Chapter 7: Not a Patient

His penthouse was on the top floor of a tower two blocks from the hospital.

He unlocked the door and stood back to let me through, and neither of us turned on a light.

The city came through the windows in long white bars.

"Somebody was in my private drive," Ronan said behind me. "I'll have it traced in the morning."

He closed the door.

"Tonight I want you somewhere she can't reach you."

"Not the drive," I said. "Not tonight."

I turned around.

"I filed this morning at eight, before the vote. My lawyer stamped it. I'm not married to him in any way that counts."

He set his keys on the table very slowly.

"You told me you don't touch married women," I said.

"I did."

"Then say it again, now."

He crossed the dark room in four steps.

His hands came up to my face and he kissed me, and it was nothing like the roof.

It was slow and it was starving, and I opened my mouth under his and heard myself moan.

"You're not a patient," he said against my lips. "You're not his wife in any way I care about."

His mouth dragged to my jaw.

"You're the woman I've had in my head for a week."

"Then take me to bed."

"Not yet."

He lifted me onto the kitchen island.

The stone was cold through my skirt, and I gasped, and he caught the sound in his mouth.

He pulled my blouse over my head.

He undid my bra with one hand and dropped it on the floor.

Then he stood back a foot and looked at me by the light from the windows.

"Look at you," he said hoarsely.

"Ronan."

"Let me look."

His hands closed over my breasts.

The heat I had felt for months was nothing next to this.

His thumbs dragged over my nipples.

My back arched off the counter, and a high helpless sound came out of me.

"There," he said. "That's it. That's what your body has been asking for."

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