My Shameful Secret Page 10

  Scribbling my signature on the logbook, I ask, “Would it be possible for me to know who handed it in?”

  The clerk takes out another book from under the counter and flipping the pages, she says, “Normally, yes, but…” She shows me the receipt page for my journal. “Maintenance found it outside E.R, but the person didn’t bother giving any personal details.” She gives me an apologetic smile, saying, “We have a rule about respecting people’s privacy if they choose not to share their identity.”

  “Oh. Okay.” That’s weird. Why wouldn’t someone from maintenance want to share his or her personal details?

  “I’m sorry about this,” the clerk apologizes.

  “It’s okay,” I reassure her swiftly. “I just thought I’d like to thank whoever found it in person.”

  As I walk back to Accounting, I feel like I’ve been reborn and I have this stupid urge to throw my arms wide open as a show of gratitude. Thank You God! I will never ever be so careless---

  Oooh.

  I stop dead in my tracks, stunned to find Mr. X a few feet away from me, talking to someone from Registrar. As always, he looks way, way hotter than any man has a right to be, and maybe it’s just me but I think he looks even sexier when he’s in scrubs, like now.

  It could be the way those short sleeves emphasize the muscles in his arms – he can’t possibly have gotten that from lifting scalpels, can he?

  Or maybe it’s how the tight-fitting scrubs mold to his lean form, which you can just tell is hard all over.

  Bottom line: You’re just too sexy, Mr. X.

  And when I look around me, I see on the other women’s faces that they’re thinking the same thing.

  They want you, Mr. X. But they only want you for your body. I’m different. I want EVERYTHING about you---

  My fingers unconsciously reach for my Hobo, but I manage to stop myself in time.

  You can write about this later, I tell myself firmly. The last time I did a bit of impromptu journaling, I ended up losing my Hobo, and I’m determined not to take a similar risk again.

  Since there’s no way to get to Accounting without walking past Mr. X I head to the waiting area near the entrance doors and settle down on one of the vacant seats. Now I can journal.

  And so I start scribbling away.

  * * *

  1018H

  I found you, Hobo! I am so sorry I lost you, and I promise never to do it again.

  In other news, I actually spotted Mr. X and he’s in SCRUBS. You know what that means, right?

  It’s one of my fave fantasies, of him pulling me into – I don’t know – a closet or what-not and making…You can fill in the blanks.

  * * *

  My face is burning by the time I slide the pen back into its holder and snap my journal close. Must be the stress, I tell myself, that’s making me, umm, more sensually inclined than usual.

  Standing up, I take a peek around the doorway to see if Mr. X has already left---

  And that’s when our eyes meet.

  I quickly pull back and collapse in my seat. Please let that just be my imagination. Please.

  A shadow falls over me.

  Please.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, still in denial. Please go away, shadow. Or at least please let this shadow be anyone but Mr. X.

  Please.

  More seconds tick by but I can still feel someone’s presence next to me.

  Gulping, I slowly open my eyes and look up.

  Blue-gray eyes once again blaze down on me, and they’ve such depths that I finally realize what it means to drown in a person’s eyes.

  “You’re the woman from last night.”

  Mr. X’s succinct tone makes me feel like I’m facing an FBI investigation, and I straighten in my seat a little as I stammer, “Y-yes, Dr. Blackmore.”

  “You know my name.”

  “Y-yes, sir.” Does he really not know that everyone working in this hospital is aware of who he is?

  “From what department?”

  “A-Accounting.” Unease starts to pool in my stomach. I still don’t see where this conversation is going, but I have this really nasty feeling I’m in trouble.

  “Walk with me, please.”

  And just like that Mr. X walks away.

  I’m left gaping, my senses rattled, but the distance between us continues to grow, I hastily scramble to my feet, realizing too late he doesn’t intend to wait for me.

  Oh dear.

  As I hurry after him, a part of me is still reeling, unable to figure out what’s happening. When I finally make it to his side, he’s already reached the edge of the hallway, and he says coolly, “You took too long.”

  Still trying to catch my breath after my unplanned sprint, I stammer unevenly, “S-sorry.”

  “Your name?”

  “Anisia, Dr. Blackmore.” I’m torn between confusion and an unreasonable sense of disappointment. How can this man ask me to walk with him without knowing my name?

  Bypassing the elevator, Mr. X takes the stairs, and I follow him, despite feeling even more confused.

  Mr. X glances at me, and my bemusement must have been visible on my face when he murmurs, “You’re wondering what this is all about.”

  I bite my lip. How do I answer that?

  As we take on another flight of stairs, Mr. X continues casually, “I’ve seen you stalking me.”

  Right.

  He’s seen me stalking---

  Wait.

  What?

  I trip over my own feet, missing a step, and I let out a gasp as I feel myself falling back.

  Long, hard fingers encircle my wrist, and then I’m being firmly pulled back.

  “Careful.” Mr. X’s voice has suddenly become rough.

  His touch burns my skin, and as soon as I regain my balance I try to yank my wrist away, but instead of letting go his grip tightens.

