Dr Big

by Sienna Swan

  “Three, Melissa. Now you’ve taken three of mine and only mine.”

  I leave her mouth and cover her clit with my lips, swirling my tongue over it as I fingerfuck her with three digits.

  “Kane,” she whimpers, but that’s all she gets out.

  I know she’s close to coming and I know just as well that I’m close to losing my damn mind. When her body twists and her hand is joined by her timid lips on my cock, I lose what little control I had before.

  I thrust my fingers into her harder and I suck on her clit as she opens her mouth wide and takes the head in. Her tongue is so soft and so eager to taste me that I’m groaning against her sweet, perfect cunt in tune with every flick of her tongue. We’re both a shaking, sweaty mess and when she takes me in deeper, filling her mouth with me, I press my fingertips against the walls of her pussy and thrust slow and deep.

  My hot load fills her mouth the moment her pussy clenches around my fingers and its hard work keeping my tongue on her clit. I want to watch her gulp down her first load of cum, my cum, and I want to see her lips wrapped around my cock. Most of all, I want to fucking watch her, my uptight, stuffy Melissa, giving into what she wanted all along. I’ve seen it before but I could never get tired of it.

  She suckles me when I slowly pull my fingers out of her and I collapse on my back next to her. She’s twisted toward me. I get a look at her as she slicks her tongue along the bottom of my shaft one last time before her mouth is off me. We both miss her immediately.

  Out of breath and out of our collective minds, she twists around to come face to face with me, giving me an opportunity to pull her against me and to lock her in an embrace. I know it’s only a matter of minutes before she’ll try to make another daring escape, gathering the composure she so painstakingly lost, but until then, I want to hold her.

  This is far too personal now. I don’t want it to change.

  Eight

  Kane

  I was right. It was no more than five minutes in my arms that Melissa started twisting free, looking around frantically for her clothes and telling me about all the things she had to get done at 10:00 p.m. How what we had done was incredibly unprofessional and how it could never happen again.

  I told her to show up again in two days and as she left, her hair a mess and her demure dress on a little crooked, I was sure she would come back. If she didn’t, I’d have to go to her. What that meant I was not going to delve into because frankly, I didn’t want to know.

  With thoughts of her still swirling around in my early-morning brain, I run on the treadmill at the gym, her file in digital format open on my tablet. Natalie Imbruglia is blasting in my headphones, though blasting it a big word for soft-voiced Natalie. It’s not the kind of music I usually listen to, but when I was searching for a playlist to turn on, my fingers went to this one as if on their own volition. Maybe her broken style of feminine empowerment reminds me of someone.

  It’s 6:00 a.m. and I’m well into my workout, with plans of making it into the office by 7:30 at the latest. I tend to squeeze my gym time in before I get to work because I can never know what time my day ends. Sometimes I’m out of there by 5:00 p.m., sometimes I’m in surgery until 5:00 a.m. The job takes what it needs and I love it.

  Usually I use this time to go through my patient files for the day and sort out my schedule. Today, and not for the first time, I find myself flipping through Melissa’s file again. I know she doesn’t have CVS, that’s blatantly obvious, but I do think there’s something to her that’s not entirely all right. It goes beyond just being a rigidly set in her ways kind of person.

  She’s a mystery and I’ve always loved a puzzle. With her, I’m even more intrigued than I thought myself capable.

  Sweat rolling down my brow, I feel my phone buzzing in the pocket of my shorts. A regular at the gym walks past me and gives me a little wave. We went to dinner once. It turned into a quick fuck in the bathroom. Her name might be Alessia. Flipping her a quick smile, I answer the phone, pointing at my Bluetooth headset so she’d know that I’m not just ignoring her. Though it’s a damn convenient excuse.

  “Mr. Big, I presume?” the voice on the other line greets me.

  “It’s Dr. Big,” I say. It’s one of my favorite lines to deliver, I’m not even going to pretend that it isn’t.

