Doctor Dave

by Knox, Abby

  Once she’s comfortable with my movements, I feel her legs wrap around me, her feet interlocking behind my back, spreading her wider for me.

  “I can’t get enough. I just can’t get deep enough. I want more of you. I want to feel all of you.”

  Millie reaches for me, and we share a kiss that makes my heart explode. The way we rock together, mussing all the overpriced blankets and pillows on this ridiculous display, compels brand new urges in me. My mouth has a tendency to get me in trouble, but now I just have to let it out.

  “I’ve never said this to anybody before but…I love you.”

  Her thighs squeeze my middle. Her eyes go round in shock. “You what? You love me?”

  I push into her with a slightly rougher thrust. “I’ll say it as many times as you want me to. I love you, Millie. And next time we do this, there’s not going to be any condoms. Especially not one you stole from your brother’s night table. You got that? I don’t want to do radio anymore. I just want to do life with you and I want to start as soon as possible. Tell me you can handle that.”

  A tiny tear sparkles in the corner of her eye. She doesn’t need to say anything. I know she’s feeling the same thing I’m feeling. Our unearthly connection can’t be denied.

  “I love you too,” she whispers, slamming her body in tighter to me, gripping me closer, taking me even deeper than I thought possible. Her nails scraping my shoulder blades, combined with her kisses on my neck, finally send me over the edge. I release a growl against her breast as I explode inside her, reveling in our joined bodies.

  We hold each other close until the surging subsides, and then keep holding on to each other, both of us overwhelmed and overjoyed by this new thing that has fallen over us both like a huge, soft, warm blanket.

  I spoil her face with small kisses all over. “Baby, what are we gonna do with this duvet? We messed it up pretty badly,” she says.

  I shrug. “Take it home as a souvenir?”

  She giggles. “Might as well. Pretty sure I’m fired, anyway.”

  I don’t want to stop kissing her, but she’s right. We should probably clean up after ourselves before her bosses get here. And pay for whatever can’t be salvaged.

  I smile playfully as I slowly slide my spent cock from her warmth. “Now, if only I knew where to find a towel to get us both cleaned up, we can take that with us, too.”

  Epilogue 1

  Eight Months Later

  Millie

  The nice thing about my husband being a former radio celebrity is we can usually maintain relative anonymity while out in public. That is, until someone at a nearby table hears my husband speak, then all bets are off.

  “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing your incredibly sexy voice from where I was sitting, and I just have to say I miss you on the radio so much. When are you coming back? Would you mind posing for a selfie?”

  The random bombshell already has her camera poised and ready, and is leaning her torso toward my husband in a way that can only be described as a blatantly rehearsed, not-so-innocent boob graze.

  When I first became swept up in this whirlwind romance eight months ago, I might have felt like I was on shaky ground at times. David and I stole our kisses, intimate moments, and private conversations in between calls from corporate media lawyers threatening to sue him over breach of contract. David’s abrupt exit from the airwaves also caused him to be very much in demand for a short time by local media outlets seeking interviews and explanations.

  He’s continued to be Doctor Dave in the eyes of everyone in town, but he’s proven to me time and time again he was simply David Hart, M.D. My David.

  The ring on my finger and my ever-expanding pregnant belly serve as convenient outward signals to anyone still hoping for a shot at the city’s former most eligible bachelor. At least, most people got the hint. Boob Graze, however…

  “That’s very kind of you to say, but I actually do mind. As you can see,” David says, breaking eye contact with our visitor to nod in my direction and give me a tender look that still makes my knees quiver under the table, even at seven months pregnant. “I’m having dinner with my wife.”

  The stranger stands upright, looking shocked at having been rebuffed. She can’t help herself from looking me up and down with a withering glance.

  I grin at her as I spin a huge ball of pasta onto my fork. “He just doesn’t have time for radio anymore, what with these pregnancy hormones demanding all the various forms of sexual congress multiple times a day. He is quite the soldier. Bless him,” I say.

