. It’s both pleasant and uncomfortable, like an itch that needs to be scratched, but I can’t reach.
It’s just your hormones, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything.
So why am I breathing so hard when he pulls away? And what’s more, why is he?
It doesn’t help that his scent seems stronger now, and I have to assume this has something to do with him stopping suppressants—but the potency of it almost makes the room spin as I cling to him. There’s a warmth in my stomach and my chest that seems to pulse, and when I try to swallow, I find my throat dry. I close my eyes, thinking this might help me get a grip, but all it does is make all my other senses light up that much more. There is an impulse that is fleeting but strong, one that has me fantasizing about turning up my face and kissing him. Which I know is ridiculous. Not to mention ill-advised.
So why am I wondering what he tastes like all of a sudden?
“Sorry,” he says again. His sudden distance when he pulls away is almost a shock to my system, and I notice his eyes are a darker blue than they were a moment ago. “I didn’t mean to—” His lips press together as he clears his throat. “Sorry.”
I swallow, but it’s still difficult. “You keep saying that.” My voice sounds all wrong. “It’s just part of it, right?”
“Right,” he answers quietly, jaw tensing like he might be grinding his teeth. “Just part of it.”
I turn my face only so I don’t have to look at him anymore, pressing my nose to my shoulder. “I think . . . that’ll do.”
“Yeah.” I can see him nodding from the corner of my eye, slowly, like he’s in a daze. “That should, um, do it.”
I’m not sure when we realize that his hands are still resting gently against my hips, where they settled after he pulled away from me. He draws them back quickly like he’s embarrassed, averting his eyes. Oddly, I almost feel disappointed when he stops touching me.