The Reason for Me

by Prescott Lane

  The last woman I had snuggled into me was Celeste, and it was for an entirely different reason. It was right before Christmas of our third year of residency. Celeste had become a part of our guys group, and she fit right in. She hadn’t given up on finding me the “right” woman and was still losing bets with Jason, regularly, unable to believe women would ever take his crap.

  Since she worked on my floor, I probably saw her more than even Brent did. We’d gotten pretty close, and she never failed to ask me how my mom and family were. It was sweet. And it happened so gradually, I barely even noticed that I started to look forward to seeing her, which is why I asked about her when I didn’t see her on the floor one day.

  I didn’t expect to find her when I started down the back stairwell that no one ever really used but me. She was sitting on the steps, head in her hands, crying. “Celeste?”

  She looked up at me and just completely melted, crumbling into tears. This time, I was the one who hugged her, and she cuddled into my chest, sobbing. “Please don’t tell Brent you found me in here like this,” she begged.

  “Okay,” I said, unsure if I should be making such promises to her. “What’s going on?”

  Her chest heaved as she spoke. “I’m pregnant.”

  Nothing freezes a man in his tracks like those two little words. “I love you, I hate you”—those are easy to deal with compared to the other words. I remember my heart beating so fast, and I wasn’t even the daddy in question. “You need to tell Brent,” I said. There was no way I could keep this kind of secret from one of my closest friends.

  “He knows,” she said, crying.

  “Okay, good. You two . . .”

  “He wants me to have an abortion,” she blurted out.

  This is a big issue for anyone becoming an OBGYN. Each doctor has to decide for him or herself whether or not they will perform abortions as part of their practice. “What do you want?” I asked, suspecting it’s what all women want—to find the big one. The one that lasts and lasts. And it’s not the length of cocks I’m talking about. I’m referring to the relationship—the one—the one you know will be your last. It’s not just about finding “the one.” It’s about finding the right one, the person you know will be your life. The one that changes your focus. It makes the job, the money, everything become things you have to do instead of who you are. Who you are becomes about her—the life you build together. Meeting her changes the focus from a “me” to an “us.” Is that what she’s looking for? Scary ass shit for some guys, including Brent, it seemed.

  She looked up at me. “Brent never even asked me what I wanted.”

  “He should’ve,” I said.

  “All he said was that my due date is in September and that he’ll have almost a whole other year of residency, and he can’t support me and a baby and . . .”

  She just dissolved again. “I’m sure he’s scared,” I said. “Give him a little time. I could talk to him.”

  “No,” she said. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything to anyone.”

  “Okay. I won’t say anything to him or anyone else,” I said. “But you need to think about what you want.”

  “I want to keep it,” she said, rubbing her flat belly. “But I don’t want to do it alone, either.”

  “You’re still very early. You don’t have to decide now.”

  “I’m his girlfriend, not some random one-night stand. He’s supposed to love me.”

  “Celeste?”

  “If it were your girlfriend, what would you do?” she asked.

  “I’m not Brent.”

  “Please answer me,” she said.

  “I’d marry . . .”

  I didn’t even finish the sentence when her lips softly landed on mine. I immediately pulled back, and she touched her lips, stunned, apparently in disbelief she’d done that. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Oh God, Brent hasn’t talked about us getting married, not once. And I just . . . I . . .” She took off running up the stairs.

  “Celeste? It was nothing,” I lie, bolting after her, capturing her arm. “You’re upset. Hormones all over the place.”

  I knew it was more than that, but in no way were either one of us ready to acknowledge it.

  So now I’m looking down at a different woman, and this time I have to acknowledge what’s happening with Annalyse. This is way beyond just pleasure, way beyond just sex. It always was more—despite what we said to each other—but her being sick is forcing the issue. There won’t be any sex happening for a while, and I’ll miss it. Believe me, I’ll miss it, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, wouldn’t want anyone else but me taking care of her.

