Sweet Surrender (19 page)

“You okay,
cara mia?
”

“Mmmm…” was all she could manage.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He dipped his head and kissed her softly, sweetly, his hands stroking and soothing her. When she had relaxed beneath him, he lifted his head and grinned down at her.

“How’s your neck pain now?”

“What neck pain?”

He chuckled. “That’s what I thought.” With one last brief kiss, he eased off her and pulled out. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

With a warm cloth, he cleaned her intimately, wiping off the evidence of their passion with a gentle touch. As he peeled off the sticky pads, he used another cloth to swab her skin free of all residue. He untied her, massaging her hips that had been in a flexed position for some time, moving onto her shoulders and wrists that hadn’t been as awkwardly restrained, yet still deserved equal attention. When he lifted her to a seated position, they laughed when he had to peel the saturated exam paper from her sweat-dampened skin.

He found another washcloth and some towels in the cabinet and gently bathed her before he helped her dress. She was amazed when she looked down and saw that her shoes had stayed in place the entire time.

“I’m surprised I didn’t put out your eye.”

“I was very careful and I found the heels made an already hot interlude even hotter.” He ran his hands over her hips and cupped her bottom, pulling her in close as he gave her a leering grin. “Stockings and a black corset would have been nice, maybe next time.”

She flushed. “I’m going to have to start calling you Dr. Kink. Who knew you were into bondage, and electric sex, and on top of it all you have a thing for shoes and lingerie. What else are you hiding?”

“You’d be surprised at all the naughty scenes that have been running through my mind since I saw you that day at the diner.”

“When was that?”

“Just after you started at St. Joe’s. Your mother was our waitress and pointed you out. The short t-shirt and skirt got to me right off the bat.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, didn’t she tell you?”

“It’s funny, I knew you were there but I never saw you. A large man was blocking my view of your table.”

“A very large man at the lunch counter?”

“Yes! I walked out of there determined not to look at you, having no time in my life for a man. Never would I have guessed that sexy surgeon, doing something as mundane as eating dinner with a friend at the Telegraph Diner, would have me tied and wired while having his wicked way with me on his exam table one day.”

“I’d like to make it a regular event, sweet thing. Next time, I want to be in your ass when you shatter around me.”

“Marc…” They hadn’t even spoken of that before.

“Next time,” he whispered as he kissed her. Guiding her toward the door, he added, “Right now, I’m starved. It’s almost nine and we haven’t eaten.”

“Wait!” Jessie hurried back to the table, balled up and discarded the soiled paper in the red bin, then threw out the used electrode pads. She stowed the TENS unit in the only empty cubby and closed all the doors. Finally, she used one of the disinfectant wipes to clean the table. After washing her hands, she joined him where he waited by the door, shaking his head and wearing a very amused grin.

“What? The nurse in me couldn’t leave that mess for the next shift.”

“You were removing the evidence.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, well, that too.” Still a little rubber-legged, she clung to him, her arms around his waist, his strong arm supporting her easily as they walked down the hallway. “So, what’ll it be? Dine-in or take-out? Chinese, Mexican, Italian?” Her stomach rumbled as if on cue, and she added, “As long as it’s quick, I don’t care.”

“How about a pepperoni, beef, and mushroom Sicilian from Buddy’s Pizza? We can pick it up on the way home.”

“You’re on,” she eagerly agreed, “but I want antipasto salad and Buddy Bread, too.”

He looked at her with an arched brow. They didn’t indulge often; when they did, the legendary thick crust, square pizza was usually more than they could eat between the two of them.

“What? I’m starving. Maybe electric sex therapy burns extra calories.”

“Possibly, sounds like something that needs to be researched. And you, my lovely assistant, can be my first test subject.”

“Excuse me, doc, but I better be your only test subject.”

“Of course, baby. That goes without saying.”

Chapter Fourteen

The incessant chatter of voices and the clanging of silverware on plates was making the dull pain of her nagging headache worse. That the conversation was loud and animated, liberally laced with spurts of Italian and bursts of boisterous laughter wasn’t helping. The throbbing pulse behind her right eye was the harbinger of an impending migraine. Jessie took a big mouthful of coffee, hoping the caffeine surge would nip the pain in the bud before it became incapacitating. Marc had introduced her to that little trick. However, it only worked if she abstained at other times. This morning’s double-shot espresso was most likely going to make it ineffective this evening.

