He scooped her off her feet and carried her to the bed, setting her gently on it.
“Time for Dr. Bishop?” she asked, her innocent look and tone nothing but a filthy lick on his cock.
“Lay down,” he instructed, helping her with his palm on her chest. “And tell me all your symptoms.”
“The whole list?” she asked, eyeing him.
“Every detail.” His fingers grazed her taut nipples. “Sorry,” he whispered at her gasp.
“You’re not,” she said with a soft smile.
“You’re right,” he confessed, already lost in her gaze.
“I can’t remember.”
He stroked the skin along her forehead. “What can’t you remember?”
Her smile grew then she giggled. “My whole list. Sadly I didn’t get photographic memory from your scary teeth.”
His cock pounced on her open tease, pulling her hand to his mouth. “You want to remember what getting everything you want looks like, Ma Petite? Where is this list? You can read it to me while I finger you.”
The worried look she gave stilled him. “Where is it.”
“In the top drawer of the desk. I add to it as I… need.”
Fuck, what did that mean?
He went to the drawer and opened it, looking.
“Under the first book we still need to read.”
“Fuck, we do,” he murmured, his heart tugging at one of their first memories. “And we will,” he promised, ready to try and use his architect gifts and remake reality just for that.
He pulled out the small notepad, the sight of her messy writing making him hungry to hide her from everything.
“Don’t read it!” she hurried.
He turned, ready to get it over with. He was fucking ill over what he might be about to hear. He handed her the notepad, and she pulled it close to her chest like he might peek.
He couldn’t even smile at how fucking cute she was. “How much,” he asked, needing to prepare.
“How much?”
“How many symptoms.”
She narrowed her brows and eyed the list then flicked her furrowed gaze at him. “I didn’t number them.”
“One page?”
She held her pained stare on him.
Fuck. “Two?”
She blinked, looking at the notepad. “I wrote… kinda big,” she whispered sympathetically, slowly lifting the top page, peeking under. Then the next.
“Just start reading them,” he ordered.
She gave him a worried glance. “Do I have to…”