by Vivien Vale
She’s fire. She’s ice. She’s everything.
It’s a contradiction that’s getting me so fucking twisted I can hardly bring myself to leave her.
When she started off with talking back to me, all I wanted to do was fuck that attitude right out of her.
Now...I’ve seen her gasp as I come inside her. I’ve seen her writhe like a cat and beg me for more.
I wanted a virgin, it’s true. But I didn’t know how it would affect me, seeing a woman come into her desire.
I have to turn my eyes away or else I just won’t leave.
Someone at the hospital is dying. They wouldn’t be calling me at—fuck—three in the fucking morning otherwise.
I chose my life, and I can’t abandon it now.
I hurry to the bathroom and throw on some decent clothes that are still comfortable. I want to rush right out the door, but, instead, I stop and look at Stella again.
Her naked body under the sheet is mesmerizing. She breathes softly and turns to her side.
It’s a good thing she sleeps like a log. She won’t have to be woken up by my phone five times a night. If she stays, anyway.
I haven’t forgotten about the plane I’m supposed to put her on in a few weeks.
I realize I can’t just walk out. It comes as a surprise to me, but I don’t want her to be sad or wonder where I am.
I jog to the kitchen and write a quick note. Sorry, Stella. Work calls. Be home soon.
It fucking bothers me that I have to do this. Love and leave. It reminds me of the same thing it always does: I’m too much for the women I’ve known.
Sexual appetite too strong. Too intense and driven. Passion can be frightening.
Not to mention the massive cock.
It’s left more than a few ladies begging me to do it just a bit slower and to ‘Grab the lube while you’re at it.’
I think about the way Stella can take me, and it makes me smile. Good memories.
There are terrible ones, too. Those same women telling me all I want to do is fuck and argue.
I say, ‘So let’s fuck then’ and they say they can’t, they’ve had enough.
They need time.
Or for me to find a woman with the sexual appetite to match mine.
I had wanted to tease and flirt and pull them into something passionate and compelling, but they just wanted to talk about what happened on Keeping Up with the Kardashians.
So, I find a woman that can handle that and tell her what exactly? I’m only going to be around when the living and the dead will let me? That I could miss the birth of my child or our anniversary dinner because I’m at the hospital?
And now I have found her. I’ve found a woman who can stand up to me, bite back, and bare her teeth at me.
One who can fuck like a goddess every day and then some. One who has an opinion on everything and who has the prettiest fucking mouth with which to tell me every last one of those opinions.
How can I ask her to just demurely wait around for me?
And that’s the problem. I want to her to wait for me.
But I can’t ask her to do it.
Right now, the note will have to be enough.
In the car, I call the hospital back and find out it’s a pile up. Casualties are flooding the ER.
I curse softly as I take in the details. My driver knows this is not the time to worry about tickets. He flies through every intersection.
When we arrive at the hospital, I don’t even wait for the car to stop moving before I leap out.
“Dr. Kirkwood!” a nurse calls out near the door. She’s got a cap and gloves ready and waiting for me.
I tear into the department. Stretchers are everywhere, with moaning people on them. Most are covered in blood.
I head for the quietest gurneys—the most injured. I push through the people, finally coming on a stretcher at the very back of the room.
There’s a little girl on it. Two scratched-up and bloodstained people—the parents?—stand sobbing nearby.
“Why is no one treating this patient?” I bark at the nearest doctor.
The ER head looks up and shifts towards me a little but doesn’t leave his patient.
“She’s going to coma ward, Dr. Kirkwood,” he says in a patronizing tone.
I don’t even know this one’s name yet, and I don’t give a fuck.
“Why?” I ask, trying to hold in my rage as I pull back the child’s eyelids and take her base readings.
She’s beautiful. Maybe six years old. Very pale and splattered with blood.
Light blonde hair and fine features. Could be Stella’s little sister.
Or her daughter.
Our daughter.
I shake the idea from my head.
“Her brain activity is down, and she’s not improving. We had to put her on a monitor. Coma ward is the best place for her.”
I lift the sheet and expose her side, which is still covered in blood-soaked fabric from whatever she was wearing in the crash. It’s not a pretty sight, but I’ve seen worse.
Dr. Nobody didn’t even bother to check.
I wave over my best nurse and we get to fucking work.
I turn to the idiot doctor. “Are you aware she has a small wound, likely from a projectile, which is common in three-car pile-ups, especially to a small person sitting in a booster seat?”
I’m ice right now. Ice and fire. Fuck this idiot for missing this.
He has nothing to say. Not one word of defense. He just stares at me.
I throw the chart at a nurse and tell her to prep a surgery for my patient. She bolts out of my way as I approach Dr. Asshole. I’m already rolling up my sleeves, preparing for scrubs.
“She was dying on that cart you, asshole,” I hiss. He has sweat running down his hairline. “All because you couldn’t be fucked to do a proper examination. Thirty seconds ago, I didn’t give a fuck what your name was, but now I’m going to make it my business to find out—right after I save this little girl’s life.”