  “My apologies, of course. I’m calling about a Melissa Malone. I am Dr. Feinstein. My assistant told me you wanted to talk to me about her. I don’t know how I can help you though, Dr. Big. She hasn’t been my patient for more than five years now. I hope I’m not disturbing you, your message said that any time after 5:30 is fine.”

  “Any information you can give me is worth its weight in gold. If you could just go through her history with me, I’d be much obliged.”

  Dr. Feinstein is the third doctor to call me back in the long line of professionals Melissa has marked down in her medical history. I skipped a couple of obvious jackasses, people I knew, and went straight for doctors who’d seen her earlier. There’s this nagging feeling that I don’t know the whole story and every doctor I speak to helps me get a step closer to it.

  I’m not supposed to take this kind of an interest and I’m definitely not supposed to be tracking down her doctors and asking them to divulge information about her now that we’ve concluded our ‘traditional’ patient-doctor relationship, but she’s a drug I can’t shake. I need to know.

  Dr. Feinstein and I spend a fulfilling half an hour on the phone, going through the minutiae of Melissa’s medical history, and he ends up giving me a couple of other leads that weren’t in her file. Like the number to her former high school nurse’s office, and to her childhood GP, both of which I intend to follow up on. By the end of the call, I’m so thankful I don’t even tell Dr. Feinstein what a fucking dumbass he is for telling Melissa she has CVS, or at least confirming her suspicions that she might have it.

  My run turns into a long one as I shoot off a couple of emails and make some calls that go straight to voicemail because of the early hour of the day. By the time I reach the hospital, it’s almost 8:00 and Ginny tells me sourly that my coffee is probably cold. She always has a cup waiting for me in the office.

  If last night with Melissa wasn’t enough of a reason to keep me distracted during the day, the calls I get later in the afternoon definitely are. I end up having a long conversation with the nurse, a Mrs. Jenson, who as my luck might have it has been working there for twenty years. She remembers Melissa clearly and I have to clear an hour in my schedule to talk with her.

  As she relates to me the story of Melissa Malone, I start with taking notes, and then stop completely and just listen. All those weird little ticks, her inability to step out of her comfort zone, her insistence that everything has to be her way start making sense. By the time the call ends, I’m speechless and for what might be the first time in my life, uncertain of what I should do next.

  On one hand, Melissa is a woman who came to me for help in a professional capacity, help that I wouldn’t give her because I thought there was nothing wrong with her. That’s where it should have ended, but it didn’t.

  On the other hand, she’s someone I can’t stop thinking about. I might be… developing feelings for her. It’s a thought best brushed aside – I don’t do feelings, my life doesn’t have time for commitments to a singular pussy – but one that I can’t disregard as easily as I’d like.

  After another half an hour of staring at a wall, I shoot her a text and ask her to meet me for coffee this evening. The ‘I’ll make it worth your while…’ and accompanying emoji are an afterthought that come naturally. The ‘I miss you’ gets deleted before I send it out.

  The fact that I do, in fact, miss her, is best buried under a heavy caseload that has to keep my mind off of her for the rest of the day before I see her again. A part of me thinks that if I could fix her, maybe it’ll go away. Maybe I won’t miss her then.

  After all, on some level, she’s still just a medical mystery, one that I might
be able to solve now, right?

  Nine

  Melissa

  An invite for coffee wasn’t quite what I was expecting from Dr. Big. I’m not sure quite what I should be expecting from Dr. Big anymore, but coffee definitely wasn’t high on my list. His unpredictability makes me feel both uneasy and strangely exhilarated. I have flutters all the way through me whenever I think of him, and that’s… unnerving.

  Yes. He’s unnerving.

  And hot.

  And great with his fingers, and his mouth.

  I still can’t believe I’ve gotten up close and personal with that massive dick of his, but now that I have I find he’s even more firmly embedded in my brain. The guy is impossible to forget about. He distracts me from my workload, and makes me dithery through my morning routine. Through every routine.