  The woman narrows her eyes in revulsion as I stuff the contents of my fork into my mouth and roll my eyes back in my head in pure pleasure. It’s not acting; I crave pasta and Alfredo sauce like the dickens these days.

  When she finally gets the hint and stalks away in a snit, I notice David’s papa bear crawling its way up out of its cave. He doesn’t like the way some of his fans treat me.

  Everyone in town is still talking about the virgin who brought down Doctor Dave. David, as I call my husband, gets pretty riled up when the local news paints me as a pariah who destroyed the career of a beloved radio personality.

  As for me, I’m oddly satisfied with my notoriety.

  One gentle hand on his arm stays the angry beast, and David settles. Our eyes lock and his breathing evens out.

  He’s about to ask for to-go boxes for the rest of our dinner, as well as my dessert, so we can get the hell out of Dodge, but I stop him.

  “David, it doesn’t bother me what anyone says. I’ve been called quiet, unassuming, reclusive and even boring. So if everyone wants to believe my pussy has the power to destroy, I find it amusing. Maybe even a little bit exhilarating,” I add with a sassy shoulder shimmy.

  “This protective streak isn’t going to go away any time soon,” he says. “Sorry, but it’s gonna get even worse when the baby arrives. And now, all I want to do is go home and eat that tiramisu off the town pariah’s tits.”

  I pout. “But then what will I eat?”

  “I’ve got at least one real big cannoli for that mouth of yours.”

  I gasp as warmth pools inside my body and threatens to drench my maternity undies. His commanding dirty talk always works for me. And lately, he only has to provide some mild innuendo for me to be good to go.

  “You’re going to make your seven-months-pregnant wife get on her knees? Because I definitely won’t be able to reach the Big D from the passenger seat,” I say with a pout, knowing that he does not mean for me to do either of those things.

  My increasingly aroused husband does his best not to exceed the speed limit to get me home. Soon enough, we’re in our cozy king-sized bed, a bed outfitted, of course, with the same bedding we ruined at the linen store display. We barely make it through the door when David sweeps me into his arms as if I haven’t gained thirty-five pounds of baby weight since the first time he’d carried me to bed.

  And now as I lie on my side, he expertly spoils me with a lower back massage that sends happy tingles rippling across every inch of my skin. When he moves on to working over the muscles in my ass, I bite back a moan.

  He notices this and leans in close to whisper in my ear. “Let it out, baby. I love it when you free yourself.”

  I’m so aroused that when his hand parts my thighs from behind to massage my wet folds, my entire body shudders as I moan and squirt my arousal.

  “Fuck, baby. You’re soaked. Only one thing to do with all this juice covering my hand.” His wicked whispers in my ear combined with the sound of his hand coating his cock with my sticky essence nearly has me coming immediately.

  Something dark and hormonal, primal and bossy rises up inside me. Panting, I order my husband to lie on his back.

  He groans softly. “I know what you’re thinking, baby. No way you’re not going first. Not in my bed. I always take care of you.”

  I sigh. “But hormones won’t be satisfied. You’re not going to deny your pregnant wife her little snack, are you?
Besides, I need to remind you who that D belongs to.”

  “Baby, you’re not jealous of that silly woman from the restaurant, are you?”

  My “no” comes out a little too forcefully. He is not convinced.

  He chuckles while he nuzzles my ear. My husband has a way of making me reach my release just by doing that. But I know what he’s up to and suddenly my inner domme is not having it. Through gritted teeth, I get real bossy. “Assume the position, David, I’m gonna show you what’s mine.”

  David growls roughly into my neck, spreading goose flesh everywhere. “Fuck, baby. Not fair.” He finally rests his back against the head rest, his legs spread out to cradle me as I nestle myself between his thighs. Still lying on my most comfortable side, I rest my head against his pelvic bone so I’m eye level with his huge, throbbing, glistening cock.

  I gently tilt his shaft toward my mouth, then slip the tip of him between my lips, licking off the pearly bead of precum.

  “You taste yourself on me, Millie? You taste that gorgeous pussy on my skin?”

