Third Degree (27 page)

“Run away with you? Corny.” I laugh, but my entire body is getting hotter by the second. “And what do you mean, do this right? You didn’t think it was good the first time?”

Personally, I thought it was mind-blowing.

“It was amazing the first time.” Marshall presses his body to mine, dipping his head low to kiss my neck, my collarbone, my bare shoulders. “But I keep thinking about all the places on you that my lips haven’t touched yet, and I don’t know if you’re a girl who could possibly come more than once—I’d really love to find out. And we’ve only done it on a bed. Never a chair or a table …”

I close my eyes, and what should have been another laugh turns into a moan as Marshall slides my bra straps down and takes his time feeling each nipple with his fingertips.

“Or up against a wall,” he adds, reaching for the button on my jeans. “Where do you prefer, Izzy?”

I shake my head, my entire body melting into the wall. “Dinner … what about dinner?”

He captures my mouth with his and kisses me so hard, I have a feeling like I’ve been caught in a rough ocean wave and have lost track of where the surface is and where the ocean floor is.

“You want food involved?” he teases. “Want me to sprinkle soup on your nipples? That could be kinky.”

I laugh again, but the sound is swallowed when Marshall drops to his knees, unzips my jeans, and tugs them down around my ankles. “Yesterday when I was taking that quiz in anatomy, I kept looking at the diagram of the pelvic bone and lower extremities, trying to recall the muscle and bone names, but I kept visualizing you and your panties and guessing how long it would take to make you come with just my mouth.”

A sharp intake of air gives away how turned on I am right now. But really, what’s the point in hiding it? Marshall lifts his head and grins up at me. My arms are down and pressed flat against the wall. My chest is rising and falling rapidly. “Probably five minutes, maybe ten.”

I’m not used to this feeling—like he could command and I’d follow him anywhere. Marshall’s so laid-back that I don’t think of him as that kind of person, but there have been hints of it. Like the last time, when he stopped in the middle and made me admit that I wanted more than sex with him. But he hadn’t put the thought inside my head; he had only drawn it out of me and placed in the open for both of us to see.

“I’m going to shoot for two minutes,” Marshall says, gripping my hips and touching his mouth to my stomach. “And then again two minutes after that, and two minutes after that …”

There are no words to respond to that, especially with his mouth positioned on my inner thigh and his index finger hooking onto the crotch of my panties and sliding it over. That’s the point at which my brain shuts off. All the thoughts that normally fill my head nonstop while I’m awake evaporate, and it’s just me and Marshall—his mouth between my legs, his fingers inside me. My head flops back against the wall and my eyes flutter shut. Heat and tingling spread across my body until it explodes into blurry thoughts and Jell-O limbs.

Before my legs can give out on me, Marshall is on his feet, an arm hooked around my waist, the other hand behind me, unfastening my bra. I reach for him, holding the back of his neck and kissing the front. He steps away from me for only a moment, quickly dropping his own clothes onto the floor and yanking my feet out of my jeans and underwear. I stretch my arm out for a second, holding my palm against his chest so my gaze can roam up and down, taking in his entire naked self. I release a loud sigh when his bare chest eventually presses to mine and my fingers journey south, gripping him with one hand. He groans and leans into me.

“Hey,” I whisper, sliding my hand up and down him. “You don’t need condoms, okay?”

The words tumble out before I can really decide if it’s the right moment to mention that. He tenses, pulls back, and looks me over. “You sure? I have some in my bag …”

I grab his face and bring it to mine, foreheads touching. “I’m sure.”

Marshall kisses me for somewhere between five seconds and five minutes, or maybe five hours, and then he’s lifting me off the ground, wrapping my legs around his waist, the muscles in his arms bulging. My back makes contact with the wall again and Marshall is inside me.

Just me and him—no condom between us this time. I cling to him, my arms tight around his back, my face buried in the hollow of his neck. There’s something about this position, about Marshall holding me so tight and still lifting me up and down, about him being so far inside me—I can’t stop this semi-truck of feelings rushing head-on toward me.

By this time I’m close to another orgasm, my eyes wet and tears meshing with the sweat forming on his neck. And the moment I actually tumble over the edge, Marshall following quickly after me, my entire body is shaking with sobs. I try to stop it, but holding it in only makes it noisier and, well … much worse.