  This isn’t like me. I don’t even know the woman with butterflies in her belly at the thought of a coffee date. Is that even what this is? A date?

  I don’t know how I feel about the prospect of an actual date with Dr. Big.

  I shake off the thought. Whatever Dr. Big is or isn’t, I can’t imagine for a second he’s after anything serious. The guy doesn’t seem as though he’s into the relationship stuff. And neither am I. Not at all.

  Definitely not.

  No way.

  The sliver of a chance that he may be definitely isn’t enough to get me checking my reflection five times before I leave the office to join him. It’s just professional pride that pushes me to ensure I’m looking presentable before I head across town to meet him at some little coffee house on Mayberry Street.

  I arrive on the dot, as usual, and my heart does a weird little jump as I observe him already sitting inside. He’s taken a table right in the middle of the room, which figures, because that’s the kind of man he is. All confident and eager for attention.

  I’d have slipped into one of the more covert booths along the counter, but no. Not Dr. Big. He’s towering over the little wooden table, larger than life in every way, no doubt revelling in the appreciative glances he’s getting from every member of the female populous in this place.

  I clear my throat as I approach, and he looks up from the snack menu he’s holding. He gets to his feet and I almost laugh at the notion that he’s going to be formal and want a stuffy handshake after what we did last night, but he doesn’t.

  I’m even more surprised when he pulls me into a hug. I hate the way my heart thumps against his chest. I hate how great his arms feel around me even more.

  I know I’m stiff, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. His embrace is easy and confident, like him, and I reel a little as he pulls away and gestures me to take a seat. He hands me a menu and I can barely bring myself to meet his eyes. I’m worried he might… see me, something. I don’t even know what that something is, but I see it all over him - the fact that he thinks he knows me now.

  He doesn’t know me.

  I don’t know him.

  This is… an unorthodox medical relationship, and I’m here because I want to get cured.

  That monster dick of his will either kill or cure me, that’s sure enough.

  “I’m glad you came,” he says, and I smile as I realize I am too.

  I wonder what today is all about. Probably some shenanigans of his, some silly ploy to get me to agree that having his cock is the only way I’m going to be cured.

  I wish that thought didn’t excite me so much.

  “Why the coffee?” I ask, because that’s the kind of woman I am, cutting to the chase and getting straight to the detail.

  “We can have a friendly drink, can’t we?” he asks back and I shrug.

  “You don’t seem the type who’d want to hook up in the middle of the day for a slice of sponge cake and a bit of chit chat.”

  “I might surprise you.” He smirks. He’s surprising me so much already that I’m not sure I even want to know where this craziness is really going to end. “Let’s be serious for a minute,” he tells me, pausing for a moment as I give my coffee order to the server. “I’ve been thinking about things, and I believe for our working relationship to be most effective we should do this in two parts.”

  “Two parts?”

  He nods. “Professional and… personal.”

  I raise an eyebrow and fight the urge to smile. “Personal?”

  “Yes, Melissa, personal. You know, two actual human beings spending time together. Let’s face it, this course of treatment is… intimate. That can only be made easier through a level of comfort in each other’s presence.”

  “You think we should hang out so I’m less uptight when we…”

  There’s that smirk again. “When we fuck, Melissa, yes.”

  When we fuck. Not if. When.

  God, he sounds so sure of himself. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more of whatever treatment he’s dishing out right now, but I manage to successfully keep my ice queen face on.

  “And that’s why you wanted coffee with me? So we can hang out?”

  “Is that so bad?”

  I’m so tempted to say yes and play the hard-ass, but I don’t. The server delivers my cappuccino and I thank her with a smile. He’s still waiting for an answer as I put two sugars in and stir just the right amount of times. “No,” I admit finally. “It’s not so bad. Sometimes you’re even good company.”