A particularly loud outburst of shrill laughter from across the table had her fingers curling, her nails digging into her palms. She silently studied Marc’s mother, three sisters, two cousins, and the friend from Italy. They seemed to be competing for a sound record, each speaking louder to be heard over the other as they all jabbered at once. Born and raised in Italy, his mother was fluent in her native tongue and had made sure that her American-born children were as well. Marc’s dad could hold his own, after three decades with the language spoken in his home every day. Jessie knew only a handful of words and Giada’s husband Ian, who was of Irish descent, even less, which meant they were often cut out of the loud, animated Italian-laced conversations.

Of course, that the family spoke other than English around them was incredibly rude. At least she found it so at first, but after realizing she had little in common with them and even less to say, she’d gotten used to it, feeling relieved to be left out. Today, there was very little English spoken, out of courtesy to one of the girls’ friends visiting from the old country, so they said. What a joke! That
courtesy
had never been extended to her.

Jessie drained the remains of her coffee cup, closing her eyes against the dull ache in her head. Sunday dinners at the Trent home were often this way: loud, long, and decidedly uncomfortable for Jessie. She avoided them if possible, by working most often or making plans with her mother or Stacy. Marc had picked up on her avoidance quickly, however and insisted she attend whenever possible.

“Are you okay,
bella?
You barely touched your dinner.” Marc’s sweet endearment, said in his smooth baritone, was soothing. It was calming and she imagined how wonderful it would be to curl up on his lap and let him read to her.

She was about to tell him just that, when a high-pitched twitter from the cousin sitting next to her produced an involuntary grimace as pain jarred through her skull, but she toughed it out enough to murmur a response to his question. “A bit of a headache is all.”

As luck would have it, the gaggle of giggling women paused for breath right then, dropping the decibel level in the room to near normal, or at least low enough for everyone at the table to hear.

“You’re a bit peaked,” Mariella Trent quickly pointed out. “Marc, aren’t you taking care of your girl?” His mother’s words of concern were said in a syrupy tone, oozing such sweetness that sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth. They were also as fake as her two-hundred-dollar dye job. The way she said ‘girl’ in her patronizing way grated on Jessie’s nerves. No one seemed to notice, however.

“I’m trying, though she doesn’t make it easy.” Reminded of their early morning discussion about her work schedule—yet again—and the spanking that had followed, Jessie tensed, hoping he wouldn’t air all their dirty laundry and give his family more ammunition. Marc’s hand squeezed her thigh under the table and he dipped his head to ask softly in her ear, “Did you take your medication?”

Warmth swept through her at his concern, which was genuine, unlike his mother’s false platitudes. She should have known he wouldn’t embarrass her; that wasn’t his style.

“It’s not that bad, Marc, truly. The caffeine should help.”

That didn’t answer his question. Having little tolerance for evasion, his dark brows drew together. Marc took particular interest in her health, especially her diet, which he said was most likely the trigger for her migraines. He also kept on top of her prescribed medication—a migraine pill she was supposed to take upon onset of pain, and a beta-blocker, which, if she took every day, worked wonders in preventing her headaches. Unfortunately, she was often neglectful of taking it because she was usually in a hurry. Nurses made the worst patients, she’d always heard, and she was proof. She couldn’t remember if she took it this morning, and mentally retraced her steps. She’d gotten a call while putting on her makeup, distracting her routine. She was afraid the answer was no and dreaded telling him. The few times he’d gotten really angry with her had been over what he called ‘non-compliance’ with doctor’s orders.

With impeccable timing, his dad unknowingly bailed her out by asking Marc for a private word. He nodded. When he stood, he bent to speak in her ear. “We’ll skip dessert and get you home to your medicine as soon as I’m finished with dad.”

Eager to leave, she squeezed his hand where it rested on her shoulder. He kissed the top of her head and followed his dad down the hall toward his home office. When he was out of sight, she turned back to the table. Left alone against the Trent women, she looked at the two remaining men for an ally. Neither Giada’s husband or the dark-haired man—for the life of her she couldn’t remember his name or relation—seemed like the rescuing type and were talking about some investment, or whatever.

