by Claire Adams
“Which is?”
“That we’re all going to die someday. Maybe it’s going to be the oligodendroglioma — I’m seriously getting good at saying that now, by the way — maybe it’s going to be a car accident, maybe it’s going to be something else entirely, but when you’re going to die, you’re going to die. I think people who think they ‘cheat death’ are just kidding themselves. I don’t believe in fate, but I also don’t believe that a person is going to see each and every thing coming. There’s no way.”
“What’s the variation?” he asks, “Or was that it?”
“The variation,” I tell him, “is that even if I go through this treatment, who’s to say I don’t go into your office one day for a checkup or an update or just to bother you while you’re working and something happens, maybe a reaction from the medication, maybe something else, and I end up falling to the ground dead?”
“Who’s to say you don’t?”
“Nobody,” I answer. “I was freaked out, and I can still hear that guy screaming at you, but I just knew that I didn’t want to be like her, still making every appointment even though I’m half a breath away from my last. I want to do something more. I’m not saying I want to start a charity or do the fun run thing — I’m not a masochist. I just don’t want to spend all my life in a hospital while the rest of the world just passes me by. Who knows, maybe when I’m supposed to be walking into oncoming traffic because I’m not paying attention, I’m in the hospital getting a needle stuck in my arm.”
“I think that would be the better option,” he says.
“Yeah, maybe,” I tell him. “At the same time, though, maybe I’m supposed to be out doing something that I’ve never done before, something that’s going to add a once-in-a-lifetime experience to this little world of mine, and I’m just in there, again, getting a needle stuck in my arm?”
“There’s no way to know that kind of thing,” he says.
“I get that,” I tell him, “and your saying that isn’t the first time the thought’s crossed my mind. Every time I get that far in my inner dialogue, though, I just think of that woman wheeling past me, her son walking behind her with his fingers gripping the handles of his mom’s wheelchair so tight his knuckles are white.”
“Like I said,” he explains, “I’m not going to fault you whatever you choose here. Obviously, I wish you’d go through with the trial because-”
“I know the reasons,” I interrupt. “We’ve talked about the reasons, I’ve read about the reasons, and I’ve thought about the reasons so much over the past while that I could jot them down with my eyes closed. And I know exactly what you wish I’d do; you made that pretty crystal when I was in your office this morning.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Does it not occur to you that you never really indicated that you would respect my choice before that woman died in your office today?” I ask. “I’m not saying that’s why I didn’t go to the first day of trials, but it’s not like it didn’t change anything.”
“What did it change?”
“It changed the way I felt about you,” I tell him. “I’m going to do what I’m going to do, just like you’re going to do what you’re going to do and everybody else is blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, but it started to feel like you weren’t taking me seriously. When it started to feel like you were just discounting what I had to say because you thought it was just fear and nothing else — I didn’t like that. I don’t like that. It looks like you’ve come around, and I’m not saying this is a permanent mark on your record or anything, but — I don’t know. I guess I just thought you should know that.”
He looks down at the table and then back up at me, sipping his drink and making that same disgusted face he made a few minutes ago.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. “Now, is there any way we can move past this conversation?”
“Yeah,” he says. “If you want to talk more about it later we can; if not, that’s okay, too.”
“Sounds great,” I tell him. “So…”
“What?”
“You owe me no less than five minutes with your face between my legs,” I tell him. “What up?”
Chapter Fourteen
Wandering Star
Jace
Grace has been in the trial for almost two weeks now, and she seems to be doing all right with the new medication.
What she seems to be most excited about so far is that, as she’s not taking her normally scheduled round of chemo, her hair is starting to grow back to a point where she’s almost willing to ditch the wigs.
The last time she saw the inside of my office was the day she was originally supposed to start the trial, and I’m a little worried that she’s going to have a stress reaction when she comes in.
I’m not the one running her scans right now, and even if I wanted to access the scans the trial doctors have been taking, I wouldn’t be able to, but that’s not why she’s coming to the office.
Ever since that night in the jazz club where she and I found a dark corner behind the stage, she’s been really into having sex in situations where there’s some kind of possibility we might get caught.
I’m not a psychologist, but I did take enough courses during med school to know that we’re treading into dangerous territory. Eventually, if we keep upping the ante, we’re either going to get arrested, or even worse, we’ll start to get sexually bored with one another.
You’d think that would be enough to dissuade me from giving her the green light about her coming in today when Yuri goes on her lunch break, but the truth is, I think this might actually be a good thing for both of us.
I haven’t told her this, although I can’t say exactly why, but I’ve had some trouble being in this office, myself.
It’s one of those things that eventually fades with every time I come into work, but for Grace, that might never be the case.
