Of Winged Creatures & Nesting Grounds: (A Quirky, Sexy, Dirty Doctor Romance)

by A. Wilding Wells

  “You deserve better. And we know she’s your patient. Maybe not such a good idea,” Jo says.

  “Ya think?” Amelia says. She rips into the candy bouquet on the cabinet and tosses me a Kit-Kat.

  I pocket it, then rub my temples. Here it comes, more lecturing.

  “Tell us you’re not going to deliver her baby,” Lucy says. She rests Felix against her shoulder and pats his back. “Please tell us you know better.”

  “I’m her doctor. I’m going to deliver her baby.”

  “You’re twisted,” Francie says. “She’s dumped you twice and refused your marriage proposal.”

  I put my hands up. “I’m out of here. It’s one thing to have Lucy climbing all over me, but the rest of you? Jesus.”

  “Hey, get the girl. Sucky My Dicky!” Lucy says. A chuckle breaks out in the room. “Then Sela will go buh-bye for good.”

  “Love you guys.” I blow each of them a kiss. “Congrats, sweetheart, he’s beautiful. Tell Jasper the same when he gets back. Goodbye, girls.”

  My phone dings as I walk down the hall toward the elevator bank. Happy? Shit, this girl has me wrapped around her pinky and I haven’t even kissed her. The text isn’t from Happy, it’s Sela.

  Chapter 11

  Scratch that same song on repeat

  Happy

  I sent Cece a text the second I left Hunt’s office. I didn’t give scoop. Some scoop needs in-person delivery. My message was high school obvious. Your house, back deck, food, BIG news. 6:00. I’ll bring wine. NSFK. X.

  After running errands all afternoon, I arrive at Cece’s ready to chat.

  “Just a little more,” Cece says when I hover the bottle of wine over her glass.

  “Oh, please. Just a little more is something you say to your husband when his dick is entering your ass. You never say that to wine or oral sex. No woman does.” After kicking off my sandals, I stretch my legs across the coffee table.

  “For an innocent, you’re awfully sassy about sex talk. You’ve never had oral sex, princess.”

  “What can I say?” I snag a slice of baguette off the cheese tray and dip it into the oil. “I’m well educated.”

  “You’re a bird who’s a virgin and writes a sex column.”

  “Just because I haven’t had dick doesn’t mean I don’t like watching videos starring them, or writing about the wonderful things a girl can do with said hard member.”

  “God, pop the cherry already. Us chatting sex with your V-card still not punched, is getting old.”

  She leans over and snatches my purse, then rifles through it, producing my journal. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t share with Cece.

  “Where are we on the plan?” She flips through my journal. “What have you added?”

  “I added the word ‘date.’ Then I crossed it off, then I added it, then I—”

  “Date?” Her jaw slackens. “As in you and a guy going out?”

  “That’s the definition.” I take a swallow of wine. A big one.

  “You met a guy you might go on a date with…a unicorn man?”

  “Yes, at Roulette. But don’t get too excited. I told him I didn’t date. Though I know I should. He could be the perfect guy for me to jumpstart my plan. But then, I think that and I get nervous. Thing is…he’s too good to fuck only once. Plus he said he won’t fuck me once. But if we dated and my vitiligo went nuts, he might get grossed out by me. He’s one of those godlike guys who could have anyone at all.” I huff out a breath and take a gulp of wine. Cece wiggles around in her chair with a look of pure elation on her face. I hold up my talk-to-the-hand hand before she has the chance to call me to the mat. Even though I need her to push me. “He’s too everything. And by that I mean, holy fucking everything you could ever dream up then wrap in man-candy-skin.”

  “What is wrong with you?” she says, loud and measured. “He is exactly who you need.”

  I shake my head, giggling. “I like him too much, and I’m infatuated like crazy. I’ve Google-stalked him.”

  “This is all normal.” Cece goes into mom mode, speaking to me in her confident composed I-got-this tone. “Even women who don’t have the hellish history you do, Google stalk. I read it in some magazine.” She points to the pile of glossies on her coffee table like they’re the gospel truth. “Don’t scare yourself away.”

  “He’s too off plan. Too early. ” I blow out a huge breath.