I don’t wait for a response as I stride out of the room.
I have a life to save.
Chapter 14
Stella
I wake up thinking of Michael. There’s a smile on my face even before my eyes fully open. I know it’s probably impossible, but from the way my cheeks ache, I think it’s been there a while.
A contented sigh escapes my lips as I roll onto my back, half expecting the punctual doctor to already be awake and looking at me.
The smile fades when I see his side of the bed, empty.
I’m more than a little disappointed. My dreams last night were a bit rough, and I could really use some attention right now.
I know I’m an adult, but I still require a good snuggle after having bad dreams.
After the ones last night, I could use more than a snuggle.
It seems silly in the light of day, but I still can’t get the image out of my head. The dark outline of a man, standing at the foot of the bed, watching me sleep.
It sends a shiver down my spine despite the warm room.
Enough of that.
I throw the blankets aside, exposing my naked body to the morning air. Nudity really has become my calling card as of late.
Will have to try harder to fix that...or not.
I skip over to the closet. Thoughts of bad dreams and absentee doctors slip easily from my mind. Who has time to think about those things when they’ve got a closet full of brand new designer clothes, right?
I grab a Gucci dress. It’s a little fancy for a day around the house, but it’s made from the softest fabric I’ve ever felt. Red silk falls around me in waves as I slip it on, taking a moment to thank the powers that be that Michael didn’t manage to get his hands on it.
Had he torn this one, heads would have rolled.
Or so I like to think.
In reality, I probably still would have wound up on my knees in front of him.
The man really is impossible to stay mad at.
I make my way to the window to check the driveway. As I suspected, his car is gone.
I don’t spend long wondering where he is. Instead, I decide to take the opportunity to get...better acquainted with my man.
I mean, come on. Leaving me here alone like this is practically an invitation to snoop. What kind of mail-order bride would I be if I neglected his invitations?
Feeling thoroughly justified, I head to the dresser.
It’s a massive hulking thing, probably made out of the kind of tree that’s now extinct. The surface is so glossy I can practically see my reflection. It occurs to me that I don’t know if he does his own cleaning.
Probably. I can hardly imagine him letting a stranger into his house.
I start at the top and work my way down.
Socks, underwear, shorts.
Boring!
Until I reach a drawer on the bottom, that is. It slides open easily, as did the others. I’m thrilled to see its contents are something other than clothing for a change.
Inside sits a small wooden box, more polished than even the dresser.
I lift the lid, fully expecting to find some porn or maybe even a gun.
Instead, I find myself gazing at a stack of paper.
Taking the top sheet, I scan quickly over its contents.
Discharge papers? Like…military?
I’m not sure why he wouldn’t have mentioned it. Frankly, I’m fucking impressed.
Apparently, the good doctor is more than meets the eye.
I scan the page again, locking onto the highlights.
Medic, honorable discharge, acts of valor...
Definitely seems like the kind of thing someone would brag about. But not Michael, of course.
I set the page aside, digging deeper into the stack.
More military forms, different commendations, that sort of thing. At the bottom of the box, though, sits a stack of photos.
One of Michael in his lab coat, standing beside a smiling child.
Another of him in the same getup beside a clearly overjoyed old woman.
Him and a zit-faced teenager, him and a little girl…On and on.
Scrawled across the backs are names and dates:
Eddie Prince- 01/16/17
Ruby Smith-04/02/15
Jane O’Neil- 03/19/12
There are dozens.
It occurs to me about halfway through the pile that I’m looking at people whose lives he’s saved.
I smile broadly.
Here I thought I was gonna find porn.
I put everything back, putting extra effort into remembering the right order. If I were him, I might shout these things from the rooftops, but he clearly has them hidden for a reason. No need for him to know I’ve been here.
I close the drawer and look around for something else to discover.
Hell, it’s a big house, and it looks like I have some time on my hands.
I poke around his office next, thoroughly inspecting his massive oak desk, relaxing in his leather chair. Then, I move to the closets, the attic...
I bypass the bathrooms, having already been in them just days ago.
I go through room after room, each more disappointing than the next.
Hours go by before I give up, having found nothing even remotely interesting since the wooden box.
I miss Michael, I’m bored, and I still have no idea where he is.
He could have at least left a note.
I half expected to find one during my little exploration, but after covering most of the house, I’m sure there’s none.
Asshole, I think, trying to feel mad.
Really though, I’m not.
After being away from him all day, what I feel the most is loneliness. It’s crazy how fast I’ve gotten used to having him around.
As a matter of fact, I’m starting to worry.
I know I haven’t known him long, but this seems a bit out of character. Where could he have gone so quickly that he couldn’t even leave a note?
I walk out to the living room and start to pace.
Now that the sun is setting, I can’t help thinking of my dreams from last night.
They’re on a loop in my head: the man at the end of the bed, the eerily stillness while he watched me.
I feel a shiver race down my spine.
