by S. E. Hall
"Jennifer, hey, it's Addison. I'll be out for the rest of the day. I'm sorry. I just finished at the doctor and I need to go home and lie down. Thank you."
Dragging into my house, my back throbs and aches from the hunchback-ish posture that's set in with my mood. I'd fix this funk I'm in if only I knew how—usually I'm a productive, happily independent functioning member of society. Problem is, I can't pinpoint exactly what's sucked the life from me; it's just one big hodge-podge of fuzzy ick.
Giving no fucks that it's early afternoon, I trudge to my bedroom and slip into my comfiest pajamas, then crawl under the sanctity of my billowy down comforter. I've never been a big napper, always more important things to do in daylight, but damn if my eyelids aren't already heavy.
Everything's a wreck and I need a break from reality, so I surrender to sleep.
"Addison."
My eyes flutter open, taking in my surroundings, no longer my bedroom. Instead I'm back there, his office, sitting on the exam table wearing nothing but my lucky socks. There's no robe to cover even the smallest part of me. I'm naked, vulnerable, yet my focus is trained solely on searching for the wanting masculine voice calling out my name.
He's not in the room, not yet, but he soon will be. He's close, on the other side of that door, I can feel him. I close my eyes, imagining him standing there, ready to greet me, touch me. Is he visualizing me? Preparing his body, pleading with it to behave as I am my own?
Anticipation trembling down my legs, I watch as the door opens and he appears, calm and collected, all business. But his eyes…his eyes give him away, telling a different story. He's not just my doctor, I'm more than his patient. There's a hunger there, one that matches my own, challenging me to take what I want.
Instantly he's in front of me, as though he'd flashed across the room too quickly for the human eye to catch. No words are spoken as he lays me back, his fingers curling around my own until I'm spread out over the table.
His mouth suckles my breast, tongue flicking the nipple, hands wandering over me. He can't get enough. I can feel his excitement, his eagerness. I arch my back up, needing him closer.
He understands, walking to the end of the table and climbing up. His strong body covers my own as he claims my mouth in zealous fervor, his hard, rigid length pulsing against my stomach.
My legs creep out from under him and wrap around his back, the movement pushing his cock exactly where I need it. I feel the twitch when I grind against it.
My hands tangle in his silky hair over his shoulders, then slide between our bodies, tugging to open his pants. He places a final kiss to my collarbone then raises up to assist. My heavy lidded eyes meet Brady's familiar face suddenly looking down into mine.
"I know you want me too, Moe. Always been mine."
I throw up my hands, pushing him away, scurrying off the side of the table, now my bed, where I awaken, fingers delved in my core, body so close but mind alarmingly confused. It takes a moment to fully immerse back into consciousness.
What the hell is happening to me?
Overheated and heart pounding, I'm twisted in the sheets, a light sheen of sweat covering my enflamed body.
My dream. Oh God, my dream.
Attempting to control my rapid breaths, I glance over at my alarm. Eight am! I'd never set it, falling asleep mid-day, and now I'm right on track to be late for work and irresponsibly unconcerned.
And like a slap in the face, my dear friend irony decides to pick this moment to start pounding on my front door—literally. I only have myself to blame for the early morning visitor. Finally acknowledging the silent phone on the side table, I have no doubt who it is. I climb out of bed and check that I'm presentable enough, or at least fully covered, and go answer him.
This outta be fun. "Morning. I stopped short of what was an actual wet dream when you showed up in it. How are you today?"
"Counting to ten, Moe, then I'm using my key!" he yells from the other side.
"Calm down, I'm coming," I mumble, swinging open the door to one frumpy-faced Brady.
"She's alive!" he snaps, showing himself in. "Here." He hands me a Starbucks cup, one quick sip confirming my favorite grande no whip peppermint white mocha.
"Is this—"
"No, after five thousand orders, I begged them to pour in an actual vat of fat. My bad," he deadpans. "Did you want non-fat?"
Well, someone's in a mood.
Not wanting to test the waters further, I take another sip, the harshness in his surveying eyes running the length of my front and then back up.