  “Because you’re obsessed about your skin?” Cece takes a sip of her wine, sets the glass on the table, and screams into her palms. “You haven’t talked about a guy who has piqued your interest in ages. Take a chance, babe. It might just work out for you.”

  “This is too complicated,” I say.

  “You’re so frustrating. I want to shake you. Screw your damned skin condition. No one cares!”

  “I care.” I scowl.

  “I’m sorry.” Cece grips my hand. “I know it matters, and I’m not trying to be a bitch. I just want things for you, beautiful things you deserve to experience. I think you tangle life up sometimes. I want to help you see more clearly.”

  “I do tangle things up, but I’m trying to consider this guy. It’s a step.”

  Cece crosses her legs in her lap and fills our glasses. “It is! Tell me about Mr. Everything. Let’s pretend you’re truly open to dating him. Pretend Cat Whiskers!” Cat was a woman I invented when I needed to escape my reality. Children have imaginary friends. Adults have the grown-up version of that: God. I needed me. I dug deep and role-played for a short period of time to excavate the true me in me.

  “He’s…oh!” I chew on my thumbnail, a thousand words to describe him flooding my brain and libido. “He’s one of those guys you see in a bar and wonder who he’s with and how she snagged him. Then when he crosses the room his eyes pinned on yours, you get nervous and sweaty and kind of freaked out.”

  “Holy crap.” Cece laughs, clapping her hands. “You want him more than you want your next effing breath.”

  “He’s probably unreal in the sack.”

  Cece reaches for my journal and writes the word “date” across an entire page. Then scribbles hearts all around it.

  “Did he ask you out?”

  “Yeah. He slept over.”

  “What? You’re just now telling me this? Did you do stuff? Rub all over each other? Please tell me he made a move and your blocker was down.” She looks like she’s about to dive into an ice-cream-filled bathtub. I feel, what I assume, is a mom-telling-her-kid-the-tooth- fairy-isn’t-real pang in my stomach.

  “He slept downstairs.”

  She jolts off her chair and marches in circles, waving her hands windmill style. “Mr. Everything was in your house. Your fucking house…and that man slept downstairs?”

  “He only stayed because I was kind of drunk. He’s nice like that. He wanted to make sure I was okay.”

  “I’m getting a divorce, and I’m going to find this man and beg him to fuck me, then marry me. I’m un-friending you forever!”

  “He’s mine.” I growl.

  “Good.” She plants her hands on her hips. “Ownership. That could be considered a first step.”

  “You see Dr. Lloyd?”

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to see her next month. Getting a new IUD.”

  I knock back my wine, then let it fly. “I went in for my annual and some tests to see why I’m not getting preggers. Lucy was in labor so her brother subbed in.”

  “Her brother is a gyno? She’s gorgeous, I’ll bet he’s hot.”

  “Yep. And he’s the guy who slept over.”

  “You let him examine you?” Cece cradles her face, laughter rolling out in operatic highs and lows.

  “I fucking came on his exam table.”

  “You did not!” Her eyes narrow. “That would be the end of me. ‘Death on the exam table via orgasm’ carved onto my tombstone.”

  “It was more mortifying than I can explain. But, he was so chill about it. Like, pass-me-another-beer sort of cool. Then just as he’s a
bout to put the lubbed-up speculum in, his nurse interrupts. Emergency C- section. Now I have to go back on Friday.”

  “And you’re okay with that?” She might not realize she’s jumping up and down.

  “I’m not okay. I’m terrified. What if I come again? What if he…oh god…makes a move? I don’t know if I can go.”

  “I don’t care if I have to drag you there like you’re a knocked-up teenager! You’re going!”

  I know she’s right. I have no choice, I need to go see him. I’m fighting this thing, and my nervousness might bury me. The “what ifs” are endless. The scariest one: What if I fall harder? Worse yet, what if I do, then crash and burn on the other side. Again. I don’t know if I could survive another crash.

  Chapter 12

  Heart…meet heart

  HUNT

  Wednesday at about midday I review my schedule for the rest of the week. Seeing Happy’s name on Friday, to finish what we started, makes me hard. I text her while having an early lunch. Fine by me if we inch along one day at a time. At least my plan is moving forward. Kind of.

