My Boyfriend and Friends Stole My Heart Surgery Fund for Their Trip novel · Chapter 30 of 32

Chapter 30: Cleared

The cardiologist was a tall woman with reading glasses on a chain.

She pressed two fingers along my scar for a long time without saying a word.

"Any pain on stairs?"

"No."

"On a deep breath?"

"No."

"Lifting, pulling, anything that puts weight on your chest?"

"I haven't tried," I said. "I've been told not to."

"By whom?"

"By everyone. By the dog."

She took off the glasses and let them drop on the chain.

"The bone has knit. The valve sounds beautiful. I'd like to see you at three months and again at a year." She wrote on the chart. "You're cleared, Ms. Merrow. For everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything a healthy twenty-eight-year-old does." She did not look up. "I understand someone has been waiting in my hall since seven."

Lorcan stood against the corridor wall with my coat over one arm and Biscuit's leash in his other hand.

He took one look at my face.

His throat moved.

"Everything," I said.

He didn't say a word.

He took me by the hand and walked me to the elevator, and then to the car.

Moss had spent the morning in my kitchen with one of the clinic techs.

She took one look at us, said "I'm leaving," and left.

We fed both dogs, quickly, without looking at each other.

I filled their water bowls and shut the kitchen door on the two of them and their rawhides.

When I turned around Lorcan was standing in the hall.

His jacket was already off.

"Six weeks," he said.

"Six weeks and two days."

"I knew every one of them."

"I know you did."

He took one step.

I took the other, and my back met the wall beside the bathroom door, and his mouth came down on mine.

It was nothing like the first time.

I wasn't angry.

I hadn't been angry for a long time, and the kiss had no room in it for anything but wanting.

He kissed me slow, and deep, and then not slow.

One hand was fisted in my hair, and the other was braced flat on the wall beside my head.

"You're sure?" he said against my jaw.

"Look at me."

He lifted his head.

"I have wanted you every day for six weeks," I said.

"I lay in that bed and listened to you breathe, and I could hardly stand it."

"Vicky."

"Take my clothes off."

His eyes went black.

He pulled my sweater over my head and dropped it, and unhooked my bra.

Then he did what I had imagined for weeks.

He kissed the scar.

He started at the top of my breastbone, soft, with his lips barely touching, and followed the line of it down.

It was thin and pink and still tender, and each press of his mouth went through me.

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