by S. E. Hall
One more peek in the mirror, wiping my face, I open the door.
There’s nobody there. I poke my head further out, looking left then right and nothing. Thank God. I’d gear up to scream at the neighborhood kids for ding-dong ditching if there wasn’t an enormous box at my feet.
I didn’t order anything, let alone something in a box bigger than me! With a series of grunts and shoves, I finally manage to maneuver the monstrosity inside and rip into it. When that gets me nowhere, I run to the kitchen and grab the scissors, then try again.
I cut the last strap and fall back at the same time the box flies open, revealing the one thing I can’t bear.
Holy—I am a piece of—shit.
There on my floor, wrapped in thin foam paper, is the outline of a surfboard. Crawling over, I pull away the packaging and run my fingers over the smooth polished wood with a pink hue, my favorite color. At the top right side is a huge white lily, my middle name, under that “My Moe” in fancy black script.
I glance up at the hook where my keys hang. The keychain he brought me from California, a hint I never realized. He had a surfboard made for me.
Fighting back the tears, I prop the unbelievable gift against the wall, making room to clean up the box mess when I spot the card taped to the bottom side.
My hands tremble as I open it, the gravity hitting me full force—these will be the only words I’ve heard from Brady in over a week.
Can’t wait to get you on the water with me!
Love always,
Brady
The floodgates burst wide open and fat crocodile tears roll down my cheeks, a bittersweet mixture of happiness, love, regret and loneliness. I leap up from the mushy puddle I’ve become on the floor and grab my phone.
I don’t hesitate, my fingers typing in a flurry of anxiousness.
Me: I got the surfboard. Thank u so much! I love it! When can we go?
Each minute that ticks by without a response cuts a little deeper into my soul and I sink down into the couch. He ordered it before everything went to shit, but now it’s here, and I pray it serves as a reminder to us both of what we are and how badly we need to get back there.
Finally my phone dings, just as I was beginning to think I really had lost him forever. Hope, that amazing, beautiful swell of my heart, brings a smile to my lips.
Brady: I’m glad u like it. You’re welcome. Find someone to enjoy it with.
The phone drops from my fingers. I don’t want to learn to surf with “someone.” I want to go with the wonderful man, my friend, who bought it for me! The longer I sit staring at my knees tucked up against my chest, the angrier I grow. At the situation, at myself, at Brady for being so damn stubborn.
I snatch the phone back up and pound the keys.
Me: If u didn’t want to take me why’d u buy it?
This time he answers back right away. I know him, despite what he thinks, I do! He was just waiting, fingers poised, itching for a comeback.
Brady: Things change. U called the shots. GTG.
I throw out my leg and kick the coffee table in anger. Eerrr, that impossible man! Wincing, I cradle my foot, my head hanging back. At least the physical pain matches the emotional now.
Is this worth it? Suppose Brady and I did try “more” and it doesn’t work out? The backlash couldn’t possibly be worse than this, right?
Too frustrated to think about it any longer, I hit play, resuming my show. I’m slumped even further down in the couch, arms crossed, my toe throbbing, when the bantering on screen catches my full attention—that’s it!
Brilliant. Thank you, sitcom gods, for the enlightenment.
Determination sets in, my mind made up. I know what I have to do.
****
When the nurse shuts the door behind me—thank heavens she doesn’t work in the ER, clearly not quick on the uptake—I pull out my compact, checking my disguise one last time.
Wig in place. Check.
Big, black sunglasses. Check.
And now, I wait.
Shortly after, a quick knock raps on the door.
“Come in,” I say in my new covert voice. It’s a high-pitched mousy tone, but it works. I think so, anyway.
I’m on the table, fully dressed, when Dr. Reynolds steps in, usual devastating smile in place, spoiled by the dark circles under his sullen eyes, a scruffy jawline and wrinkled shirt.
He looks as hellish and out of sorts as I feel and a glimmer of hopefulness moves through me. Has he been miserable too?