  It took her walking away the other night for me to finally figure out what it is about her. I was celibate for five years. So why this woman? Why now?

  Is she beautiful? Yes, but I see beautiful woman all the time. Annalyse is a sexy woman by any man’s standards, but I see naked women every day, so what makes her so damn special. Why is she the one woman that has made me want to do something different? It’s not the sex. I tried to tell myself that, but I could’ve had sex anytime.

  I tried to tell myself it was because the damn sleeping pill made me kiss her and that was my undoing. It’s like quitting something cold turkey. You’re fine until you get a little smell, a little taste, and then you devour the whole thing. But that wasn’t it, either.

  I’d like it say it was her brain that attracted me, but that would be a lie, too.

  When she slammed my door the other night, it hit me. She makes me feel. She makes me not want to be alone anymore. The simple answer is: I don’t want to be without her—her kiss, her warmth, her crazy blog posts, the feel of her body, the sounds of her sleep.

  So thank God she forgave me for acting like a complete dickhead. I’ve got some making up to do with her. Some things are going to have to change; she’ll want that and deserves that. I’m just not sure how much change I’m capable of making.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ANNALYSE

  Nothing like waking up to a rock hard dick in your face, but I guess that’s what happens when you fall asleep with your head in a man’s lap. The bulge in his shorts is just an inch from my nose. If I wasn’t feeling so crappy, maybe I could have some fun with this, let my warm breath wake him up, pull down his . . . Wait! I must be feeling at least a little better if I’m fantasizing about giving him a good morning blowjob. Of course, goodmornilingus would be better for me.

  He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “How are you feeling?”

  Let the small talk begin. “Better, I think.”

  “You feel cooler,” he says. I turn slightly so I can get a better look at him. I love the way he looks in the morning. Yeah, he’s got that messy hair and stubble, but it’s more than that. He looks relaxed, like the weight of his life hasn’t hit him yet. That used to happen to me a lot. I’d wake up forgetting Logan was dead. Then a minute or so later, the flames would rise up and swallow me whole. Holt’s flames aren’t there this morning.

  “I need to shower. I feel so . . .”

  “Just stay there,” he says softly, pulling me closer. “I want to hold you, just for a few more minutes.”

  Turning my head to snuggle in, his dick lines up perfectly with my mouth. He lifts up slightly, adjusting. “Sorry, I’m sure the last thing you want is my cock in your face.”

  “Actually, I was just thinking about how I never . . .”

  He cracks up laughing and pulls me up, planting a little peck on my head and says, “I’ll settle for a kiss good morning.”

  He helps me sit up then goes through his medical regime with me—taking my temperature, which is still 102, giving me my meds and some water, then taking my blood pressure and pulse. “Can you take the IV out?” I ask.

  “Not yet.”

  Giving him my best pout, I beg, “Please, it’s so hard to do anything with this thing in my arm.”

  “That’s alright, because you aren’t doing anything today,” he says.
>
  “Ah, come on. It makes it so hard to shower or go to the bathroom, please.”

  “Okay, I’ll unhook you, but I’m leaving the IV catheter in just in case you need more fluids later. But you have to drink a lot of water and juice today. Deal?”

  I promise I will be a good patient, so he caps off the IV, pushing the stand aside, and wraps up my arm so I can shower. Holt keeps his arm around my waist while I walk to the bathroom then he starts the bath water.

  “No, I want to shower and wash my hair,” I say.

  His head shakes. “You could fall in the shower.”

  “I’ve been showering since I was seven. Think I know how to do it.”

  “Fine,” he says, turning off the tub water and slipping off his shorts. “Then I’ll shower with you.”

  “Holt . . .”

  His finger lands softly on my lips and teases, “You promised to follow my orders.”

  “You didn’t tell me how ridiculous they’d be,” I say.

  He holds my face between his hands, looking down at me. “If something happened, I couldn’t forgive myself.”