  “D-Doctor?” I try to pull my hand away again, but he still doesn’t release me, and I no longer know what to do or say. I don’t even know how to feel. Terrified? Confused? Excited? I feel it all…and so, so much more.

  “You heard what I said.”

  The words make me jerk. “I…” Oh God. “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Liar.” But his silky tone makes the taunt feel like it means something else, and my face burns as an unnatural kind of heat sweeps over me.

  Oh God.

  Is the prospect of being found out actually turning me on?

  “You probably thought you were being discreet, but you weren’t.” Each word is a caress, and I can’t help emitting a low, shaken gasp when his fingers release me from its grip – allowing me to think I’m free for just a moment – before the same hand moves to the small of my back.

  Oooooh.

  No man has ever touched me there, and the intimacy of it makes me feel ridiculously delirious.

  The hand on my back presses closer to my skin, and I instinctively yield to the pressure of his silent invitation. As we walk up the stairs next to each other, he says, “You’re always there when I take a break at the cafeteria.” His hand presses closer to my back as if to emphasize his point, and it’s all I can do to keep my knees from quaking. “You show up at the back of the hallway when I make my rounds. And on the times I leave work early, I see you seated on one of the benches facing the parking lot.”

  Oh God.

  He really does know everything.

  “You’re aware I can have you arrested for stalking?”

  A cry escapes me, and I raise my head, intending to plead with him, but before I can say a word I see him stop in front an unlabeled door.

  He takes out a key from his pocket and after unlocking the door, he gestures for me to step inside. “If you please.” His tone is politely commanding, and I force my limbs to work, knowing I have no choice.

  Stepping inside, I realize we’re inside a supplies closet---

  No way! It’s just like a scene straight out of my fantasies!

  I spin around when I hear the door close behind me. “S-sir?”

  Mr. X reaches for me, and before I realize what’s happening, he already has me up against the door, his body pressing against mine.

  I gasp.

  And then I see the look in his blue-gray eyes.

  Desire.

  For me.

  “You’re not the first woman to have stalked me.” His voice is still rough, but this time I understand where the roughness is coming from and my body starts to burn.

  “The harmless ones I simply ignore. The psychotic ones, I let security quietly deal with.”

  “I’m the harmless type,” I blurt out.

  Mr. X answers swiftly, “I don’t think so.”

  My eyes widen. Does that mean he think I’m a psycho?

  “Because if you are, I wouldn’t have made a move.”

  My mouth opens and close. Does that mean what I think it means? Does it? I want to think it does, but I’m just so inexperienced with things like this that I truly have no clue.

  Exasperation gleams in Mr. X’s blue-gray eyes. “I’m saying I want you, woman.”

  Oh!

  “It still beats the hell out of me, but I actually enjoyed having you stalk me.”

  He did?

  “I’ve been impatiently waiting for you to make a move…”

  He was?

  “But last night made me realize that you were never going to make one.” Mr. X shakes his head in visible disbelief. “You might be content with how things were, but it was never enough for me.”

  It wasn’t?

  “So I’m making the first move.” Mr. X cups my face as he speaks, and my eyes fly wide open. I’m still struggling to make sense of his words when his next action makes everything clear.

 
His head descends.

  Oh my God.

  And then his mouth covers mine, and in a flash I understand what he means by making his first move.

  His lips are unbelievable soft and yet firm at the same time. The taste of his kiss is sweet and forbidden, the feel of it hot, wicked, and irresistible.

  It’s my first kiss, and I know I could never have asked for a better one.

  His mouth presses harder, his tongue delving in, and I gasp against his lips.

  “Breathe, Anisia,” he mutters.

  The words penetrate the dreamy haze in my mind, and it’s only then I realize that I haven’t been breathing.

  His tongue strokes deeper into my mouth, and my hands curl into fists against my side.

  Oh, this kiss is just too, too good.

  I dimly feel his hands reaching for mine, bringing them up to his shoulders, and as soon as I understand what he’s asking me to do, I wrap my arms around him and my body automatically molds closer to his.

  He groans against my mouth, and his arms lock around me as he yanks me hard towards him, so, so close our breathing becomes one.

  “Kiss me back,” he orders.

  And so I do, tentatively at first, but when I hear him groan another time I gain more confidence and I suck harder at his tongue.

  The heat inside of me swirls more furiously, and my heart thunders harder against my chest.

  Mr. X starts to grind his body against mine, and I can’t help whimpering when I feel the unmistakable impression of his rigid arousal against my belly.

  Oh, oh God.

  I know I’m being shamelessly wanton, but I just can’t help rubbing myself against him at that point. It’s like I’m caught up in this maelstrom of sensation and my thoughts have no power in it.

  All I can do is feel, and oh God, but Mr. X is soooo good at making me feel.

  His mouth lifts from mine, and I cry out in protest.

  But then I feel his mouth move down the side of my neck, and my toes curl hard when he starts to nibble on the sensitive skin.

  And then I feel him start to suck.

  Harder.

  And harder.

  I jerk against him. “N-no!” Is he actually trying to make a hickey? “Wait---”

  But Mr. X continues to torture me with his branding kiss.