If I’m to be totally honest here, though, I think I’m starting to get the same thrill out of doing the sort of thing that Grace does.
Yuri knocks on my office door to let me know that she’s headed out to lunch, and I nod.
I thought she was going to be out of here as soon as my last appointment was over, but she must have had some paperwork to do.
When Yuri’s out the door, I pull my phone out of my pocket and send a text to Grace, saying, “The eagle has left the nest.”
I hit send, but as soon as I do, I just know that Grace is going to give me shit for using such a cliché code phrase.
The top drawer of my desk contains something at this moment that it’s never had in it before, and I imagine, never will have again.
My phone buzzes, and I look down at it.
“You’re so fucking lame,” Grace writes. “I don’t know if I really want to fuck you anymore.”
I write back, “Oh, will you just shut up and get in here?”
It’s only a couple of minutes before the door to my office opens and Grace slinks in, wearing a black, asymmetrical skirt and a red scoop top. She’s been waiting on the next floor up to get the message that Yuri went out to lunch.
“How long do we have?” she asks.
“She’s never taken a lunch break shorter than half an hour,” I tell her. “We’re going to have to be kind of quick, but I think we should be fine.”
“Great,” she says, and turns back to the door. “It doesn’t lock?”
“No,” I tell her. “We just lock the outer office when we go. That’s not a problem, is it? If you’re chickening out-”
“Hold on there, cowboy,” she says.
“Cowboy?”
“I think we both know that I have nerves of steel, and besides, I’m wearing my favorite pair of underwear,” she says. “I wore it special for this very occasion.”
“You told me that you didn’t have a favorite pair of underwear,” I tell her, “although exactly how that ever came up in conversation, I’m havi
ng a hard time imagining.”
“You’ll see,” she says. “I think you’re going to like it.”
Grace comes over to me and sits on my desk. She scoots over so one leg is on one side of me, the other leg is on the other side.
She parts her knees and says, “Go on and take a look.”
I run my hands from her knees up her thighs, lifting the front of her skirt in the process.
She leans back, supporting herself with her hands behind her on the desk.
I kiss her thighs as I continue to pull her skirt up and, when I see her “special underwear,” I’m simultaneously amused and aroused.
“You’re not wearing any underwear,” I tell her.
“Shh…” she says. “They’re invisible.”
“You, my dear, are a dork.”
“Whatever,” she says. “Put your mouth on me and let’s get this party started. I didn’t come here to chat.”
“You’re really demanding,” I tell her, kissing her innermost thigh, close enough to tease her center. “It’s a turnoff.”
“You’ll get over it,” she breathes, and I put my arms around her butt as her legs come to rest over my shoulders.
Her scent is intoxicating as I work my way closer and closer to her pussy, and when I lay my tongue over the edge of her labia, her taste fills my senses just as strong as it ever has.
Our relationship is a strange one, but there’s not a thing I would change about it.
Okay, maybe I’d change the fact that I always seem to be risking my medical license being with her, but Grace is worth that possibility.
She takes a sharp breath in as my lips graze her clit.
I could go down on her for days.
Her fingers are running through my hair, and I’m kissing and licking her clit, her labia, and the curve of her upper thigh.
“You’re getting pretty good at that,” she says with a decadent moan.
“I love how you always pretend like I haven’t always been good at it.”
“We don’t have that much time,” she says, “and I want to come at least a couple of times before Yuri gets back here.”
At the Academy Awards, when someone’s giving too long a speech, they start playing music to let the winner know it’s time to wrap it up. That’s what Grace is doing right now to get me to stop talking and focus.
I’m fine with that.
She’s so warm against my tongue and my mouth, and when I slip a finger inside of her, I can hardly believe the heat of her.
“That’s it,” she says. “Keep doing that and we might just hit my goal for the afternoon.”
She lies down completely on my desk, and I can see her arms stretching above her head as I massage her clit with my tongue and work another finger inside of her.
“How quiet do I have to be?” she asks.
“Pretty quiet,” I tell her. “Yuri won’t be back for a while, but this office isn’t soundproof.”
“Good to know,” she says, and I can’t be sure she’s not planning on yelling something like “Fuck me harder, doc,” when my guard is down.
Still, I persist.
Grace lifts her legs and puts her feet on my desk, spreading her thighs open a little further.
Her lower lips are glistening with a mixture of my saliva and her wetness, and as my fingers find and rub her G-spot, I take her clit between my lips, licking and sucking her.
Grace’s legs start going, but I have to lean back for a moment to remove my tie with my dry hand.
“What are you doing?” she asks, lifting her head to look at me. When she sees me pulling the tie from around my neck, she just says, “Oh,” and lays her head back down.
I set the tie on my desk next to Grace, and I’m starting to wonder if my office is going to smell like sex when my next appointment arrives.