  Something about his words, his eyes, lets me know that’s his whole problem. He hasn’t forgiven himself for something. He slips off my clothes, opening up the door to the shower and turning on the hot water.

  Stepping inside, the steam hits me, and I draw a deep breath. His hands on my waist, he turns me around so I’m facing him, the water from the showerhead sliding down my back. Looking at Holt naked is intimidating. He’s so damn perfect, and the water sliding down the edges of his muscles only highlights his perfection. He gives me the dirtiest look and says, “We’re going to do this how you like it—quick.”

  “Oh, my God,” I laugh.

  He chuckles. “Just don’t want the heat to make you dizzy.”

  “It’s not the shower heat I’m worried about,” I whisper. He pulls me to him, his hardness pressing into my belly. But he just holds me, his head resting on top of mine. His hands don’t move or slide up and down my body. Instead, he’s squeezing me tightly to his hard chest. Running my hands up his back, I hold him tighter.

  Pulling back slightly, he takes my shampoo, pours some in his hands, lathers it up, and begins to wash my skin and hair. Should I tell him that girls don’t wash their skin with shampoo? I’ve got all kinds of shower gels and soaps for that. His hands slide over my breasts, and suddenly I couldn’t care less what kind of soap he’s using. He’s not trying to turn me on, even though he is. He’s not playing with my nipples or doing any typical sexual foreplay. He’s simply washing me. And his eyes never leave my body, solely focused on me. And that perhaps is the biggest turn-on there is. Maybe it comes with being a doctor, having to be laser focused on your patient and nothing else. Only, I don’t feel like his patient right now. His hands slip down to my stomach, my waist and hips, and this time, when his fingers graze my scar, I don’t flinch.

  A small smile graces his lips as his hand slips to my booty and up my back. He’s missed a few important spots, and I’m glad he’s smart enough to know that sex and the flu do not mix well, and unselfish enough not to want to jump my bones at the moment. Well, that’s not entirely true. The length of his dick indicates he does want that, but he’s smart enough to know now is not the time. Besides, how he’s taking care of me is much more intimate. I just hope he realizes how he feels about me on his own, and that it’s not too late when he does. Because no matter what he said the other night, I know I’m not just a screw to him.

  “I don’t want quick anymore,” I confess.

  “What do you want?” he asks in a whisper.

  That’s a loaded question and one I don’t completely know the answer to. “A chance at happy,” I say softly.

  His chest deflates, and he looks down at me, smirking. “You couldn’t just ask for a real date?”

  “I want that, too,” I say, grinning up at him.

  He leans his forehead down on mine. “As soon as you’re better.” The goofy grin on my face probably is scaring the shit out of him because he pulls away then smiles. He cups my ass with both his hands and pulls me to him. “You make me happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

  I shake my head and say, “I’m not making you happy. You’re choosing it for yourself.”

  “Fuck, I’m trying,” he says.

  *

  It sounds ridiculous, but showering completely wiped me out. So as soon as I’ve brushed my teeth and put on my pajamas, Holt tucks me right back into bed with water, juice, and some breakfast waiting on the nightstand. Being a perfect patient, I take a few sips and close my eyes. It’s only a little catnap this time. And judging by what I catch Holt doing when I wake up, I get the feeling he thought I’d sleep longer, too.

  “You are not!” I cry out.

  He looks down at what’s in his hand. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

  “You’re walking around with a can of disinfectant,” I say.

  “The flu virus can live up to twenty-four hours on . . .” His nerdy protectiveness is adorable and sweet. “Gotta get you a new toothbrush, too.”

  “You and Meg. I don’t know who’s worse,” I say. He holds up the glass of water for me to drink. A silent order, but an order still. “Could you hand me my laptop? I really need to do a blog post.”