"Why aren't you dressed for work? And why's your phone been off since yesterday?"
"Morning to you too, Brady. I'm fine, thanks for asking, and my phone was switched off because as a grown ass woman. I'm allowed to do that when the mood strikes." I breeze past him in long, angry strides. Dick!
"Why?"
"Why what?" I huff, setting my coffee on the counter while I snatch a hair clip from the junk drawer.
"Why was your phone off?"
I wrap my hair in a loose bun and slide the clip in place, debating the best response, a formidable Brady looming over me. "I was tired." I turn on my heel and pry open the refrigerator in an attempt to block him out while seemingly searching for something of substance to squelch the gurgle of my empty stomach.
"Bullshit." His hand, inches from my head, slams the fridge door shut, locking me in place.
"We need to talk and you ignoring my calls and texts—" his nostrils flare, eyes hard as he leans into me, "pisses me off like nothing else."
My chin juts out in response. "That's what happens when you act like a jerk!" I shove against his chest but he doesn't budge, not even a sway.
My hands drop to my sides, pumping in and out of fists. Not because I plan to throw a punch; I've never been one to hit, but I use this to channel the rage that's about to burst from my pursed lips. And when the hell did Brady's chest get so hard?
Focus!
Unaffected, he continues as though my hands had never attacked him. "Me and you, we're gonna fight occasionally, it happens between friends. But you gotta answer the fucking phone to let a guy apologize, got it?"
"Fine. You're here now, so would you like to sit down?" I let the sarcasm drip off my words, snide smile in place over my tight lips.
"Sure, join me." He grabs my hand and pulls me into the living room and down onto the couch beside him. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said, Moe, okay? I was too…harsh."
He shakes his head, his features softening on his sigh. When he looks back up, my anger melts into hurt, reopening the wound I suffered from his callous words. But also at the regret I hold for mentioning his bastard father. I wait nervously through the silence for him to say more.
"I don't wanna fight with you, ever. You know I didn't mean a word of it. You're smart and capable and always make the best fucking decisions. I was just mad; you're kinda rough on Dylan."
I rest back against the sofa pillow, tucking one leg under me. "I seem too rough because it's always in direct comparison to you being too easy," I say softer, his apology already accepted. "But I agree, he needs support, so I'll be there for him. No more naysayer here."
His shoulders deflate. "Come here." He embraces me in a hug and kisses the top of my head. "Love you, Moe, so sorry. Forgive me?"
"You know I do." My head pulls back just enough to see his face. "I'm sorry I brought up your father. That was a bitch move. I didn't—"
"Stop, I'm over it. You were just angry. You and that temper of yours." A chuckle catches in his throat and I yank myself from his arms.
"I do not have a temper! I'm passionate is all!" I screech out just as Brady's arm encircles my waist and drags me down in a fighting move, pinning me underneath him.
"Passionate, huh?"
His heady scent overwhelms my frazzled senses, as does the firmness in his arms, and I'm jolted back to my dream. I can't think, can't breathe. My stomach is a swirl of butterflies and rational concerns tangl
ed in a nasty brawl. My core's weeping, saturated with desire as his fingers dig into my hips.
"Yes, passionate, and incredibly stubborn," he murmurs, lips hovering over my ear, the weight of his chest crushing against mine.
Does he feel it too—the heat? The cruel, undeniable link pulsing between us? Or is this just a playful match that my body is reading further into? I'm unsure, only one thought clear—get away.
With a scorching blush, I shove at him in an awkward display of gangly arms and legs, ready to start screeching, but he's already gone. He sits across from me, scrubbing his hand across his face, contemplation evident.
Keep it casual. As though I can ignore that our worlds have been totally thrown off kilter.
"Hey," I offer a silly grin, "aren't you gonna be late for work?"
"Aren't you?" His playful mood returns, lip curling up on one side with his smug retort.
"Not going in today. Gonna veg with some girly flicks, tissues, and rocky road."
