Lynne Marshall - The Medic's Homecoming

She needed his help. Honestly.

Minutes later, Lucas glanced down at Jocelyn sprawled out on top of a long sheet of butcher paper on the hardwood floor of the Howards’ family room. She handed him a pencil.

“I need you to trace my body.”

Three seconds ago he’d watched her on all fours with her backside up in the air, while she unrolled and smoothed out the thick brown paper. Now, her long legs lay beneath him in form-fitting jogging shorts. His gaze trailed upward, grateful she’d put on a T-shirt over the black sports bra, which was outlined through the thin white material. One slender arm reached out, extending a black wax pencil to him.

“Outline?”

She smiled up at him, oblivious to the battle she’d ignited between his head and body. Good old Jocelyn, the little girl next door versus the come-hither sex kitten stretched out on butcher paper reaching for him.

“I do this every semester,” she said, sounding like usual but looking anything but. “I used to have Rick help me, but …”

He took the pencil. “Every semester.” A crazy pinch of jealousy over Rick outlining her took him by surprise.

“Yeah. I have every student do the same thing in class. Then, as we learn about each system, we add organs to our ‘bodies.’” She used air quotes. “By the end of the year, they have a great study aid for the final exam.” She bent one knee and casually crossed the other over it, folding her arms across her chest. Maybe she did have a clue because he’d forgotten his manners and had stared at her chest for the past few seconds.

He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes upward to her face. “So where should I start?” His voice sounded foreign as she resumed the position and he dropped to his knees.

“You can start at my head.” She beamed an encouraging smile. She couldn’t possibly know how awkward this felt, not to mention the sexy visions flashing through his mind.

The room became deadly quiet except for the crinkling of butcher paper and his breathing. Their eyes caught for an instant. His fingertips tingled, and he quickly looked away. She finished repositioning herself into the dead man’s pose with legs outstretched and arms at her sides.

Lucas kneeled over her and began to trace, focusing on the work and not the person. Her hair was fine, rich brown and lustrous, with emphasis on the lust. Geez, he’d been watching too many TV commercials since he’d gotten home. Lustrous? Her neck was long, like that of a ballet dancer. The only reason he knew about ballet dancers’ necks was because Mom had talked him into watching Black Swan with them last week. Her shoulders were broader than most women’s, but not manly-broad, definitely not. Hell, she was an athlete, so what did he expect?

Her arms only gave the impression of being thin. Fine muscles overlapped and cut a subtle, sturdy shape that made him want to touch them. Show me what you got . He was careful not to make contact with her skin, only allowing the thick-tipped pencil to do that.

Do not look at her face or into her eyes .

He concentrated on the task at hand.

“I want them to be together,” she said. Her husky voice broke the stretching silence.

“What?” He looked at her face— damn —and into her eyes— crap .

“Anne and Jack. Have you noticed the chemistry between them?” She stared at the ceiling, and he was grateful she didn’t see how closely he examined her mouth as each word rolled out.

He cleared his throat. “I haven’t been around them much.” Realizing he was hovering over her in a lover’s position, he sat back on his haunches. “But I noticed how preoccupied Anne has been. She’s been real touchy whenever anyone brings up Jack’s name.” He went back to outlining her torso, hip and bare-fleshed thigh, wishing for a longer pencil. Anything to avoid touching her skin. “She missed her plane yesterday, but Jack took her to the airport today.”

“Great. Maybe they can trade weekends for a while until they …”

Three quarters of the way down her thigh, his thumb made contact. The surge of electricity shot up his fingers and into his arm. “Sorry.” He quickly traced the safe region of her bony knee. Dimples? Her kneecap had dimples. Had he ever seen cute kneecaps before?

A safe distance from her eyes and steady gaze, he traced down to her ankle and her bare feet. A soft pink pedicure made him smile. What would she do if he ran his fingers over her toes?

“You think they’ll ever get together?”

His little fantasy dissolved. “No way of telling. Anne’s pretty stubborn.” The pencil began its journey up the inside of her leg. Satiny-smooth flesh waited to be traced. He swallowed hard. Three-quarters of the way up her inner thigh, the pencil made a sharp left turn, as if it had a mind of its own, making a saggy square-bottom effect. She didn’t really expect him to go all the way, did she?

He began the descent back to her other knee and foot, taking a second look at the pretty pink nail polish, around and up the outside of her leg, as attractive as the other. She must have realized what she’d asked him to do was torture. Since when had little Jocelyn Howard become a tease?

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