“Good afternoon Miss, uh…” He consults his chart once more, then ever so slowly looks up at me. A smirk hints at his luscious mouth, a slight twinkle building in those sad eyes. “Ms. Beaverhousen, is it?”
“Yes, that’s right. Thank you for seeing me,” I say in my fake voice then move in for the kill. “A friend of mine, Addison Porter, said she called several times and couldn’t get in, so I was surprised how easy it was for me.”
“I can’t discuss other patients, I’m sorry. So tell me, Ms. Beaverhousen, what can I do for you today?”
We face off, both crossing our arms defensively across our chests, waiting in tense silence for the other to cave.
Mentally, I’d been fully prepared to march in here in raging bitch mode and tell him off for ignoring me. But now that he’s in front of me, looking as distraught and devastated as I’ve been, my heart makes other plans.
Unable to wait another minute, I pull off my sunglasses and wig, offering a sheepish grin. “Hey.”
He feigns shock, clutching his chest dramatically. “Addison! It’s you!”
“Oh, stop, I know you knew.” My voice drops, shaking with vulnerability. “Why wouldn’t you see me?”
He sits the chart down and tilts his head. “You know why.”
I nod. I do know why, but held out hope he’d take my sudden appearance in his office with a bit less annoyance. Senseless or not, I’d longed for him to grab snatch me up, hold me in his arms, and tell me everything would be alright. But he says nothing else, defiant in his stance, eyes cold and hard, pinning me in place.
“I miss you,” I choke out in a pleading whisper.
With only one step closer, still too far away, he sighs and runs a hand down his face. “I miss you too.”
My head pops up, optimism piquing, a smile about to emerge, when he cuts it short.
“But not enough to continue with silly, unprofessional escapades that cheapen what I want with you.”
I agree. Time to show him. “Come here.” I crook my finger to beckon him closer.
“Addison,” he grumbles his warning but does, in fact, move to me a moment later. “What do you want from me?” His hot breath fans over my face, tickling my lips severely testing my resolve.
“A date,” I say with conviction.
His eyes search mine with trepidation, gauging my sincerity, obviously finding what they seek as a brilliant, wickedly beautiful grin lights up his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm, what did you have in mind?” Finally he touches me, an innocent caress over my knuckles, speaking volumes.
“I want to cook you one of my specialties.”
His other hand brushes over my cheek. “Is that so?”
“Mhhm. Then I thought we could cuddle on my couch and watch a movie.”
“I’d like that,” he says head dipping to mine.
“Me too.” As hard as it is, I duck down and slink off the exam table.
He turns to me, watching as I grab my wig, twisting up my ponytail and pulling it back on then snatch my sunglasses.
“My place, tonight. Eightish?” I say, desperately wanting to kiss him but feeling the overwhelming need to wait, to give him a real date first. I slide on my sunglasses.
“Eightish,” he confirms, then walks over and startles me. I think he’s going to take my face in his hands, but instead he places them on the wig, adjusting it slightly. He leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek. “See you then, Ms. Beaverhousen.�
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****
At eight o’clock sharp, there’s a rasp on my door and I hastily straighten my hair and outfit, suppressing a giggle as I go to answer it.
“Well, hello,” I coo. “How lucky am I to have a doctor that makes house calls!”
A frown begins to darken his expression but I quickly remedy it.
“Kidding, kidding. Come in.”
Relaxing, he runs his gaze over me then back up to my face with a smile. “These are for you.” He hands me a stunning bouquet of lilies and daisies.
“Thank you.” I inhale their vibrant scent then close the door after he steps in. “Make yourself comfortable. Dinner is about ready, twenty minutes tops. Something to drink?”
“Whatever you’ve having is fine. What can I help with?” He follows me to the kitchen, resting back against the counter.
“I got it covered, thanks.”
Filling a vase with water, I turn back, finally stopping to take him in. His sultry brown hair is styled as though he ran his hands through every piece. The light grey dress shirt does little to hide the stunning male physique of broad, but not too bulky, shoulders and a wide chest. With his hands braced on the counter, his muscular biceps beg to rip through the fabric.