  He spends the next few minutes spraying down everything in the house while I stare down at my blank screen. I don’t know if it’s the flu or the horrible disinfectant smell, but my head is starting to pound like a mother. Rubbing my eyes, I try to refocus, but there is only a blinding pain in my skull.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” Holt asks, sitting down beside me. “Head hurt?”

  I nod. “But I really need to get this done. Just got to push through it.”

  “Nope,” he says, pushing the laptop onto the bed and putting the water glass in my hand. “Headache could be a sign of dehydration. You sit here and sip slowly. What’s the topic?”

  “Penis versus vagina—the great debate. Actually, maybe you could help me. Being a vagina expert and all.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m an expert, am I?”

  “Oh, be quiet! This is very serious journalism taking place here,” I say.

  “Okay, ask away.”

  Clearing my throat, I adjust myself to look right in his eyes. “Do all vaginas look the same?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I mean, I’ve only ever seen mine, and only by doing that weird, hold the mirror between your legs thing.”

  “You’ve held a mirror between your legs?”

  “Yeah, all women have at one point or another.” His head just shakes at me. “Look, penises are everywhere. Guys flash at parties, at Mardi Gras, boyfriends, porn . . .”

  “Porn? You watch porn?”

  “Yes, every chance I get,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re missing the point. The point is, as a woman, I’ve seen a number of penises, but only one vagina—mine.”

  “Wait, how many penises are we talking about here?”

  “Up close and personal? Two, you know that.”

  “Just checking,” he says.

  “Anyway, a guy’s penis has a distinct style.”

  “A penis style?”

  He’s almost dying from laughter right now. It’s the most wonderful sound ever. “Yes, I mean, there are guys with huge, double wristwatch wieners, elephant peckers, donkey dicks, horse cocks, and the ever-scary chode. And then you’ve got the poor chaps with micro dicks like the one-inch wonders, two-inch tornados, teenie weenie peenies, and the ever popular needle and pencil dicks.”

  “How many names do you have for the male anatomy?” he asks.

  “I left out wang, dong, schlong, Johnson, and . . .”

  “Thanks, I know them all,” Holt says. “There aren’t nearly as many for the female anatomy.”

  “I know, which makes me wonder even more if all vaginas look the same. For example, could you pick my vagina out of a
lineup?”

  “I need to check your temperature again,” he teases. “You’re delirious.”

  “I’m serious. I saw this video online where these little kids were blindfolded and put in a room full of women. They were able to pick their mom out by touch alone. It was about how strong the mother-child bond is.”

  Holt’s eyes glance out the window for a second. “Judging by all the cheating in the world, I don’t think men are particularly bonded to a specific vagina.”

  “Oh, really, so you couldn’t pick my vagina out of a lineup?”

  “Do you think you could pick my dick out of a lineup?”

  “I’d know your knob anywhere.”

  He busts out laughing. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  Shrugging, I say, “You never answered my question. You’ve seen like thousands of vaginas; do they all look the same?”

  “No, some are pierced!” he says, laughing harder.

  I start giggling. “You’ve seen that?”

  “I’ve seen it all,” he says. “And no, they all don’t look the same. There are differences in color, shape of the clitoris and labia. So yeah, I guess there are penis and pussy styles.”

  “Thank you,” I sigh.

  He leans over, pressing his lips to my head. “And for the record, I’d know your pussy anywhere.” He cocks a cute smile. “I know every inch of you by heart.”

  I wish that were true. Reaching for my laptop and flicking the top open, the light on the screen makes my head hurt worse.

  Holt takes the laptop again. “Rest! The world can live without knowing that not all vaginas look the same.”

  “I have to write . . .”

  “I’ll write it,” he says. “You tell me what to say, and I’ll type it.”

  I reach for my laptop again, and he stops me once more. “It doesn’t work that way for me. I can’t think without . . .”

  “How about I write a guest post? Not on vaginas, but . . .” Has he completely lost his mind? “You don’t have to post it. Just let me give it a try. If you hate it, then you can redo it when you’re feeling better,” he says.