Pulling me back in with an arm around my shoulder, he nuzzles his nose at my temple. It's a completely innocent and normal action, one he's done a million times, one that soothes away my apprehension. "Sounds perfect. I'm in."
So we both call in to work and for the rest of the day and reenact a scene much like the time Eric Bishop called me the night before the 9th grade formal and explained that he asked someone else before me and forgot, dumping me flat.
We wrap up in a big, comfy blanket and watch movies purposely designed to make me cry, while Brady laughs and hands me more tissues.
But this time, it's not the same Brady who joins me. I'm not sure which version it is—friend Brady attractive and sweet when he wants to be, or dream Brady. Nor am I sure how I feel about the answer…or which one I'm rooting for.
Chapter 9
The next five days are perhaps the longest, most lackluster that I've ever endured. Brady's at a medical convention in California and besides a "landed safely" text, there hasn't been a word from him. Not that we usually chat a lot while he's away, but still, I notice the absence this time more than I'd like to admit.
Dylan's wrapped up in his new business, which I'm delighted by. I wouldn't dream of interrupting his newly formed work ethic, but it's another void.
And even Roscoe, the bloodhound who'd become the "Old man of the clinic," went to doggie Heaven this week.
On the afternoon of day two, it finally dawns on me—I don't have very many friends. None I'm eager to call over anyway, mostly just colleagues at the clinic. But really, aside from Brady and Dyl, I'm damn near the hermit cat lady.
I snatched up the book I'd yet to make it past the first chapter of and skimmed through a few words before realizing readings only fun if you want to do it, not because you're a loser with nothing else to occupy your time.
Annoyed that I had no life outside of work and the two knuckleheads, I tossed the thick paperback aside and grabbed my laptop. Scrolling through days' worth of emails, I was lead straight into the world of online shopping.
Amazing really. There is next to nothing you can't buy over the internet.
After a brief shopping spree and nearly maxing out my Amex with the gazillion dollars extra for overnight delivery, my toy box arrived in a discreet, unmarked package the next morning. Marking the "cherry popping" occasion into the ownership of "equipment," I'd gotten a variety. Red, blue, purple, innie, outie, both—you name it, I bought it.
So night three was the best I'd experienced in a while. I learned my love lies with the blue outie flicker, and I finally got some full-fledged, definite crescendo, relief.
Day four and five consisted of nothing but work, then straight home for some Addison and "new friend" time.
Thank fuck Brady gets home tonight and I'm picking him up from the airport or I literally might cause permanent numbness to my hot spot. I could go again right now. As horny as I was before purchasing my corded companion, it's only been feeding the beast, not fully satisfying it.
All week I've done nothing but think of Dr. Reynolds; images of mussed chestnut hair, vibrant eyes, and that smile. Six feet of hard, masculine body with husky, baritone instructions, joined by an electrifying touch on constant mental reel.
While the physical release has been nirvana, it hasn't filled a deeper, emotional and mental desire. I need the weight of a man on top of me, hard and pulsing inside me as he commands my body as his own.
Once again I've lost myself in the vision of just that, head fallen back, eyes closed and panties soaked when a loud bang on the hood of my car startles me.
My head rapidly flies up, wildly blinking eyes meeting familiar green ones through the windshield.
Brady's home.
My stomach somersaults, reminding me of that whole muddled head trip I've got going on. With a confused, overwhelmed sigh, I hit the door lock then reach beneath my seat and pop the trunk. It'd of course be nicer of me to jump out and greet my oldest friend with a "welcome back" hug, but I honestly don't trust my quivering legs to hold my weight at the moment.
Just as well; he's sitting in the passenger seat smiling at me by the time I finish the thought.
"Mocifus." He leans over and engulfs me in a tight hug and lands a kiss at my temple. "Boy, did I miss you. Thanks for picking me up."
"You smell like you." What in the name of hell, Addison? Think before you mumble, Jesus! I'm so out of sorts these days, I simply can't be trusted to speak, ever.
He chuckles and quirks a brow, thrown off, like myself, by my crazy. "Thank you? I'm sorry? No clue on this one, babe."