It’s only a fleeting concern.
With my mouth back on her and my fingers having never left her crease, Grace’s legs start shaking again, and this time, I can take her all the way. She is rocking her hips against my mouth, and I’m delighting in how quickly I can bring her to ecstasy.
Out of nowhere, one of Grace’s hands shoots down to her side, and she grabs my tie. She’s so close, I don’t lift my head, but in a moment, her reasoning becomes clear enough as I can hear the muffled sounds of her building climax.
It’s a good thing I have a spare tie in my bottom desk drawer, although this particular scenario never crossed my mind when I decided to bring it in.
Grace’s hips are lifting and dropping with even more intensity now, and with a shudder, I can feel her wetness grow as her stomach tightens in front of me and her legs close in against the side of my head.
I run my free hand under her skirt and up her smooth stomach and play with one of her nipples as her body spasms on my desk.
A few seconds later, I can hear her spitting my tie out of her mouth, and I’m wondering what her plans are for when I put myself inside her. Maybe she’s not thinking that far ahead at the moment.
“Now,” she says. “You brought them, right?”
“Yeah,” I tell her, and I pull my fingers out of her to massage her clit as I open the top drawer and pull out the box of condoms and the dairy-free whipped cream can.
“You probably shouldn’t take my top off,” she says, “just pull down the front.”
It had already occurred to me that the more clothed we remain, the better. If Yuri comes back early and comes in the office, she might see Grace lying on my desk catching her breath, and she might even see me with my back to her as I put myself inside, but at least she’s not going to see her boss and her friend fucking on the desk.
“You got dairy-free?” Grace asks as she sits up to inspect the can of whipped cream.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I thought that’s what you wanted me to get.”
“I hate dairy-free,” she says. “Looks like you’re going to be doing all the work on that one.”
“You’re just lazy.”
“Lazy? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What if I’m not?” I ask, unzipping my pants.
“Then, I’ll just have to prove you wrong,” she says, and reaches through my zipper, somehow undoes the button on my boxers in one second or less, and pulls my cock out into the open air.
She leans forward, and I take a step back to give her enough room as she kisses my tip.
“Okay,” she says, sitting back up straight and letting go of me. “I guess I am lazy.”
“You’re such a bitch,” I laugh.
“Eh, you’ve got to love what you do.”
I hand her the condoms and tease her, saying, “Make yourself useful, will you? I’m busy here.”
If she was going to protest, that protest is averted as I pull the front of her top down over her breasts.
“Hey, it looks like you’re wearing your special bra, too,” I chuckle and take one of her nipples into my mouth.
“Don’t forget the whipped cream,” she says, closing her teeth on the corner of the condom wrapper and tearing it open.
She spits the corner of the wrapper out of her mouth and at me, but she’s not a very good aim.
I grab the can of whipped cream, dairy-free whipped cream, that is, and I spread a puff of it on one of her nipples, and then the other.
“What would you do if I just left it like that?” I ask.
“I’d kick your ass,” she says. “You’re going to lick the whipped cream off my nipples and you’re going to love it.”
“So demanding…”
I run my tongue around her nipple before closing my lips to take the sweet embellishment into my mouth, the warm, erect bit at the center being the real prize.
“Shit,” she says, “I’m dripping.”
“Hold on,” I mumble, the tip of her breast still in my mouth.
“I don’t know if you’ve already forgotten or what,” she says, “but I’m not wearing a bra. If I get whipped cream on my top, I’m not going to be v
ery happy. It’ll look like I’m lactating or something.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I tell her, my voice still muffled by her soft mound.
I look over to her other breast, and indeed, the whipped cream is starting to drip down her breast. I’ve still got a couple of inches before it makes contact with any fabric, though.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks. “Get that shit before it stains my shirt!”
I try to respond, but apparently it’s rather difficult to shush someone with their breast in your mouth. Finally, at the last possible moment, I move my mouth from one breast to the other, licking the smooth cream from the bottom all the way up to her nipple.
“Jesus, you about gave me a heart attack,” she says.
“What’s the big deal?” I mumble, having found a rather enjoyable new hobby.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk with your mouth full?”
“Hmm?” I hum, and as I watch the goosebumps rise across her chest, she’s already forgotten her protest.
She grabs my erection with one hand and slips the condom over my tip with the other.
“You’ve lost whipped cream privileges,” she says.
I remove my mouth from her breast and shrug before kissing her deeply.
She works the condom the rest of the way over me, and she puts her legs around me, her feet on my ass, and she encourages me forward, my cock still in her hand.
“Did you bring a towel or something?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, “but are you sure you really want to go get it right now?”
Her case is all the stronger for the fact that she’s rubbing my tip over her folds.