Dr. Chase Hudson (The Surrogate Book 2) (7 page)

“
Fuck me.”
Perfect. Every inch. From
her toes (the second one on her left foot turning just ever so
slightly in toward the big one) to her shapely legs, to the small
pinpoint of a birth mark on her ribs, to the dusty pink nipples on
her breasts. Just... perfect.

My hand pressed down onto her ribs. “Ava,
breathe,” I told her and watched as her chest shook when she
finally inhaled. My hand slid upward, the edge of my finger just
barely brushing the underside of her breast. “Babe, you're
perfect,” I told her what I had been thinking. In my eyes, she
was. “I can't wait to touch these,” I admitted, my thumb
stroking the soft underside of her breast. Her whole body shivered.
“So sensitive,” I murmured, thinking of all the ways I
could exploit that, show her how wonderful that was. I forced my hand
away before I crossed a line, letting it slide down her belly and
making her back arch up off the mattress. Fuck. Yeah. “Okay,”
I said on a sigh, trying to control myself. “Why don't you roll
onto your stomach sweetheart.”

“Why?”

“Please,” I said, the word tense. I was
fucking struggling. That was new for me. I needed a few minutes to
pull myself together.

She looked at me, then down my body before moving to
turn. My hand grabbed her hip, sinking in for a second before I
forced myself to let her go so she could roll over.

My hands moved over her soft skin as I tried to ignore
the way she shifted and shivered and sucked in her breath.

Unable to help myself, my hands moved over the plump
roundness of her ass, shaking my head at myself. I was never so lost
before, so at the mercy of my own sex drive. Because the next second,
my hand shifted to the underside of her ass, hovering over the
juncture of her thighs, feeling the heat from her pussy. A pussy that
I would bet my last dollar was wet.

“Are you wet for me, Ava?” Her head nodded
slightly. “I can't wait to touch and taste and
feel
that.” All I could comfort myself with was... soon. I would be
able to run my fingers up her slick heat, stroke her clit until she
was straining, push my finger inside her until she came, crying out
my name. Then I could bury my face between her thighs, letting her
sweetness coat my tongue as I drove her up, her legs closing around
my head, her hands holding me to her. Fuck, then I could ease my
throbbing cock inside her and make us both fall apart.

Soon
.

My hands drifted down her thighs before I moved away.
“Okay,” I said, getting onto my back and patting my
chest. Don't ask me why, but I needed her there. “Come over
here.”

She practically flew at me, resting her head on my
chest and sinking into me easily. Like we had done it a thousand
times before. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

We stayed like that for a long time, her nestled
against me, my hands lazily moving up her back, through her hair,
over her hip.

Until I heard her stomach growl angrily.

I chuckled and spoke before I thought it through. It
came out naturally. Like it would have if we were just any two
people- just a man and a woman, not patient and doctor.

“Your belly is growling. Let's go get you some
food.”

And with that, I crossed yet another professional line.

But there was already no going back.

After the Session

I did something I had never done before.

I dressed her.

And it was slow. And sensual. And almost as intimate as
holding her.

Then she, very timidly but with steady hands, buttoned
my shirt.

And I took her to a restaurant.

Like we were a normal couple on a date.

“Come on,” I said, offering her my hand to
help her out of the car. “Get your pretty little ass out here,”
I said, grinning.

“Well if you're going to put it that way,”
she laughed, taking my hand, moving to pull it away as soon as she
was on her feet, but I held it tighter, interlocking our fingers as I
led her inside.

I knew I lost her by the time I walked up to the
hostess podium. She was there, walking with me, her hand in mine, but
she was a million miles away. You could practically feel the wall
between us. “Ava where are you?” I asked as the hostess
placed the menus.

“Nowhere important,” she said, shaking her
head as if to clear it as she scooted into the booth and picked up
her menu. She was very carefully, but also very pointedly avoiding my
eye contact.

When I moved in beside her, she moved her body away. It
was subtle, but it was poignant. I sighed inwardly, looking at my
menu. “Doesn't matter what you order, I guarantee it will be
the best Italian you've ever had.”

Then she told me about her little mom and pop Italian
place by her apartment, her eyes bright, her speech more open and
friendly than it usually was. Inclusive. That's what it was. It was
Ava, the whole package. Just the barest hint of it. Because then we
were tasting the wine and she was shutting herself back away again.

“What's the matter?”

Her back immediately straightened, her entire demeanor
changing. Shifting. “Nothing,” she said simply.

“Don't lie, Ava,” I said. My tone sounded
defeated even to my own ears. “If you don't want to tell me,
that's fine. But don't lie.”

“Fine,” she snapped. Snapped. Like she was
angry. “I don't want to talk about it.” Hell, she even
punctuated her point with a glare in my direction. I couldn't help
it. I laughed. “What?” she said, her eyes getting small.

“Kitty has claws,” I said quietly as the
waiter came to take our order.

The silence hung for a few minutes before I broke it.
“What happened?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her tone
guarded.

“Well, each step you took from the car to the
booth, you got more and more tense. And then, sitting here, staring
at your menu but not actually reading it, you got positively ramrod
straight. Something was going on in that head of yours.”

Her tone was cold, hell, practically frigid when she
spoke. “Are we on my time right now?”

“Your time?” I asked, not understanding.
Not her question, but also not her tone.

“Yes, my time. Like... is this part of the
whole... experience?”

The restaurant. The small talk. She wanted to know if
it was part of her therapy. Shit. God damn it. “What? No,”
I said, shaking my head.

“Then maybe you shouldn't be trying to analyze
me,” she barked at me.