“Izzy?” Marshall says, alarm ringing in his voice. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head and mumble no against his skin.

“No, you’re not okay? Or no, I didn’t hurt you?” His biceps are trembling but he still keeps a steady hold on me as he walks over to the king-sized bed and lays us both across it.

“You didn’t hurt me.” Neither of us has any clothes on, so I have no place to wipe my eyes. I force myself to breath slow and deep. “It’s just … just …”

Marshall leans over me, one arm wrapped around my shoulders, and brushes the tears off my cheeks with his fingertips. “It’s just what?”

“I’m sorry.” I sniff, and more tears come out, along with a few unattractive sobs. “
Medics Unedited
, March 1999 issue, page twenty-one. Endorphins. With lots of endorphins, your brain can short-circuit. It’s a good thing.”

“Huh.” His entire body seems to sag with relief. I must have really freaked him out. He rests his head against the pillows and pulls me closer until my cheek is against his chest and our limbs are tangled together. “A crying orgasm. I’ve witnessed all kinds of orgasms, but never one of those.”

“All kinds of orgasms? What else is there besides the crying and non-crying kinds?” Each breath I take is still coming out shaky, and after a few more, Marshall’s hand makes circles over my back in a soothing motion, while his other hand combs through my hair.

“Well … there’s the small sweet kind that you get excited about mostly when they happen at the same time as whoever you’re with,” he explains like this is an academic lecture. “That’s where I was with my ninth-grade girlfriend. I swear she was way hornier than me, but she didn’t want anyone’s hands south of her belly button, so it was all non-sex orgasms. And then we’d both stop after and neither of us would talk about what had happened. Or why there was a big wet spot on the front of my jeans.”

I laugh a little but don’t say anything. I close my damp eyes and reposition my cheek so it fits in the crook of his neck. I just want him to keep talking, to keep forcing the beautiful sound of his voice into my long-term memory.

“And then there’s the intense, screaming-my-name, pulling-my-hair, shaking-for-thirty-seconds-afterward orgasms,” he says. “Those are most often associated with oral sex and the G-spot—if it’s even a real thing. I once had a girl hyperventilate. I think that’s worse than crying. She got all pale and sweaty, clawing at her chest. I had to tell her to put her head between her knees—and not in a kinky way.”

He pauses like he’s giving me the opportunity to interject with some medical explanation, but I don’t.

He continues, “And then there’s the hard-and-fast orgasm that comes—no pun intended—far too quickly because either you’ve been abstaining or you get some awesome hands-off foreplay. But those usually leave you wanting more. None of the sweetness or the
exhausting satisfaction and relief that the other types have. It’s more of a beginning. Except this was basically my early sex life, and most girls lost their confidence and lust blinders after I lost my—” He stops, lifts my chin so that our eyes meet. “You aren’t going to argue with me? Throw some medical jargon my way?”

“No argument.” I reach my arm around him, skimming my fingers up his side, dancing them along his ribs. “You’re making perfect sense, believe it or not,” I mumble against his skin.

His chest swells. “I think this is my favorite day ever.”

My stomach flutters. I lift my head and kiss him to avoid thinking about that jolt of half anxiety, half excitement, and maybe something even deeper than excitement. But when Marshall takes hold of my face, his fingers sliding over my neck and through my hair, whispering the words “You’re beautiful,” across my lips, the jolt doubles in size.

“We should probably eat our dinner at some point,” I say.

He kisses me once more. “I’m taking a shower first. You can join me if you want.” He’s all raised eyebrows and amused expression, and far too sexy to resist.

The hotel shower is where I figure out Marshall’s desire to clean himself with scalding-hot water—a fact I tuck away for later analysis—and that people really can keep themselves busy kissing naked under a stream of hot water for far longer than I would have ever thought possible. When we finally emerge and wrap up in towels, our fingers are prune-like and the food is ice cold. Marshall pulls one of his T-shirts over my head before I can get my bag open, and after inhaling his scent infused in them, I grab only a pair of panties and leave his shirt on.

