The Forbidden Throb Chapter 136

Emma's POV:

Meanwhile, I was buried under the duvet like some kind of woodland creature, clutching the fabric to my chin with both hands.

"I ordered some porridge," he continued, as casually as if we were discussing the weather. "There's also fruit and coffee—"

"I'm fine," I croaked.

*Oh God.* My throat felt like I'd been screaming at a concert for three hours straight.

He tilted his head, studying me. A small smile played at his lips. "Are you?"

*Oh no. He's enjoying this.*

I pulled the covers up to my chin. "Completely fine. Never better."

"Emma."

My eyes flew open. He'd moved closer, one hand resting lightly on my hip through the duvet. Even that small touch made me flinch.

"Still sore?" He tilted his head, clinical concern mixing with something warmer in his gaze. "Let me take a look."

*"What?"*

I scrambled backward so fast I nearly fell off the other side of the bed. "No! No, I'm—I'm fine. Perfectly fine."

One perfectly groomed eyebrow arched. "You don't sound fine."

"It's just—I probably have a cold. "

"Emma—"

"Really, I'm great. Young people recover fast, right? Super fast. Lightning fast recovery." I was babbling now, words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to fill the silence. "I should probably get up. We have that—that thing today."

"We don't have anything scheduled until this evening." He was trying not to smile. I could tell. The corners of his mouth kept twitching. "And I'm a doctor, Emma. "

"You're a heart surgeon," I shot back, clutching the duvet tighter. "Not a... not that kind of doctor."

The smile finally broke through. Small, but devastating. "I did my surgical residency at Mass General, Emma. General surgery rotation means I've seen... everything."

I'd managed to forget that residents at Mass General rotated through *every* surgical specialty. Including the one that would make this conversation infinitely more mortifying.

I gave up. Completely and utterly gave up. I buried my face in the pillow, pressing hard enough that my voice came out muffled. "This is humiliating."

"It's not." The mattress dipped as he sat beside me properly. I felt his hand, warm and steady, rest on my shoulder blade through the duvet. "It's normal. And I should have been more careful last night."

*Don't think about last night. Don't—*

But it was too late. The memories were already flooding back. Fragmented. Overwhelming.

His mouth on my throat. My collarbone. That spot just below my ear that made me gasp. The way he'd kissed away the tears streaming down my face, murmuring something in French I couldn't quite catch—

*"Say my name."*

His voice, rough and breathless against my ear. Not asking. *Demanding*.

*"Say you love me, baby. Say it."*

And I had. Over and over, like some kind of confession I couldn't hold back. *I love you, Daniel. I love you so much. I love you—*

Until I was crying again, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. And he hadn't stopped. Hadn't given me space to collect myself. He'd just watched me with those dark eyes, like he'd discovered something fascinating, and kept—

*"Why does my baby cry so easily?"*

Four in the morning. I'd been exhausted, wrung out, barely conscious. But he'd kept me awake, kept touching me, kept asking me things in that low, coaxing voice until I couldn't remember my own name, let alone form coherent sentences.

The man who'd always been so careful not to make me cry had apparently discovered he liked it very much when I did.

"Emma." His hand moved to my back, rubbing small circles. "Look at me."

"No."

"Baby." The word was soft, coaxing. "Please?"

I turned my head just enough to peek at him with one eye, still mostly buried in the pillow. He was watching me with that gentle, patient expression that made my heart ache.

He sighed—not frustrated, just... fond. Before I could process what was happening, he'd scooped me up—duvet, pillow, and all—settling me into his lap like some kind of oversized, stubborn burrito.

"Daniel—"

"Shh." One arm secured me against his chest while his other hand reached for the nightstand. "Drink this first."

He held out a glass of water. The condensation on the outside suggested he'd prepared it earlier, and when I took a tentative sip, the temperature was perfect—cool enough to soothe my raw throat, warm enough not to shock.

I sniffled against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. The same cologne that now clung to the sheets, mixed with something darker and more intimate that made my face heat all over again.

"I saw an article once," I said finally, voice muffled against his robe. "On Instagram. About age gap relationships."

"Oh?" There was a hint of amusement in his tone.

"It said older partners are mature. That they can teach you a lot." I pulled back just enough to look at him accusingly. "You're a very... thorough teacher, Dr. Prescott."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is that so?"

"Very thorough." I poked his chest through the silk. "Annoyingly thorough. The kind of professor who makes students stay after class for extra—"

"Emma." He caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. "Are you actually complaining about my teaching methods?"

"I—" I faltered. Was I? "I'm just saying. There's such a thing as being *too* dedicated to education."

"Mmm." He looked entirely unrepentant. "I'll keep that in mind for tonight."

*"Tonight?"*

"And tomorrow night." His fingers traced idle patterns on my wrist, just above where the purple clover bracelet sat. "Possibly the night after that."

I stared at him. "Daniel—"

"You can't expect a man who's been celibate for years to be satisfied with one night, baby." He said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, like he was discussing surgical schedules. "That would be unreasonable."

I looked at him and felt a wave of despair wash over me.