Marion Lennox - Midwives On Call - Stealing The Surgeon's Heart

‘You’re cold, too,’ Harriet whispered, wincing when the biting water flamed her frozen flesh as she lowered her body into the stinging yet inviting heat. ‘Why don’t you—?’

‘Let me look after you, Harriet.’

Dipping a sponge into the water, he squeezed it around her neck, rivers of warmth running down her spine. He moved the sponge along her frozen arms in slow, ever-decreasing circles of warmth, even massaging her hands, taking each finger in turn, instilling warmth where there had been none.

‘Your knee.’ He squeezed the sponge again and she gave a tiny wince at the sting of the soapy water, but the pain was short-lived. Ciro guided the sponge length-ways now, his hand disappearing beneath the surface of the water and massaging her aching calves. And there was no rush, none at all, each feather-light stroke relaxing her more, yet moving her further into giddy submission. Sponge forgotten, he soaped his hands, his eyes adoring her. Strong fingers massaged the knots of tension from her shoulders, but as his hands moved lower everything changed. To that point it had been tender, blissfully sensual perhaps but loosely within the bounds of decency, but as he took the weight of her heavy, soapy breasts, she felt her throat constrict with desire, closed her eyes to the ecstasy of skilful fingers as they finally crossed that delicious line, his lips moving downwards in deep, throaty kisses along her neck, stealthily moving downwards with such slow, teasing precision Harriet could feed a needy moan welling in her throat, wanting, needing, desperate to feel his mouth around her nipples.

He obliged, taking the ripe, swollen delicacy in his mouth, his teeth gently nibbling her areola, the fizz of arousal coursing through her breasts. She wanted so badly to focus on the bliss but his hand was working up her legs. Tiny gasps of approval escaped her lips but her body was saying otherwise. Her thighs closed around the hand that was slowly inching upwards, stalling his decadent progress. Her hand captured his strong forearm in a vague attempt to push him away, scared almost to give in, unable to comprehend that this could be enough for him, that surely she must reciprocate, but a low throaty murmur dictated his pleasure, his mouth still working her breast but his hand hovering, stroking, softly stroking her thigh, patiently awaiting her total consent. Harriet gave in to him then, gave herself in a way she never had before, stopped trying to fight for control and willingly let him have it.

Completely.

Her legs wilfully parted, giving in to the delicious sensations he so skilfully inflicted, her neck arching, this slow delicious torture almost more than she could bear. Yet she didn’t want it to ever end, could feel his finger probing, parting the tender, engorged flesh of her hood, locating her precious jewel, applying little beats of pressure that made her want to weep, while his tongue still circled her nipple, drawing it to its delicious, tender length then pausing, holding her quivering mound in his loving hand, adoring her with his eyes.

‘I want to take you to bed…’ His low drawl was as erotic as his touch. ‘Since the moment I saw you, Harriet, it is all I have wanted to do.’

She understood, because she’d felt it, too, more than she’d even wanted to admit at the time, more than she’d dared acknowledge, but that stinging, brutal awareness she had felt had been undeniable. That it was culminating in this was inevitable almost.

He effortlessly scooped her up and carried her the short distance to the bedroom and she buried her face in his chest, tasting the salt of the ocean, revelling in the delicious scent of arousal. And Harriet knew she should have felt shy, should have felt naked and exposed as he laid her on the bed, but he imbued wanton confidence in her, the desire blazing in his eyes telling her she was doing OK. The pleasure was as much his as hers. Her needy hands tugged at his boxers, and she saw Ciro in full arousal. The sheer glorious naked strength of him gave her a shudder of nervous apprehension, and he sensed it.

‘I won’t hurt you, Harriet.’ Kneeling on the bed, he cupped the peach of her buttocks in his hand and, leaning over, kissed his way down the length of her writhing body. Achingly slowly he explored her with his tongue and at the scratch of his face on her stomach, the feel of his thighs parting hers, Harriet’s hands coiled in his jet hair. Her head thrashed on the pillow as he took her so close to the edge it was almost indecent, the fuse he had lit in the bathroom so damn close to detonation now that the knot of anxiety about accommodating him was replaced with sheer naked need, a need to have him inside her, to have him fill her. His name was a sob on her parted lips as she begged him to enter her, but even his skilful foreplay, her greedy anticipation of the moment didn’t come close to the power of him inside her, that first delicious stab the trigger, her whole body toppling, a physical chain reaction so severe there was nothing she could do except go with it—moving with him, her calves around his waist, the sheen of his skin against her, her fingers pushing into his taut buttocks, greedy, desperate lips tasting his flesh as he bucked inside her. A frenzied convulsion engulfed her, a hot searing flush rushing along her spinal column, his buttocks tightening in the same rigid tune she moved to as he swelled further within her, spilled inside her. She’d never cried before while making love, but it was the only thing she could do now. The amassing of emotion, the sheer and utter release, followed by the tranquil post-coital bliss, culminating in quiet, cleansing tears. And through it all Ciro held her.

Held Harriet as if he’d never let her go.

COOGEE BEACH was arguably the best place in the world to get over a broken relationship or even to forge a new one!

Restaurants designed for lovers were on every corner, subdued lighting and informal couches where you could feed each other on today’s early morning catches. Or you could just wander along the busy streets and stop at any one of the trendy cafés and watch the world go by. But as Harriet’s strength, along with her confidence, returned more and more, they strayed from their haven, taking endless beachside walks right up to Bondi, following the tracks, stopping along the way to marvel at the sandstone, the colours so rich, from saffron-yellow to burnt orange, that they looked as if they’d been painted for effect, poking sticks into tiny rock pools or just stopping a while, Ciro lying on his side, watching with a lazy smile as Harriet popped seaweed.

‘Your skin is like the sandstone!’ Harriet gave him a queer look and Ciro laughed. ‘I meant the many colours, not the texture. First it was pale, then pink, then angry red…’

‘Don’t remind me.’ Harriet winced, her lobster impression not quite a distant enough memory to joke about yet.

‘But now it is…’ His hand brushed the sand from her thigh, staring thoughtfully at the million freckles dusting her legs.

‘Freckly,’ Harriet said for him, just a touch uncomfortable under his scrutiny, wishing she could be as olive-skinned and as long-limbed as the Mediterranean beauties he was undoubtedly used to, still scarcely able to fathom that a man as stunning as Ciro, a man so used to delectable women, could really find her as beautiful as he regularly insisted that she was.

‘Are you nervous about going back to work tomorrow?’ His hand was still there, stroking the tiny blonde hairs upwards, causing tiny shivers of electricity at his mere touch. Harriet finally nodded.

‘I feel like I’ve been away for months, not just two weeks.’

‘A lot has happened in that time,’ Ciro said, and Harriet forgot the seaweed she was idly popping and stared out at the crystal-clear water, one part of her wishing it was this time tomorrow, that her first awkward day back was over and done with, while the other wished that they could just stay like this for ever.