Doc

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck.” I have to grind the words out as we lose ourselves to a euphoric explosion.

  I force my eyes open when I hear her cursing and moaning out unintelligible praises. The look of pure ecstasy on her face makes my orgasm somehow longer and more violently consuming than it was shaping up to be. I focus on her as long as I can before my own pleasure forces my eyes shut. I refuse to think about the mess I’m going to have to clean up since I neglected to grab a towel.

  I’m legitimately sorry, housekeeping. I’ll leave a note to wash all the bedding.

  My head collapses back as I try to breathe and calm. I’m alerted by her soft sounds, her hums and low gasps. I look to see her folding in on herself, lips stretched wide and parted. Her eyes open and find me on her screen. They’re slightly unfocused at first, as I’m sure mine are as well.

  “When will you be home?” she whispers.

  Did she basically say she missed me? I grin widely to hide the hope pounding a hole in my chest. I feel like I could come again.

  ***

  The next day of filming is the longest goddamn day ever. I try to call Nora before coming back from lunch, but she doesn’t pick up. Zeke keeps asking me what “my fucking problem” is, and every time he does, I laugh to myself and tell him to fuck off. Eventually he stops asking, but I force him into a bad wig to help out with the melee fight we’re filming b-roll for.

  Despite my distraction and my desperation to get home and find out if Nora really did miss me (while naked and otherwise), I have really enjoyed working on this production. Our director Keely Sloan—you know, Zeke’s new fuck buddy—is easy to get along with and even easier to work with. Even though she has experience working as a stunt coordinator, she defers to me and my team’s expertise.

  “Mr. Wellesley.”

  I shove the pads I’m putting away into the case and close the lid. “Ms. Sloan,” I say in kind. “What can I do for you?”

  She grins. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  Her threesome with Zeke springs to mind, and my eyebrows shoot through my hairline.

  She laughs. “Not that kind, you pervert.”

  My face flames, but I laugh it off. “Sorry, I—”

  “No problem, hon. I know Zeke’s a buddy of yours. And I know dudes are worse than knitting circles,” she says.

  I roll my eyes and shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Uhh, right. Okay, so what’s up?”

  She chuckles and slaps my shoulder. “I’ve signed on to direct an episode of Heaven’s Demons. Do you know it? It’s Supernatural meets Sons of Anarchy. I’ve had a look at the initial script, and judging by the level of action on paper, I’m going to need the best—and by the best I mean you and your guys.”

  “Wow, thanks. Just let me know the production window.”

  She nods. “In a couple months, I think. I’ll call Michelle—she’s still assisting you, right?”

  Michelle was a wicked flirt and kept banging my guys and causing all sorts of drama I couldn’t put up with. “Nah, I had to let her go. I’ve got a friend who’s picking up slack for me. Name’s Rae. I’ll text you the number.”

  Keely knuckles my side and tosses off a “thanks” as she heads back to her trailer.

  After I’ve packed up and checked out of the hotel, I snag a car to the airport. The entire trip—from tip to toe—my mind spins around what’s got me so on edge. I was fine until Nora didn’t answer my call today. Entirely possible she didn’t hear it. Maybe her phone was off, or the battery died. She could’ve been sleeping late.

  But here’s me like a lovesick schoolgirl, imagining the worst: getting jealous over nonexistent hookups with people I know. I have possessive and protective urges so strong, you’d think we’d been together for ages.

  Rein it in, Wellesley. Fuck’s sake.

  By the time I turn down my street, the sun is low in the orange-cast sky, and the world is tinted with warmth and warning. I’m determined not to hunt Nora down and keep her gorgeous body beneath mine until she’s screaming my name and her undying devotion, but just the thought of it makes me want to do exactly that. And so goes the uselessly endless cycle of talking myself down, only to remind myself how desperately I want all of that woman. Every last morsel. The more I avoid, the more I need to call or text her. Just to see.

  To my surprise, I don’t have to. When I pull into my driveway, she’s sitting on my doorstep, looking like a goddamn five-course meal waiting for a starving man. With dessert, of course.