  Me: What hat did you draw on your bird today?

  Happy: Shouldn’t you be working?

  Me: Early lunch. I drew fruit on a hat…been thinking about you all morning.

  Happy: Orange you fancy. Now, go examine someone.

  Me: I have one pussy on my mind.

  Happy: Don’t you think it’s inappropriate to sext your patients such dirty thoughts?

  Me: You’re my sister’s patient. And all my thoughts about you are dirty.

  Happy: I’m seeing you Friday.

  Me: I can’t wait.

  Happy: As a patient. It’s not a date.

  Me: I can’t wait to play doctor.

  Happy: You are a doctor. I’m canceling.

  Me: I’m kidding. I’ll behave.

  Happy: Badly I’m sure.

  Me: Only if you ask nicely.

  Happy: Ignoring that. I drew a top hat on my bird.

  Me: Sounds fancy. Celebrating?

  Happy: Yes. I’m going on a cruise to take care of something. It. The big one.

  Me: You’re torturing my dick like a sin I want to solve.

  Happy: Sorry, Hard Dick. Maybe you should start doodling dicks with hats instead of birds. I’d go with a hard hat. Safety first.

  Me: You should start doodling other accessories with your birds. A suitcase might be appropriate considering all your baggage.

  Happy: Your jokes are not funny.

  Me: Knock knock

  Happy: Who’s there?

  Me: Ivana

  Happy: Ivana who

  Me: Ivana fuck you, so please don’t let some loser take it from you on your cruise. Save it for me. I’ll make it unforgettable.

  Happy: Back off. I’m giving you the middle finger right now.

  Me: I’d like to give you the middle finger. Right between your legs.

  The next day I step up my game. If she truly wasn’t interested she’d have blocked my texts. She hasn’t canceled her appointment either. I only know this because I check the schedule like my life depends on it. What we’re doing is more akin to rules of engagement.

  Me: I’m coming over. I have a surprise for you.

  Happy: What is it?

  Me: That would ruin the surprise.

  Happy: I’m not into surprises. They scare me.

  Me: You liked the surprise of having an orgasm on my exam table.

  Happy: How many times have you gotten off to that?

  Me: Let me come over and I’ll tell you.

  Happy: 4-letter word for pain in the neck?

  Me: I am not a pest. I like you. Come on… Take a chance with me. Chicken.

  Happy: Are you trying to manipulate me?

  Me: I would like to. I could manipulate your pussy into a cock haven in minutes.

  Happy: Bahaha! Oscar comes in thirty seconds with Jesus.

  Me: You named your vibrator Jesus?

  Happy: It’s the only name I say when I come.

  Me: You said my name when you came on my exam table

  Happy: Oh Jesus, Hunt

  Me: Did you just come?

  To clear my head that night, and to prevent myself from taking another jerk-off shower, I meet Bowie at a bar just around the corner from my office.

  “Dude, my texts with you. They are not sister safe.”

  “Sorry, man.” He takes a long pull from his beer. “Lucy though. She’s got CIA technique for interrogation.”

  “Thus my warning. What I’m about to tell you will cost you a nut if you fucking utter a whisper of it to any of my sisters. Capiche? I will emasculate you.”

  “Capisci.”

  “I think I’m in love with this chick I texted you about.” I groan. “How the hell she’s climbed under my skin is beyond me. I don’t fucking care. She could peel my skin and I wouldn’t give a fuck.”

  “Sela though? You were just—”

  “Dude, Sela is always on the table. But, for the first time in a long fucking time, she’s on the side table. This chick, she’s front and center breakfast, lunch, and dinner table. Get this, after the night we spent together doing nothing but flirting, she shows up in Lucy’s office.”

  He slams a hand on the bar top. “As a patient?”

  “No, fuckwad. As the copier repair person.” I biff his head. “Yes, as a patient.”

  “Did she get naked?” He makes a face like the kid from the Home Alone movie. Pure shock and torture.

  “For a smart guy, you’re an idiot. I don’t examine clothed women. That’s what airport security does.”