Taking my time, my searing appreciation travels downward to lean hips encased in dark washed jeans, which I already observed grip his firm ass flawlessly.
Yeah—he definitely turns up the heat in the kitchen.
“Do I pass inspection?” he asks in a seductive husk.
My cheeks blush as I drop the bouquet in the vase and turn away, the food suddenly needing my attention. “Yes,” I answer softly.
“As do you, every damn time,” he speaks in my ear now, pressed against my back, moving the hair off my neck where he nuzzles in. “Smells delicious,” he murmurs, running his nose up my neck.
“It’s three cheese lasagna,” I reply in a lust-fueled whisper.
“I was talking about your skin.”
“Oh.” The spatula falls from my shaky hands, making a rather loud clang on the counter.
“Turn around.” His sinister command has me complying immediately. “So damn beautiful.” He traces my jaw with his fingertip, leaning in to place one soft kiss on my lips. “Perfect.”
Anticipation looms until one broad, hot hand slinks down my waist.
“I’m sorry, for everything,” I say, needing him to know.
His kiss silences me. It’s tender and sweet, his tongue running over my lip seeking entrance, which I instantly grant. He backs me up until I’m flush between him and the wall.
“I need you,” I say into his mouth.
His response is a hungry moan, his wandering hands slipping down my thighs past the length of my short dress. My skin tingles under his fingertips as he trails them back up and cups my ass, pulling me even closer, crushing our chests together.
Strong hands grip and lift me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, ankles locking together. My lips glide over his jaw, then gradually up to his ear. “Bedroom,” I murmur, needing him, desperate to seal the connection between us.
My hands weave into his hair as he begins to move, turning to turn off the oven—good thinking—then carrying me across the room. I dip my head, tilting it to the side, merging our mouths, tongues flicking together with natural passion.
I don’t even realize we’re near the bed when he bends down, releasing me from his hold as my back meets the mattress. My legs still sealed around his hips, reluctant to let go. He doesn’t seem to mind, moving his body with mine until he’s standing at the edge of the bed leaning over me.
My hands slide down his back and up underneath his shirt, meeting warm skin, solid muscles flexing under my touch. Slowly he removes my legs, kissing away my pout, and pulls me up to a sitting position.
With a sensual caress over my breasts, tickling slightly along my ribs, he peels the dress over my head. A shiver of pleasure shakes me as I reach for him, deliberately popping each button on his shirt one by one.
Beautiful eyes filled with gentle desire watch me, his head moving forward, dipping down to my bare shoulder, where he presses his mouth. He inhales deeply, his tongue swirling over my skin while I conquer the final button. Opening his shirt, I skim my fingers down rippled abs, smoothing my palms over a strong, chiseled chest, then sliding them back up, appreciating.
Tugging my lips between my teeth, I peer up to eyes glistening with tenderness. He feels it too, wants me as much as I want him. There are no issues, no conflicts, no mess between us. We’re in the same arena, but no longer playing any games.
I shuffle back on the bed, leaving him watching me from the end. The air between us is different than any office visits. The intimacy is palpable, and mutual realization of more is understood.
My eyes drink him in as his shirt drops off his broad shoulders and hits the floor. Tugging his belt open, he makes easy work of his pants and steps out, tossing them aside as well until he’s only in black boxer briefs, his growing erecting evident, ready for me.
Taking his cue, I reach back and unhook my bra, sliding it down my arms, then raise my hips, hands on my panties, ready to remove them as well when he moves up the bed and catches my wrist, stopping me.
“Let me,” he croons.
My smile is relaxed, my heart swelling. He’s not just my doctor anymore. He’s so much more.
His touch is gentle, feather light, when he parts my legs and settles between my thighs. Leaning down to press kisses over my hips, then lower, to each side of my panties, he worships me with a hot, seeking mouth before hooking his fingers in the tiny fabric and sliding them down.