  12

  THE DATING

  NORA

  “MISS ME, LOVE?” Doc ambles toward the door with his typical, cocky-ass grin on his face. His surprise didn’t go unnoticed, though he schooled it quickly enough that anyone else might have missed it.

  “Not at all.” I stand and he steps close to me, chest to chest. I feel his heat and have to restrain myself from jumping on him. God, he feels good. And I’m not even touching him. Now that I’ve let myself off the leash when it comes to Declan Wellesley, it’s like I have no control at all. I’m giddy that he’s here and clearly happy to see me. “I was in the neighborhood selling Girl Scout cookies. I heard you’re a sucker for those Samoas.”

  That was stupid, but I’d rather avoid sounding needy and, I don’t know, vulnerable. I wish I could stop my mouth sometimes. If he said something first, maybe I could actually say I missed him. Maybe… Deep breath. “I missed you.”

  Doc’s eyes snap to mine, his full lips parting slightly. Nerves start to eat at my stomach. I think the shock I see is a good shock. Right? Maybe? Holy shit, man, speak.

  He tips his face to scan down my body before sliding his eyes back up. He’s slow and leisurely about it, because if the man knows how to do one thing, it’s torture me. His gaze gives me physical sensation, as though it paints the trail like a tongue.

  “I missed you, too.” It’s so, so quiet, but it soothes me like a balm.

  “Kiss me?” I don’t realize I’ve spoken out loud until his tongue is in my mouth.

  “Fuck,” he says between our frenzied mouths.

  My back hits the outer door, then my head. I bark a laugh and try to breathe. “Okay, but inside, please.”

  “Yes,” he says, panting. “Inside. I will be inside you very soon.”

  “Ha ha… I mean inside the house,” I manage. “Though I would like you inside me as well. Just not with your neighbors’ security cameras on us.”

  “So paranoid,” he says. “But your wish is my command.”

  He wraps an arm around my waist to pull me away from the door, and he doesn’t let go until we’re inside with the door behind us.

  We don’t make it past the entryway with our clothes. I don’t make it past the front room rug without an orgasm.

  ***

  “I was thinking I should take you on a date,” Doc says.

  I let my head fall to the side so I can look at him. His eyes are closed, but he’s smirking toward the ceiling, both arms above his head in a lazy circle.

  “What? Why?” Internally, I cringe, having reacted like it’s a ridiculous suggestion, but it feels like a tug out of the casual waters we had agreed to swim in. Then I get a picture of him in my imagination: He’s handing me flowers, wearing an ill-fitting suit, bow tie, and glasses. Even in this imaginary scenario, he looks insanely hot. And so sweet.

  He turns his face to me and as his eyes move over my naked form, his body follows. He props his head up on his elbow and pulls me toward him with his other arm. “Because we’re dating. We’re not just fucking.”

  “Fooled me,” I tease, but it lands sour.

  His previously smug expression collapses into irritation.

  “I’m joking. I’m sorry, I just meant we’ve been doing so much of the latter…”

  “Nora,” he says, an eyebrow arched high and aimed at me. “I like you. I want to spend time with you. Even with our clothes on.”

  I grin and tuck my chin into his neck. My bones feel like the
y’re vibrating, unable to contain the feeling. It’s such a high, someone wanting you. For more. I admit that I suspected, but I have trouble trusting myself. Once bitten and all that. Still, the surprise warms me.

  I speak quietly against his skin. “I—” Nerves force me to take a breath and dig really fucking deep. “I like you, too. I suppose not being naked around you might be tolerable.”

  “You are adorable.”

  I pull back to take in his flat, deadpan expression, which reveals both his patience and his humor. I know I push him sometimes, but it’s easier than being confronted about my emotional shortcomings.

  “I’m a phenomenon.” My declaration is equally pokerfaced.

  He raises my chin, his fingertips propping my face up like a crown or something precious. Everything seems to slow as the air is sucked out of the room. A wave of fire rolls over my skin, tickling at the extremities.

  “Yes. You are.”