  He rubs his forehead. “I should never have bagged out on medical school.”

  “You were never going to go to med school.”

  “I mean spread your legs so Dr. Dirty can examine your pussy school.”

  “You’re sick as fuck.”

  Two hot women sit next to Bowie. He checks them out, then signals the bartender that we’re buying whatever they want.

  “Yeah, I’m the sick one. You’re the doctor who examined the chick he’s lusting after. And how did it go? Bonerville in babeland?”

  “She came when I…”

  He punches my bicep. “She came when you examined her?”

  “I cannot be telling you this shit.” I lower my voice when the women giggle. “Christ, I could lose my license.”

  “You think I’m telling anyone?”

  I lean closer to him. “She came when I was examining her swollen clit.”

  “I’m going home to hang myself. You fucker. Movie star looks, a family you’d lay on a train track for, and a job that requires you to study and finger swollen clits. It’s like you’re a porn star, but better.”

  “Not everything I do is glamorous.”

  “Did you fuck her on the table?” He gulps down a quarter of his beer. “Please tell me you did.”

  “No, the appointment was interrupted for an emergency C-section. She’s coming again Friday.” I tip my beer back.

  “You lucky fucking dog. What’s on the roster?”

  “Vaginal and anal.” I grin and adjust my cock.

  Chapter 13

  Heart beats burn

  Happy

  Friday morning, at the crack of dawn, I rocket out of bed, then buff and fluff and shave and primp like I’m being sold at auction. I do not use my vibrator. I do not do anything to disturb my island of pleasure. It’s all for him. I’ve lost my mind.

  I’m going back to spread my legs for Doctor Hard Dick.

  Cece arrives with obligatory coffee and donuts. She even jacks my coffee with a shot of whiskey. A-fuckin’-men.

  “Shit.” I finish cup two. “I’m getting my blood tested.”

  “He’s not a cop.” She cracks up. “He’s a doc, and you can cab it there.”

  We wolf down the donuts, frosting first, then the middle parts. “Want me to go with?”

  “Please, Mom. Just like all the frosh on campus whose parents helicopter their asses
from class to class?”

  “I’ll be, bat-in-hand at the clinic entrance, ready to take you down like a trick–or–treating punk who stole the bowl of candy, if you back out. Don’t make me hurt you.”

  “I’m not backing out.” Though it’s crossed my mind a gazillion times. “This isn’t a date, it’s an examination.”

  “And you look like you’re going to puke.” Cece wets a kitchen towel and dabs my forehead.

  “Should I be wedding day nervous?”

  “It’s good, honey. All it means, is that it means something. Have you added the good doctor into your plan?”

  “Don’t get pushy. Help me choose an outfit.” I clutch her wrist and drag her up the stairs.

  We shove masses of hangers aside, yanking a shirt and skirt off here and there.

  “Are we going prim librarian or slutty with a side of preppy?” She kneels on the floor of my closet and throws together three outfit combinations, in less than a minute. Some people were born for this shit. Then she arranges and rearranges for five more minutes.

  “Stop analyzing. I’ll wear that one.” I point to the conservative outfit. “You’re a travel agent, not a fashion therapist.”

  I show up for my appointment fifteen minutes early, looking like I’m ready to meet Hunt’s parents. A gush of wetness soaks my underwear as I read Parent Meet Baby magazine, while fretting like a chicken ready to lay eggs, in the waiting room. Maybe I’m pregnant. Maybe I’m turned on. I race to the restroom.

  One glance at the pale pink swoosh marking my white underwear and I recognize I am luckless. It’s official. Satan owns my soul.

  Cursing like a drunk sailor, I wash my hands, then make my way back to the waiting room, sweatier and more nervous than ever.

  A gorgeous goddess-like woman in six-inch stilettos with glossy black hair and an ass you could use as a rocket launch backs out of an office, stopping me in my tracks. She’s the Louvre of women and tall as the Eiffel tower.

  Her full pregnant belly looks like a beach ball attached to her toothpick frame. “Love you, baybee,” she says, kicking up her heel to kiss her ass while she kisses—”

  Hunt? I moan out a sound I hope they can’t hear. She fucking kissed him.