Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“I’m not feeling well,” I say, rubbing at my throat. “Achy. Shivering.”
With a smirk, he pushes up his glasses. “I have that effect on women.”
Inwardly, I cringe while he laughs at his own joke. “It’s my period,” I lie.
He melts back behind the screen, as if I’ve just summoned the devil. “Go.”
Coward.
“Thanks!”
I grab another coffee downstairs, needing something to do with my hands in all the excitement. It’s a beautiful day, so I decide to walk to the hospital and I’m still slightly early when I arrive, the crisp sterility of the surgical unit giving me a sense of homecoming. A sense of belonging. There is a group of medical students waiting to enter the viewing area for the surgery and they are clearly very curious about me, the girl dressed to seduce her boyfriend. One of these things is not like the other. And being here, seeing them in their scrubs, I’m hit with yearning so fierce, I have to focus on my breathing to get through it. I want to join them.
Slipping. You’re slipping.
Desperately, I try to remember why I promised my mother I’d never allow a man to support me. It’s only a matter of time before they lord it over you. Make you believe you’d be nothing without them and their money. They want you to be weak, so they can feel strong, but they’ll also punish you for that weakness.
Repeating those words to myself usually helps, but I can’t seem to apply them to Dean anymore. They don’t fit. But my mother also fell into a trap like this, didn’t she? Making excuses for her boyfriend? Do I have blinders on because of our intense physical relationship?
The door to the viewing gallery opens and the medical students file inside, me taking up the rear. I find a spot to the right, one row back, and try to absorb everything at once. The surgical team preparing the patient, making sure their tools are lined up, each one accounted for. And then Dean strides into the OR, hands gloved and raised in front of him, so he won’t touch anything and contaminate the latex. The lower half of his face is hidden by a mask, head covered with a scrub cap, dark hair sticking out at the back.
He towers over everyone. A presence.
“That’s him,” one of the male medical students whispers. “The Messiah.”
“Holy shit, he’s intimidating,” says a student with a red scrunchie.
“I couldn’t believe it when the notice went out about the lottery—the second one this year. He usually only does one. Wonder what changed?”
“Maybe he got a girlfriend who softened him up,” suggests red scrunchie.
“He did,” I say, automatically—then promptly flush to the roots of my hair.
And that’s when Dean looks up at me through the gallery glass, sharp brown eyes climbing the length of my thigh, so thoroughly exposed by the slit. It dances along my bare shoulders, dipping to my breasts. His head shakes slightly, just a slight tilt, and my entire body grows enormously warm. Because I know what that tilt means. It means I’m going to pay for wearing this dress later. It’s probably going to end up in tatters.
For the next four hours, I’m pretty sure I don’t move a muscle, my eyes focused on Dean’s hands, the methodical movements of the scalpels and clamps.
This is the surgery that should have given my father another fifty years of life.
This is the reason I want to be a surgeon.
I can achieve that dream, sooner rather than later. Is that what he’s trying to show me?
That question fades as I become more engrossed, along with the students. And I’m not just riveted by the surgery, but by the man. His authority, his confidence, his focus. A genius. The man is a genius, a saver of lives. He’s my lover. The power he exerts in the OR is detailed and focused, whereas he’s unleashed when we’re together. As he stitches the donor recipient up, completing the surgery, all I can think about is Dean’s harnessed energy. His control.
I listen to the students whisper about him in awe…and God help me, I’m turned on—in this longing, worshipful manner that I feel everywhere. In my throat and chest and loins. He’s the Messiah and I’m his girlfriend. I’m the one who is free to reward him, praise him, like he deserves. My body is already preparing to do so, growing damp and pliant at my core, every inch of my skin feverishly warm.
A hospital intern arrives to clear out the gallery and the medical students file out first, still giving me curious looks. Before I can walk out the door, I’m stopped by the intern who says flatly, “Please follow me, Miss Beck.”
“Oh…” There’s a wild fluttering in my veins. “Thank you.”
There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m being brought to Dean—and I’m correct.