  I moan and take him in deeper into my mouth, my body flooding with pleasure at making him feel owned by me.

  His words incite a fire so hot, and combined with our flavors mixed together, I barely need any stimulation at all to come.

  A year ago I never would have thought I’d eagerly take a man’s cock in my mouth, let alone be this bold about it. Or about sex in general. A year ago, I was an unsatisfied virgin looking anywhere for advice. But David gave me something far better than advice, or even better than sex.

  Everything about this man speaks to everything in me, And not just his radio voice.

  It’s his real voice, his mind, his soul, whispering directly into mine, and mine into his.

  Epilogue 2

  Five Years Later

  David

  I can tell the energy of the house is wonky as soon as I start downstairs after recording my podcast.

  Soundproofing a portion of the finished attic space to create a makeshift studio wasn’t my choice; I’d rather be accessible at all times in case Millie or our daughter Emily needs me. But a few years back, Millie could tell I was missing something, apart from my day-to-day work as a doctor and my volunteer work at the free clinic. She could tell I missed speaking into a mic, offering advice, interacting with an audience. So, she encouraged me to start a relationship-and-parenting advice podcast. And she insisted on the soundproofing to make it as professional as possible.

  On this night, the night before our daughter’s fifth birthday, Emily is sound asleep, so I’m trying to be quiet as I head down the creaky wooden staircase of our house. Doesn’t much matter how hard I try to be silent as a ninja, though, judging from the racket coming from the kitchen.

  “Ugh!” The frustrated scream stops me in my tracks for half a second at the bottom of the stairs. If I valued my life, I would turn tail and run the other way when I hear my wife’s frustrated exclamations coming from the kitchen.

  But I’m Doctor friggin’ Dave. I run toward danger, even if that danger comes in the form of last-minute party-prep panic.

  “Millie. Baby.” I speak calmly and haltingly from the kitchen doorway, careful not to provoke the exasperated mama bear any further. Studying her from behind, I see my wife and the mother of my child has somehow gotten white icing in her messy bun.

  The typical male part of me wants to ask whether she has icing spilled on other parts of her and whether she requires my assistance in cleaning it off. But I would not be Doctor Dave if I didn’t know how to read an audience. I can tell this is not the time for my filthy suggestions.

  “How can I help?” I ask.

  It’s then that I see her shoulders shudder and her hands grip the table to prop herself up. She’s staring down at a quite messy but still delicious-looking three-tiered birthday cake.

  Through sobs, Millie blurts out, “You can go back in time and marry someone who actually knows what she’s doing at this motherhood thing!”

  One thing I can’t stand is when Millie is hard on herself. Nope. Not having it. In an instant I’m wrapped around her, letting her cry it out all over me. She’s still holding a messy spatula in one hand as icing and tears are probably making a sticky mess on my t-shirt. But I don’t care about the mess. All I want is to make it better.

  “Oh. OK. Well in that case, do you think the random lady who once slipped her hand down my pants would do a better job at making a homemade cake? Or, decorating the party room with a hundred pink balloons and tissue paper flowers?” I ask, gesturing at the explosion of pastel in the living room adjacent to the kitchen.

  She breathes out a small watery laugh against my shoulder. “No, she’d probably have spent all your money by now.”

  I smile and gently pet her hair, then lick off the icing that transferred onto my hand. “You’re right; no money left to raise babies, let alone buy decorations. What about Boob Graze Lady? You think she’d make a better wife and mommy?”

  Millie shudders against me, but this time, it’s in laughter. I exhale in relief; she’s coming around. “Nah,” she says, using my shirt to dab at her eyes before looking up at me. “The way she was watching me eat, she probably doesn’t allow for birthday cake. She probably lets her kids eat carrots as a high carb treat on special days.”

  There’s my girl. I give her a squeeze. I look over at the cake. “Baby, I think it looks fine. It’s midnight. Why don’t you leave that for the morning and come to bed?”

  The truth is, the cake looks like an absolute mess, and it doesn’t matter.