Luckily, we have a microwave in our room—three-star hotels are good for that sort of accommodation—and while Marshall is heating up the food, I check my phone and see that I have a missed call.

Justin
.

I groan, and Marshall turns to face me, giving me a full view of his abs and the way his boxer briefs sink low on his hips. “What’s wrong? Mom and Dad stuff?”

“No, just my former co-worker slash inferior prodigy.” I sift through texts to see if he’s sent me a message. The only reason I can think of for Justin to call is something to do with my dad.

“Wait.” Marshall pulls a cucumber from my Greek salad, eats it, and then stuffs one in my mouth, too. “Is this your ex? The on-call room guy?”

Heat creeps up my neck. We haven’t really done this conversation yet, the one where we give specifics. “Um … technically, yes, but—”

“But what?” He’s wide-eyed and curious now. “But there’s more than one on-call room guy?”

I snort back a laugh. “No. Just one. But he’s not a real ex in the normal sense of the word,
if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I’m wondering everything, Izzy. You’re a very interesting person.” He smiles, picks up my container of dressing and a plastic fork. “You want this on the side, right?”

I nod and stare down at my phone, thinking.

Marshall takes my burger and pops it into the microwave next. “You’ve been avoiding the whole freshman-fifteen thing for way too long. I think you need to get started on it soon.” He skims a hand over my ass and squeezes it, pulling me in closer. “You could use some meat on your bones. Or did the fatty tissues of cadavers in your childhood traumatize you to the point of disordered eating?”

“I’m not traumatized.” I roll my eyes and then return to staring at my phone.

“Prove it. Eat a french fry or a big hunk of white bread,” Marshall says. Then he leans over and hits the button to dial Justin. “Get it over with so I can have all your attention. I’m selfish like that.”

I flash him another smile, bringing the phone to my ear and taking a seat at the desk in front of my dinner. Justin answers on the first ring, and in a quick last-minute decision, I put the phone on speaker just to keep the honesty flowing between me and Marshall. I respond to Justin’s hello with, “What?”

“God, I’m so in love with you, Isabel,” he says. “How did we ever survive being apart?”

I glare at the phone and shake my head. “Is my dad okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

Marshall pulls the lid off his soup container and heads back to the microwave. A large hunk of French bread is now hanging from his mouth. Bread is his BFF. He told me that last week.

“Nothing,” I say with a sigh. “I figured that’s the only reason you’d need to call me, and it’s the only reason I’d return your call.”

“Actually …” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I need a consult.”

I dip my fork in dressing and then hook some dark green lettuce onto it before taking a huge bite. “Sorry, I’m in Nashville.”

Only because my mouth’s full, it sounds like “Iminnashbull.”

“Did you just say that you’re in Nashville?” Justin repeats.

“What are you doing in Nashville?” Dad’s voice emerges from somewhere in the background. The break room, maybe. “You can’t go to Nashville without telling me!”

I fork another angry bite. “I told Mom. It’s not my fault the line of communication between the two of you is severed.”

At least I hope it’s not my fault.

Dad goes quiet in the background and Justin speaks up again. I wonder briefly if Dad was
in the room when Justin made the sarcastic comment about being in love with me, but somehow I doubt Justin would be that way in front of a superior, and especially one in his desired field—cardiothoracic surgery.

“We can do this via phone,” Justin says.

“Are your fledglings around? Can I tell them about the time you contaminated the OR by barfing all over the floor after drinking half a bottle of tequila the night before?”

“Totally saw that coming, and took you off speaker phone a minute ago.” I can hear the grin in his voice, like he thinks he’s outsmarted me. Asshole. “Three-year-old female, coronary artery aneurysm …”

“Uh-huh.” I lift my black bean burger and take a bite. Marshall and his underwear-only self stretches across the bed, the soup in his hand along with a plastic spoon.

“Dysrhythmia, fever, rash, joint inflammation …”

Already the hotel is dissolving, a puzzle beginning to lay itself out in front of me one piece at a time. If Justin is calling me with Dad’s consent, then I know they’ve eliminated all the basic diagnoses and have Googled the symptoms; they’re hoping that I can reach inside my very wide memory and pull out something from an old medical journal or a textbook that no one else remembers. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done something like that.