  When he kisses me, it begins slow, like warming kindling to fuel. There are twists and firm hands, building heat, and the hint of the blaze to come. At first I think it will lead to yet another round, but he never increases the pace of the kiss. He all-too-soon slows and withdraws, his teeth scraping lightly across my lower lip. My mouth and skin are left to cool and shiver.

  One arm drops and his hand slips down to slide over my shoulder, breast, side, and around my back. He moves his bottom arm forward so I rest on his shoulder, right on top of his circular tattoo. I’m beginning to think of it as my spot. I release a sigh that sounds like a quiet orgasm as his embrace contracts and presses us together entirely. I feel all of him, his heart, his furs, his patience, his affection. He is a silk cocoon—warm, soft, hard, consuming.

  “Date me.”

  It’s not a demand, it’s not a plea—it’s a request, and his voice holds all the heat he took from the kiss. But that’s not what holds my attention. It’s his eyes and everything they promise. My stomach is jumpy. Officially dating brings more serious connotations. Going public? The expectations are raised and then we start talking commitment and… I mean, we are technically already dating. I already said yes. I want to say yes again, but my heart rate has picked up, powering a small wave of panic.

  I raise an eyebrow and play it off with a smirk. “I am.”

  He grumbles, narrowing his eyes. How does he make that sexy? “Let me take you out, Beauty.”

  I’m overthinking it, right? It’s just going out together. It’s not that serious.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” I say, pushing forward to kiss him and pushing down the butterflies in my stomach that his nickname always stirs up. “Let’s do stuff.”

  He chuckles. “Other than sex?”

  “We’re not eliminating that part, are we?”

  I’m sure the horror is expressed plainly on my face, as he erupts into deep laughter. I blush furiously.

  “Fuck no,” he promises, still laughing as he kisses the blush off my cheeks. “I may genuinely like you, but I’m not crazy.”

  ***

  When we arrive at a warehouse in Laurel Canyon a couple weeks later for our first “real” date, I am nonplussed. In the index of Good Ideas for a Date, I’m not able to match “warehouse” to any of the entries. I snap out of my brain-pause when I hear him teasing me.

  “Look at the sign, love,” he snarks.

  The curve of his mouth melts me a little. I do so love his smile.

  “Those in the know call this place LAAS, like lass.”

  I follow the quick snap of his head, indicating where to look, and see Los Angeles Archery Society on the sign above.

  “You did not.” I gasp and cover my mouth in surprise.

  Instead of responding to my pure excitement, he jumps out of the—God save me—tank-wagon and runs around to open my door. He takes my hand as I step out, and I allow it, despite the fact that I don’t need the help. It’s nice. And it feels like I’m being pampered, or courted… For a moment I’ve landed in the middle of a Jane Austen novel and I love it.

  “I can’t believe this,” I say, mumbling to myself as his arm slips around my shoulders. Somehow, he remembered from ages upon ages ago that I’ve always wanted to learn archery. “This is going to be fantastic.”

  I think he voices his agreement, but I don’t have time to listen as I dart off to the front door.

  When I get inside, there’s a guy at a check-in desk outside a small, dingy office. He looks up. “Are you registered for the class at two thirty?”

  Even though I’m sure Doc made reservations or registered us beforehand, I answer like a squealing, bubbly twit, “I don’t know.”

  Chad, according to his nametag, appears a bit frightened. It could have been the uncharacteristically cheerful tone of my answer. Not that he’d know it was uncharacteristic. He probably thinks a mental patient has escaped County.

  Thankfully, I’m saved. “We are,” Doc says as he comes to stand next to me at the counter.

  “Hey, Doc,” Chad says, a relaxed smile on his face. “Good to see you again. It’s been what, two years now?”

  “Almost four,” he says. “Haven’t had a call for a brush-up since you taught me so well.”

  “You’ve been here?” I ask.

  Chad speaks up before Doc can. “Oh, yeah. Wellesley went through all of our courses a while ago. We saw his handiwork in Nottingham. I think we even spotted him.”

  It’s funny that I can possibly forget what Doc does for a living. Then when I’m confronted with it, the fact that he’s technically in movies blows my mind.

  “You were in Nottingham?”