“Mhmm.” My head falls back, spine arching.
The teasing continues, open mouthed kisses raining down my inner thigh then stopping at my knee, moving to the other leg and skimming back up until his lips graze where the throbbing is nearly audible—my sweltering center aches for him, all of him.
The kiss there is brief, a whisper of a touch, and then he’s sliding his body back up over mine. He takes my face in his hands and stares down at me as though I’m a treasure, precious and rare. My leg tangles with his, foot stroking up and down his taut calf, hands raking through his hair and trailing down over his back.
I lift my head and skim my tongue over his bottom lip, where he nips it between his lips, inciting my playful giggle. His erection molds into my thigh and I shift under him, maneuvering so it’s right where I need it, upon my center, only a single piece of fabric separating us.
His mouth snares mine, dancing in beautiful rhythm while my wicked hands move down his side, past his hips, working at his briefs, my feet meeting them half way down and rolling them the rest the way off.
Together, so close, his swollen cock slides against my core.
He rests his forehead against mine, eyes on me, and I know what he needs to hear. What we both want, both feel. It’s undeniable and has been for far too long. They’re the easiest words I’ve ever spoken, honest and raw.
“I love you, Brady,” I confess in a murmur, tears prickling. My hand seeks his, fingers entwining.
He drags our joined hands up between us and kisses my knuckles with a sigh. “It’s always been you, Moe. I’ve loved you longer than anything else in my life.”
With that, he slips inside me, stretching me, filling me, claiming me as his, which I am.
And always have been.
Epilogue
Six months later
“Son of a—”
“Baby,” he drops the box he’s lugging and rushes to my side, “what happened?”
“I stubbed my damn toe on the table because I couldn’t see where I was going. Maybe if I didn’t have to take off my damn shoes in your house,” I grumble, bending down to rub my foot.
Brady kneels down, taking my foot, massaging the stub, then places a kiss to the top of my toe.
“It’s your house too now, love.” He stands and moves behind me, rubbing the sore muscles in my neck. �
�You can wear mud boots if you want.” He bites my ear lobe and whispers low, “And nothing else.”
“Mhmm,” I purr, letting my head fall back against his chest, toe healed. Something tells me living with Brady will be easy, like giving candy to a baby.
“Hello? Where do you want this?”
I quickly unpeel myself from my man as my mother calls out, walking towards us with a large box about to fall from her grip.
“I got it,” Brady chuckles, hurrying to relieve her. “Mrs. Porter, please stop. We can get it.”
“Brady Reynolds!” She lasers motherly eyes at him. “Just because you’re shacking up with my daughter, does not mean you will stop calling me Ellen and I mean it! Mrs. Porter is John’s seventy-year-old mother!”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lowers his head hiding his amusement.
“Good, now kiss me goodbye, Addison, dear. I have to leave for my doctor’s appointment.”
“Everything alright?” I asked concerned while taking her in a hug.
“Fine, just routine. Tell your father when they get back with the last load that I’ve gone. I’m sure he’s already forgotten. You kids be good.” She pulls Brady in for a quick hug then waves and head out.
We walk behind her, grabbing more boxes when at long last I ask, “Brady?”
“Yeah, babe?” He grunts, lifting a heavy one.
“Are you—” I gulp, deathly afraid of the answer. “My mother’s…gyno?”
The box slips from his hands as he rears back with a barking laugh, shoulders shaking. “Uh no, not a chance in hell.” He grasps my shoulders and moves me out of the way when my brother starts to back another load up to the door. “Watch out!”
Ashley, the way too perfect but very sweet glamour-bot, jumps out of the truck, directing Dylan’s attempt at staying off the lawn with the truck.
Brady’s chuckle against my temple brings my attention from her back to him.
“Not Ashley’s either, babe. “
“I didn’t—”
He taps the end of my nose. “I saw that brain smoking.”
He knows me well.
“What about pizza-thieving Blowjob Blondie?”
