Willow Taylor lives in a castle with large walls and iron fences. But this is no ordinary castle. It’s called Heartstone Psychiatric hospital and it houses forty other patients. It has nurses with mean faces and techs with permanent frowns.
It has a man, as well. A man who is cold and distant. Whose voice drips with authority. And whose piercing gray eyes hide secrets, and maybe linger on her face a second too long.
Willow isn’t supposed to look deep into those eyes. She isn’t supposed to try to read his tightly leashed emotions. And neither is she supposed to touch herself at night, imagining his powerful voice and that cold but beautiful face.
No, Willow Taylor shouldn’t be attracted to Simon Blackwood, at all.
Because she’s a patient and he’s her doctor. Her psychiatrist.
The medicine man.
WARNING: This book discusses sensitive issues including but not limited to, depression and suicide.
“Do you have someone special, Dr. Blackwood?”
Someone you kiss? Someone you grab and pull into a dark alley and press against
I don’t say that but I’m definitely asking that.
It’s like he hears the unspoken questions because the heat of his body seems to have
doubled. Like his blood is rushing in his veins with an uncanny speed.
With flaring nostrils and a hard jaw, he answers, “No.”
“Because I’m busy.”
I want to smile. Actually, I’ve never wanted to smile this hard. Ever. His answer calms
me but it also makes me restless to move closer to him. I want to trace my palm over the arch
of his chest and see if I got it right in my dreams.
But I don’t do any of those things. I don’t want him to take away this small concession
he’s given me.
Why is he even giving it to me? I’m not complaining. But still.
“Busy with patients?”
“Busy with my job. Yes,” he says, all professional-like.
That’s what he is. Professional and distant. Dedicated to his job and fixing people. If
Mass General let him go, then they are idiots.
I’m an idiot, too, in this moment.
Instead of backing off, I want to do something. Something that might crack his cool
façade. Maybe reaching up and messing up his no-nonsense hair.
What would he do? If I did that? If I grabbed his collar and pushed him against the wall?
And kissed him?
My eyes drop to his lips, his soft, soft lips. There’s a cleft in the middle of his lower lip. I
want to taste that cleft, dig my tongue in it, wet it, suck on it, bite it.
“So you don’t have fun at all?”
“No. I’m not a fun guy.”
I watch his lips form the words, and every syllable that comes out of his mouth makes
my need to shake him, kiss him, mess him up, stronger. Stronger and stronger.
The need is so consuming that I hardly notice when he puts his hand on my palm and
takes it off his body. It’s final and smooth, his action. Effortless. As though my touch barely
registered to him.
“But I think you have a point. It’s after hours and I should go… have fun rather than
spending my time with a patient.” He steps back then. “I’ll see you next week. Same time.”
About the Author
Writer of bad romances. Aspiring Lana Del Rey of the Book World.
Saffron A. Kent is a Top 100 Amazon Bestselling author of Contemporary and New Adult romance. More often than not, her love stories are edgy, forbidden and passionate. Her work has been featured in Huffington Post, New York Daily News and USA Today’s Happy Ever After.
She lives in New York City with her nerdy and supportive husband, and a million and one books.
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