  My hands move between our bodies as I try to push him away, but it’s no use. I try to pull away from his mouth, but his kiss has latched to my skin.

  “Noooo.” But even to my ears the sound is a mixture of excitement and pleasure instead of dismay, and my face burns with shame.

  Oh God.

  I’m turning into a slut with just one kiss!

  When Mr. X finally lifts his head, I demand shakily, “Why did you do that?” I can’t help clutching the side of my neck, wondering wildly all the while how I’m going to hide his mark.

  Instead of answering my question, he says silkily, “If you want me, I’m sure you know where to find me.” And then he steps away, leaving me feeling strangely lost and empty. “The next move is yours, sweetheart.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Liar.” But again, the word sounds more like a sexual taunt than anything else, and I can’t help shivering at the way his eyes roam over my body like they’re undressing bit by bit.

  “You understand exactly what I mean. You’re just too scared to admit it.” I stiffen when he reaches for me, and my teeth sink into my lower lip when he pries my hand away from my neck. As his fingers graze the burning mark on my skin, he says softly, “If this mark disappears without you approaching me, then it’s over between us, no questions asked.”

  His fingers fall from my skin. “So remember, Anisia. The next move must come from you.”

  Chapter 3

  That’s impossible! Google has to be wrong on this one. Right?

  But I know I’m just denying reality.

  Google is always right, and so if it says that hickeys typically last five to twelve days – then it must be so.

  A growing sense of disbelief fills me as I continue reading. Moreover, according to the all-knowing search engine, some hickeys – depending on their severity- can last even longer.

  My gaze swerves to my reflection, and I feel myself turning red as the sight of the huge, dark red mark on the side of my neck once again confronts me.

  Yup. That’s totally the illustrated definition of severe.

  My heart sinks and jumps at the same time. It’s just as hopelessly confused as I am about the entire thing with Mr. X. Five days have already passed, and I still can’t believe all those things have happened.

  A part of me is still convinced it’s all just a dream. It has to be a dream because it’s only in dreams that men like Mr. X would want someone like me.

  Right?

  When Ginger finally drops by for a sleepover, I’m only able to wait until she closes the door before I spill everything out. Considering how she interrupts my story with “No fucking way” every five minutes, I’m guessing everything sounds as unrealistic to her as it does to me.

  So I must be dreaming.

  Right?

  When I finally finish recounting the whole Twilight-Zone episode between Mr. X and me, we’re done with dinner and already helping ourselves to the box of cheesecake Ginger’s brought over.

  “This is so good,” I tell her.

  “No, babe.” Ginger shakes her head with a laugh. “This cheesecake is just good. It’s your story that’s so good.”

  I can’t help laughing a little at her answer, but even so I say wryly, “It’s so good there has to be a catch, don’t you think?”

  My best friend rolls her eyes at me. “There you go again being paranoid. How many times do I have to tell you? Life isn’t out to shit on your parade. Bad things happen. But good things do, too, so stop focusing on the bad stuff.”

  “But this is too good,” I protest. “Mr. X---”

  “Can’t we use his real name?” Ginger interrupts me with a frown. “It just feels weird calling him that. Makes the whole thing too kinky.”

  I shake my head. “Mr. X is the only way we should refer to him. It’s safer that way.”

  “You’re so paranoid,” Ginger says with a sigh.

  “Always better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Fiiiiine. Mr. X it is. Now back to your dilemma.” A look of feigned puzzlement crosses her face. “Oh, wait. What’s the problem again? Mr. X the hottie wants you, and so all you have to do is tell him when you want him to kiss you again. Right? So what’s the problem with that again?”

  I make a face. “Ha. Ha.”

  “I’m asking, like, for real. What is the problem?”

  I throw my hands up in exasperation. “You know what my problem with the whole thing is!”

  “Yeah, I know,” she retorts, “that’s why I’m sure you also know that what I’m saying here is there’s isn’t a problem in the first place. What he’s proposing in not so many words is a fling. That’s it. A fling, so no need to overthink it.” She takes a piece of cake, making a show of savoring it, and the symbolism isn’t lost on me.

  I grimace. “Very funny.” What she’s asking me to do may be a piece of cake for her, but not for someone like me. “I just can’t do it,” I say for the nth time.

  “Then…” She blows a kiss.

  I can kiss my chances goodbye, I translate dourly.

  God, why did I even think it was a good idea to ask Ginger for advice?

  But I’m already grabbing my phone and my best friend lets out a whoop for joy. “Are you texting him?”

  “No.” I don’t look up from the screen. “I don’t have his number. I’m sending him an email instead.”

  Ginger nods approvingly. “Smart girl.”

  Gnawing on my lip, I study what I’ve typed so far.

  * * *

  Me: How do I make my move?

  * * *

  That should be okay, right?

  “Don’t overthink it,” Ginger reminds me.

  Oh. Right. So I take a deep breath and press Send.

  I lift my gaze to my friend, saying weakly, “I can’t believe I just emailed him.”

  Before Ginger can answer, we hear my phone vibrate, and we gasp simultaneously.

  “That’s unbelievably fast,” Ginger exclaims. “He must really have the hots for you.”