  He laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  I find myself laughing along with him. “You should.”

  When his laughter eases off he shuffles his chair closer. He leans in with purpose, as though he’s about to confide his deepest darkest secret, and my foot twitches under the table. “That isn’t the only reason I asked you here,” he tells me, and I feel a thrill zip up my spine.

  “It isn’t?”

  “I have a hunch,” he says. “I did some research, looked up some of your previous consultants to get some background info. I’m thorough, my digging took me a long way back into your past.”

  The zip of thrill turns to one of discomfort. “My past?”

  “I had my suspicions, based purely on my own observations.”

  I feel strangely on trial. “Observations about what?”

  He gestures to my drink, to the way my spoon is lying just so, at the angle I always place it in. “You like routine. You like to follow patterns. You like things to be orderly, yes?”

  I nod, I’ll happily give him that. “An orderly environment leads to a productive mind.”

  He shakes his head. “An orderly environment gives you the impression of being safe. You sit in the same seat. You check your watch often. Very often. You counted the rotations when you stirred your coffee.”

  I shrug, very quickly. “So?”

  “So, I think you’re scared.”

  I nearly spit my drink all over the table between us. “Scared?!”

  “Yes, Melissa, scared. You like to control everything, because you are worried about being out of control. You’re worried about being unsafe. That’s why you are wound so tightly and won’t step outside your comfort zone, and that’s where your problems with intimacy stem from. Fear.”

  I stare at him in mute shock, unsure whether to laugh or storm out of here. The urge to bail and tell him he’s an imbecile is strong enough to be palpable, and that in itself takes me aback.

  Suddenly I’m there all over again, my stomach lurching as my brain realizes I’m moments away from disaster. It gives me a shiver and I force it away, as usual.

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” I sneer. “I’m a calm, intelligent, professional woman in charge of her own destiny…”

  “Who went through a traumatic experience and is now scared of living.”

  “Scared of living?!” My mouth drops open.

  He nods, as though it’s the most matter of fact statement in the world. “Yes, Melissa, scared of living. Scared of experiencing the world. Scared of risk.”

  “You’re wrong,” I snap.

  He shakes his head.
“I’m rarely wrong.”

  “Well, sorry, chum, but you are this time.” I take another sip of coffee and play calm. “I think your research has taken you down a blind alley.”

  “It’s an unofficial observation, of course,” he continues. “But I think I’m onto something.”

  I force a laugh. “You’re onto something idiotic. Do I look like a shrinking violet to you? Do I look like a woman who’s not in control of herself?”

  “Interesting choice of words,” he comments, but I laugh that off too.

  “I’m not afraid of living,” I insist again. “I live. I’m reckless and adventurous and I like to let my hair down.”

  He nearly chokes on his drink. “Yeah, you’re a regular daredevil. Maybe sometimes you’ll dare to take brown sugar instead of white.”

  “Think what you like. I’m a feisty, independent, free spirit. I’m not afraid of living at all, far from it.”

  I sound almost convincing enough to believe it myself.

  The twinkle in his eye takes my breath. “Prove it.”

  I shrug. “How am I supposed to prove it? You want me to stir my coffee around the wrong way to live dangerously for you?”

  “Better than that.” He smirks. “I want you to get up from your seat, right now, and sing a song as though there’s nobody watching you. Like you’re alone in your shower, thinking about me.”

  I stare in disbelief. “No way.”

  He leans back in his seat, kicking out his perfectly toned legs. “Like I said, you’re scared.”

  “I’m not scared!” I hiss. “I’m… self-aware.”

  “Scared.”

  “Sensible.”

  “Whatever tag you want to put on it, buttercup, but I think I’m onto something real with my diagnosis.”

  I’m up on my feet before I know it. My heart in my throat at the realization that I’ll go to any length to avoid the uncomfortable niggle in my gut that he may have a point.

  “Sing what?” I ask, my eyes burning into his.