  Doc chuckles, shaking his head. “I was on a team of stunt workers. Since I did a quasi-boot camp through LAAS’s courses, I ended up teaching the rest of the guys. It’s probably what got me a leg up on doing more coordination.”

  “But you were in it?”

  “Well, seems Chad wants to blow some smoke up my ass,” he says with a wink.

  “I can tell it’s you in that main battle scene.” Chad’s argument gets passionate, complete with hand gestures like he sees the location in his mind. “You know, the one just by the river?”

  “I suppose it could be,” Doc says, relenting with an embarrassed grin. “Mum says that about every project I work on—the ones she sees, anyway.”

  “You might need to give me a list of them. For research purposes,” I tell him.

  Eventually, after an inordinate amount of additional gushing, Chad lets us in for our lesson. It’s a small class of five people, including us. I’m the only true newbie—and the only woman today, but at least the others have very little experience. Doc claims it’s been long enough that he needs the refresher, but I know this is all for me.

  The instructor comes over with a cart full of bows, arrows, and glove attachments as the five of us stop chatting and move into a line.

  “Hey there, all,” he says. “My name’s Stephen, and we’re going to go over some basics before we get started. Anyone here not have any prior experience with a bow of any kind?”

  I flinch at the name Stephen. It surprises me enough that my stomach bottoms out, and I can barely swallow my spit. When I finally do, it feels like I swallowed a boulder. Flashes of my past skim past me, tripping me up momentarily.

  “You okay?” Doc asks, settling a hand on my shoulder.

  I see the genuine concern in his eyes, but still smile reflexively and deflect. “Yeah, of course.” I grab his butt for good measure.

  “You’re not nervous, are you?”

  I shrug, but I’m focusing on my breathing. I shake my head and raise my hand.

  “I’m an archery virgin,” I tell the class, my voice stronger and louder than it needs to be.

  Overcompensating? Maybe. Will I be able to use the instructor’s name? Probably not.

  I whisper to Doc. “Okay, maybe a little.”

  He seems to buy it, or at least he doesn’t push it, so I’m satisfied. My heart rate takes a minute or two to recover, but eventually, I
’m able to forget the stumble and get into the class.

  The course is three hours. After the instructor goes through some safety guidelines and basic instructions, we’re given equipment based on arm length and height. He-whose-name-shall-not-be-uttered-by-me spends a little extra time sizing me up, but nothing seems inappropriate. I catch Doc glaring when the instructor puts a hand in the middle of my back to correct me, but the look disappears when he sees me watching him. Finally, the five of us are lined up behind a row of cones, each in front of a target.

  I familiarize myself with holding the bow, taking care to have the right grasp on it. “Is this right?” I ask Doc.

  He nods, but sets his bow down to tweak my hold and position slightly. He brushes against my leg with his, hand grazing my hip before he steps back to his lane. His expression is all mischief when I find his eyes. “Keep your elbow locked, but the anchor is your stance.”

  My first three shots are complete misfires. Letting go of the arrow is surprisingly nerve wracking—I am eager for it to fly straight. Instead, not one lands anywhere on the target. I’m blaming a minor bout of perfectionism on that.

  “Strong stance, but don’t tense. Relax,” the instructor says, having watched my last two shots pretty closely. He gently nudges one shoulder back and pats it, as if to encourage it down.

  He walks away, but when I turn to look at Doc, he’s eyeballing the guy like he’s ready to fight him.

  Doc sees me watching him, and smiles innocuously. “What?”

  I shake my head, but don’t even pretend to mask my amusement.

  The shot I manage to land on the target, the outermost circle. Some sort of victory cry peals out of me, startling the rest of the class (save Doc). I turn to see the other three looking at me, plus the instructor. My cheeks bloom pink.

  “Sorry. I finally landed one.”

  “Nice one.” Doc is at my ear, his simple comment caressing more than the word on his breath can. I can’t help my shiver, which incites a low, rumbling laugh as he moves away.

  I reset my shoulders and focus on the target, keeping in mind all the tips and how to stand, hold my arm. Before I’ve even finished my aim, I feel a hand lightly tap my upper thigh.