  I just wish my amazing wife knew that.

  Her shoulders droop and she looks disappointed in herself. “The coriander lime buttercream doesn’t taste like coriander or lime. It just tastes like vanilla!”

  Whoa, I think. “I don’t have any idea what you just said but vanilla sounds just fine for a kid’s party.”

  She huffs. “But you don’t understand. When I asked her what flavor she wanted, she said ‘the beach,’ so I was going for a tropical theme. But the coconut flavor doesn’t even come through in the cake, the icing is a disaster, and the fondant palm tree looks like a green turd. The Mom Squad and all their kids will be here in twelve hours and that’s not enough time to fix this cake, make the appetizers, assemble the party favors, fill the piñata and also shower and sleep.”

  I nod and smile while she goes on. Meanwhile, I surreptitiously taste a part of the cake that’s fallen down. I don’t know anything about fancy baking, but I do enjoy food, and this cake is hands down her best cake yet. Because of course it is. Because my sweet Millie has made homemade cakes for my birthday and Emily’s birthday every year.

  Just like knitting or tasing bad guys, my Millie can do anything she sets her mind to. Molding fondant to look like a palm tree, however, not so much. She’s right. It does look like a green turd.

  “Millie, look at me,” I say, cupping her face. “This cake is amazing. Emily doesn’t know what the beach tastes like and none of her little friends are going to care that the lime and coconut and cumin—”

  “Coriander,” she corrects.

  “Yes, that. None of them are going to ask what happened to the intended flavor profile. So, that leaves the other parents. Is this cake for them, or for Emily?”

  Millie smiles sweetly at the thought of our bright-eyed, freckled free spirit, fast asleep upstairs. I’m biased, but I’ve never seen anyone so full of so much love for a child that she radiates with it. Millie closes her eyes for a moment. I can tell she’s bursting with happiness combined with sadness that our baby is turning five. She expresses her love so freely it almost hurts my heart to witness it.

  I softly trace the pad of my thumb over one of her closed eyes, feeling her lashes brush against my skin. “Ask yourself how much you actually care what the Mom Squad thinks,” I suggest.

  Saying the phrase “Mom Squad” out loud makes me cringe. Mostly good people, but corny name. The Mom Squad refers to the local parenting gr
oup that Millie found online, back when she first started seeking out the company of other moms in the area. Even though I’ve cut back on my hours treating patients to make sure I’m present as much as possible to help out, I could see early on that Millie was going to need extra support. She can be a bit of a hermit if left to her own devices. I don’t mind—I love having my girls all to myself—but the friends she’s made in the group have given us both lots of help. A few of them have even made appearances on the podcast to talk about everything from breastfeeding to sex after childbirth.

  “Not at all. Except for Valerie. And Jenny. And Tara. They’re cool,” she replies.

  I agree. “See? And none of the little hooligans are gonna care. They’re just going to be grateful for cake and games and entertainment.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Oh no. Babe, did you talk to Max about all that?”

  Brushing my thumbs against her cheekbones, I place a kiss on the end of her nose. “Your brother is on board, and he’ll be here.”

  She bites her lip, looking skeptical. “And you told him about the ruffled pirate shirt?”

  I didn’t, but he’ll wear it. Her big lug of a brother will show up and wear the damn pirate shirt and like it, if it means making my Emily and Millie happy. “Yes,” I lie.

  Millie squints at me. “Don’t lie.”

  “Listen,” I say. “He will do it if he ever wants a chance at asking out Val.” The one single mother in the Mom Squad got Max’s attention when I talked to her on the show about raising a baby on her own after her boyfriend flaked. Max has been bugging us for her phone number ever since.

  Millie grins up at me wickedly. “You’re a bigger manipulator than anyone in the Mom Squad.”

  I raise one shoulder in acknowledgment, now forgetting what we were talking about because for some reason my hand has traveled down to her shoulder and has sneakily tugged apart the V neck of her nightshirt. My focus is now entirely on the icing smudge on her sternum.