I felt my brow rise. “I'm not trying to analyze
you, Ava. I am trying to understand why you are looking at me like I
am suddenly a different person,” I started. She opened her
mouth to interrupt, to object, but I cut her off, “A person you
hate.”

“I don't hate you,” she said too quickly
for it to be anything other than the truth. I watched as something
happened to her face. A tightness in her jaw. A gritting of her
teeth. A hardening of her eyes.

“There. Right there. What are you thinking to
make you look at me like that?”

“Maybe it's just my face,” she brushed it
off, smirking.

“No. Your face is soft and sweet and gorgeous
enough to launch a thousand god damn ships.” I paused, taking a
breath. “Why won't you talk to me?”

“Do you do this to everyone?”

“Do what?”

“Try to browbeat them into telling you what they
are thinking. Not all our thoughts are meant to be shared you know.”

“I'm not...” I started to object, but she
had a point. She was right. I was browbeating her. I was pushing
where it wasn't my place. Which was not okay both professionally or
personally. No matter how pure my motives. I exhaled a frustrated
breath. “Okay. We are just going to let that go. All of it.
Time for a subject change.”

There was a long pause and I knew she was struggling
with her social anxiety but I was honestly just in no place to be
carrying the conversation so I couldn't help her out. “Do you
have any siblings?”

I felt myself smile. “Ten or fifteen close ones.”

I didn't tell everyone the foster care story. It wasn't
a happy one. It wasn't even a neutral one. It was a giant sore spot
full of nights crying in unfamiliar bedrooms surrounded by kids who I
had never met who let me have my privacy to mourn over what I had
lost. Because they had no comfort to offer. Because they were just
giant gaping wounds like I was too.

I wasn't sure why I told her. Because she was so
exposed to me? Because I wanted to even the playing field? Somehow, I
didn't think that was it. I was pretty sure there was a part of me, a
part of me I didn't quite understand because it didn't quite make
sense, that just... wanted her to know me. Not as her doctor. Not as
her surrogate. Just... as a person.

Her big brown eyes got sad when I told her, to the
point of glistening for me and the little kid I used to be. Helpless.
Dragged away from the only person I knew and tossed with strangers.
She knew. She had tried working at child services. She couldn't
stomach it. All the crying. The pain. The families torn apart. It was
heartbreaking to be on the outside of it, but she knew how much worse
it was to be on the inside.

Then she reached down, took my hand, and laced it with
mine. When she looked up at me, I swear to Christ... her heart was in
her eyes.

It was a moment I wanted to sear into my memory so I
could never forget it.

But it was a moment ended to soon with the sound of our
meal arriving.

“Are you going to eat or just keep pushing the
lettuce around?” I asked after watching her for a minute.

And damn if she didn't stab a fork full, shove it into
her mouth until it was almost too full to talk around and glowered at
me. “Happy?”

I threw my head back and laughed, caught off guard yet
again by another unexpected look at the real Ava.

I shook my head, reaching out and rubbing my thumb
across her lip where some dressing was and brought it to my lips and
licked it off. Her eyes went from teasing to downright hot. Turned
on. Completely. “Having some dirty thoughts, huh?” I
teased, not able to help myself.

“You wish,” she said, her gaze falling from
mine.

We both knew she was lying. But I was going to let it
slide. “Damn straight I do.”

I caught her eyeing my ziti and we ended up sharing.
Well, by 'sharing' I mean she ate more of my food than I did. And she
surprised me (and likely herself) by steering the conversation
without needing to be prompted to. She asked me about college. Where
I went. What was it like? The topics stayed safe, tame. She didn't
ask about how I got into surrogacy. Not that I expected her to. That
wasn't her style. She was too shy. Too worried about crossing a
socially unacceptable line.

She told me more about her family who seemed like they
had been overbearing as she grew up and that she had to move away
from them as an adult to finally learn how to keep them at a
metaphorical distance.

Too soon, the check arrived. I paid. We got into my car
and we drove back to the parking garage by my office.

I got out and walked her to her car, both of us having
words that we needed to say. And both of us keeping them to ourselves
for our own reasons. My hand raised, wanting to stroke down her
cheek. Wanting her to look at me with warmth in her eyes. But I had
already crossed too many lines. My hand dropped numbly by my side.
“Monday. Seven,” I said, then got in my car. I waited for
her to get into hers and get it started, then pulled away.

What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

I parked in front of my apartment building, nodding at
the concierge as I made my way to the elevator, riding in it in a
surly kind of silence. I was mad at both myself and what seemed to be
an impossible situation.

The doors dinged as they opened and I moved out only to
stop short.

“Chase, man,” a man's voice reached me,
making my head snap to search for it. Then there he was. Eddie. A
year older than me. Sitting beside my apartment door like he had been
there a while, a silver flask halfway to his mouth as if he wasn't
fucked up enough to begin with.

“Eddie,” I said, feeling resignation
replace everything else inside. “What are you doing here?”

“Can't a man come see his foster brother?”
he slurred, pushing himself up off the ground.

I moved to help him up, wincing when he wavered on his
feet. Eddie was one of the ten or fifteen that I told Ava I kept
close. Why... I wasn't sure. Maybe because of the one time when I was
eight and trying to walk home from school when two kids two grades
older than me started pushing me around and Eddie came out from
nowhere, only a year older but street smart and scrappy, and let out
a slew of curses and threats that I hardly even understood, but the
kids threw up their hands and walked away. They never messed with me
again.

Or maybe it was the time when we had both reconnected
in a group home when I was sixteen and he came in bloodied and
bruised from getting caught trying to pick someone's pocket... but he
came in smiling and he treated me to pizza.