I feel eyes on me.
I’m too old for this shit, and I know it. Dreams are just dreams.
From down the hall, I hear the front door open.
Finally!
Still, I can’t shake the chills, the feeling of eyes running over me.
I walk to the door, the distance now seeming impossibly far. I tell myself to stop being silly, to go and throw myself into Michael’s arms.
When I finally get to the door though, there’s no one there.
It’s standing open, cold air rushing to meet me. But no Michael.
I poke my head outside, sweeping my eyes across the expanse of the yard. Nothing. No one.
I bite back the fear rising in me.
This is getting ridiculous.
I’m an adult. I am not afraid of the fucking wind. I slam the door shut and engage the deadbolt.
There. Now it can’t blow open again.
I let the pointless fear fade away as I walk back down the hall. I really am just being silly.
By the time I reach the living room, I’m already laughing at myself.
Like, what could it possibly have been, a home invader or something? Please. That’s ridiculous.
Almost as ridiculous as being kidnapped by the Russian mafia and sold off as a mail-order bride.
Chapter 15
Michael
I’m so tired I can barely see as I stagger out of the room. Usually, at this point, all I want is to sit down, rest my back, knock down a drink, and recover.
But now, I only want Stella.
As the attendees and nurses slap me on the back and say the usual platitudes, I can’t find meaning in it. I normally feel tired, sure, but also high. Only wanting a short break before I exercise my other extraordinary powers.
I lumber through the hospital towards the doors.
Shit.
The sun has almost set, and here I was, assuming it’s still the morning. Planning on spending the day with Stella.
Nope. I’ve worked the whole day away and without a single call to let her know where I’m at.
I’m going to have to make this big. I can already think of just the right place to take her. I’ll buy her a new gown and shoes and a necklace and earrings set to go with it. Something beautiful and classy that costs ridiculous amounts of money. I’ll wear the full tux, too.
But no matter what I do, it won’t be enough compared to what she deserves. Fuck.
What can I do? This isn’t a flowers-and-chocolates situation.
The day is late, and I have a sharp anxiety in my chest. Why haven’t I heard from her?
I go to call a car and remember that my driver would have knocked off by now. The man deserves to spend some time with his family—and I have a car here for just this occasion, anyway.
I pull out a handful of keys as I jog down into the parking area.
I push myself a bit, trying to dislodge the feeling.
It’s guilt. It’s pain. It’s loss.
I’m being melodramatic, but fuck me. I hate that I’ve missed out on a day with her.
My need for her is surprising to me.
I just want to touch her soft golden hair, her velvet skin. I want to bury my face between her thighs and feel her writhe as my tongue searches out her most secret places. Feel her open up for me so I can devour her.
I reach my car and fumble with the keys. I honestly don’t understand this anxiety, how hard it’s hitting me.
But I know where it’s coming from. I know that fucking fear all too well.
I’ve finally found the woman of my dreams, and now I’m afraid that I’ve fucked up. Lost her. That when I get home, she’ll be gone
.
That there’s no way in hell that a woman like her will be there waiting for workaholic like me.
I want to call her. Start my apologies now. But as much as she looks like a fucking Barbie doll, unfortunately, she didn’t come pre-packaged with a cell phone.
And besides, I should have fucking known what I was getting into here. Mail-order bride—not exactly the world’s most touching romance story.
I bet the second she woke up this morning, she fucked off to find some more exciting game. A guy that could spend two consecutive evenings with her.
As I get in the car, I sit still and breathe deeply.
It doesn’t help. I’m overcome by the idea that I might have pushed her too hard.
Shouldn’t have fucked her. My cock is a monster. I might have hurt her.
Suddenly, that’s the prevailing narrative in my mind. She woke up bruised, sorry, and sore, and what did I give her?
A fuck you. I’m off to work, and I’ll fuck you later. Then she doesn’t hear from me all day and she gets more upset by the second.
Until she leaves.
I don’t even know that she’s gone yet, but I’m prepared for the worst.
My heart is pounding by the time I turn the key. I rev up the engine and screech out of the parking area.
I’m just hoping that I’m not too late. I have to see her, even if it’s one last time. I need to try and explain, apologize. Even if I’m sorry is the last thing she’ll listen to me say.
I’ve never been good at positive thinking.
It’s made me a terrific doctor. If I assume the worst, I can usually stop it before it happens, or at least, fight it. It positions me perfectly to combat trauma and injury. So, it isn’t like I have a lot of nice thoughts crowding in my head right now.
Maybe that face she pulled was pain, not pleasure. Maybe when I had her bent over and slid it into her too fast, that gasp against the pillow was stop not yes.
We slept in each other’s arms…she curled up against me with a smile on her face. But it doesn’t mean a damn thing. She’s new to it, to all of it, and I should have known better than to push her so far so fast.
As I pull out into traffic, I can’t get that image out of my mind. Of Stella waking up, sore and bruised—waiting for me to show her how much I love her and pamper her