Mariella leaned forward and in a hushed tone spoke to her as if in confidence, though her daughters and nieces quite obviously could hear, hanging on every word. “Do you need some aspirin, dear?”

“No, ma’am, I’ll be fine until I get home.”

“Mm…” she murmured, critically running her eyes over Jessie’s face and hair. “You have such a pretty face, but you’re so pale. A touch of blush and lipstick can work wonders, especially when all that brassy red hair washes out your complexion. A good stylist is so important, yes? I’ll give you my salon’s number.” She shook her head sadly. “Such a shame you weren’t blessed with
natural
vivid coloring, like my girls, eh?” In dramatic fashion, she sighed as she
scanned the faces of the other women at the table, and then pointedly looked at Jessie as she made a tsking sound with her tongue.

And so it begins…
Every time she was around Marc’s mother and sisters, they hurled veiled insults like grenades. They were a bunch of bitches and clever as could be. They always made sure that the men either weren’t around, or wouldn’t understand their sugar-wrapped slurs. Of course, telling her that her hair was brassy wasn’t so veiled, like implying her hair color was fake.

“Those dark circles are really pronounced. Have you tried using a yellow concealer? I hear it helps with pallid skin tones.” Unable to resist a chance to get her digs in, Giada tossed her mane of glossy dark hair, her dark eyes flashing wickedly, her olive skin and red lips highlighting the vivid palette of Italian coloring to which her mother referred. She was the male version of Jessie’s fiancé: tall, striking, with a perfectly proportioned body, but on her, that beauty was strictly superficial. Giada was the complete opposite of Marc, who possessed a deeper beauty that went beyond his sister’s hollow shell.

She couldn’t argue with Marc’s mother; every one of the women in the family was gorgeous, making Jessie feel like a troll by comparison. Not one of them was under five-foot-ten and they towered over perfectly average Jessie by at least six inches. In addition, they all had elegant Italian names: Mariella, Giada, Renata, and Annalisa, which flowed beautifully from the tongue.

“You appear to be eating enough, dear.” Mariella continued her unsolicited advice, her gaze sliding down and back. “You carry your weight well for being so, uh, what is it they call it these days? Vertically challenged?” She said this with wide-eyed innocence, as if she hadn’t just insulted her, but her smirk told the truth as her gaze shifted to her daughters.

Her remarks hurt, doubly so since her future mother-in-law was obviously making a crack about her both her height and her weight. The Trent women had discovered her weaknesses and dug their claws into her fragile self-esteem, twisting and ripping it to shreds. Next, they’d be dissing her career choice or her clothing, or calling her white trash.

“Ah,” Giada said, as the cook came in with dessert. “Triple chocolate cake with fresh raspberries. Maybe you should skip the cake and just have the fruit, dear.” Silence settled over the women, shocked that Giada had been so blatant with her attack. She looked up, feigning innocence. “What? I’ve heard chocolate can cause migraines, isn’t that so, Jessica?” She then proceeded to move the bowl of berries in front of Jessie’s plate.

Jessie looked toward the hallway where Marc had disappeared. How long was he going to be? This was a full-out frontal assault and she needed reinforcements.

“Maybe you’re tired and run down because you’re anemic,” Marc’s youngest sister Annalisa chimed in. “A friend of mine takes iron supplements. She has anemia that makes her pasty and fatigued, like you—uh, well, the point is, she changed to a healthy diet and it helped.”

“That means no greasy burgers in a bag, like the other night, Jessica. By healthy diet she means fruits, vegetables, and lean meats.” Mariella’s patronizing tone was unmistakable and the other women snickered.

Jessie flushed, her head pounding; she wasn’t going to be able to bite her tongue much longer. “I’m a nurse, Mrs. Trent. I know about nutrition.”

“You know better then, don’t you, dear?”

That comment stung. She’d run into Marc’s mom a week ago while leaving the mall, a to-go order from a burger joint in hand. “I worked late. That was an exception. I’m a good cook and make supper almost every night. Yesterday I made a roast in the crockpot—” She stopped, unsure why she felt the need to defend herself. They weren’t listening anyway, having switched back to Italian, translating possibly for the cousins.