Babe? Babe is new...probably residual, or actually not even being said. First my speech, now my hearing.
In need of a buffer, I turn the key, firing up the engine and rolling out of the loading lane. Focusing on the merging vehicles such as my own, I casually toss out, "You usually come home from those conventions wreaking of the last conquest is all. Lemme guess, somebody funked up the plane's bathroom and ruined the final descent quickie this time?"
When several seconds pass without his usual witty comeback, I steal a quick glance his direction, expecting to find him dozing off.
I'm more than a bit shocked to find him silent, eyes adrift, pondering. Come on, the flight isn't that long—surely you remember whether or not you get laid during it!
"Actually," he mumbles, appearing dazed, "I didn't touch a single girl the entire trip. Didn't even realize. Huh," he wonders aloud.
I'd call bullshit if not for the way his brow is tugged down low, lips twitching to the side. "Wow, must've been a busy convention," I say instead.
"Not at all." Brady clears his throat and leans the seat back. He rests his head facing me with a relaxed, growing smile. "I got you something."
My head shoots his way, as does the wheel, and his hand flies up to correct it. I smack it away, my full attention back on the road.
"Shit!" I sputter under my breath, ignoring the blare of the horn from the car beside me that I damn near sideswiped.
He bought me a something? On one of his trips? That's a first.
"Damn, Moe, you okay?"
Eyes straight, I weave into the turning lane and finally merge onto the interstate. "Yeah, sorry. So, uh, let me get this straight, you didn't get laid all week, but you bought your best friend's little sister a gift? You feeling okay over there?"
He chuckles. "Never been better. I was just at the beach there and—"
"Shut up! No way you went to the beach and didn't take at least one surf bunny back to the hotel." I laugh.
Brady's always been into sports and with that comes the flocks of swooning girls, especially when he's at the beach. Not gonna lie, I've gawked at him on his board a few times myself over the years. It's purely human nature, appreciating a beautiful creature out in the elements—it can't be helped.
"I stayed on land this time." He digs around in his pocket. "Here."
I glance over and see the tiny wooden surfboard attached to a key chain. "Addison engraved down the
front surprises me, he rarely uses my real name.
He places it in my hand and my heart can't help but swell.
"Thank you." The air shifts, his scrutiny set my way. "So did you grab it in the airport gift shop? My name's getting easier to find on those racks." I chuckle in a vain attempt to deflect the becoming familiar but still undefined intensity. I quickly remind myself it doesn't mean anything; he's bought me birthday and Christmas gifts before, no difference.
"No, Moe, I had it engraved for you."
I swallow. "Oh, well…um, I love it. Maybe one day you'll get me on a real board." I peek his way to find he's still staring, a thoughtful smile in place.
"One day."
Silence. That's all there is for two and a half long drawn out minutes. Seriously, I'm watching the clock. I've never sat up so straight in my life, unsure of myself but intensely aware of every move he makes. His left hand slips down his thigh, resting on his knee. Fingers tap in an uneven beat. His other hand tucks under his head in a makeshift pillow. Then there's his breathing that occasionally releases a slight "hmm."
I hear it all, feel it all, and it leaves me with nothing but scattered thoughts and a tight grip on the steering wheel.
"So what'd you do while I was gone?"
I flinch at his words slicing through the silence. DO. NOT. JUST. ANSWER. ADDISON. STOP. DROP. AND THINK BEFORE TALKING.
"Read some," I reply quickly. "Laundry."
"Rebel," he mocks me with a snort. "How's Dyl?"
"Good question. I haven't heard a peep. I'm hoping he's swamped with a flourishing new business." I peek over my shoulder, making sure I'm clear to switch lanes. "Why don't you call him real quick, see if he's up for dinner. My treat. Unless you're too tired?"
"Dillweed," his boom cuts me off, already on the phone. Not too tired. "You work too hard brother. Awesome. Yeah can't wait to see. Hey, so Moe and I are picking you up in thirty for
dinner. My treat."