title page
The Winemaker’s Dinner:
RSVP
...
Dr. Ivan Rusilko
...
Omnific Publishing
Dallas
Copyright Information
The Winemaker’s Dinner: RSVP, Copyright © 2012 by Dr. Ivan Rusilko
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
...
Omnific Publishing
P.O. Box 793871, Dallas, TX 75379
www.omnificpublishing.com
...
First Omnific eBook edition, July 2012
...
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
...
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
...
Rusilko, Dr. Ivan.
The Winemaker’s Dinner: RSVP / Dr. Ivan Rusilko – 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1-936305-79-7
...
Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna
Photography by John Conroy (JohnConroyPhotography.com)
Cover Model: Dr. Ivan Rusilko
RSVP
C’mon, man. You’re a fucking professional. Could you pay attention for two seconds? Forcing my eyes back to the computer screen in my office, I found my article in the same shape it had been when they wandered off: unfinished.
It was all that woman’s fault—and not in a good way. Sadly, last night was just the latest in my current string of dating disasters. I should’ve known better than to take out a chick my jackass friend met at a night club and introduced me to via text. Yep, I really should have seen this one coming.
But it had started out great. My date looked ridiculously hot in her short, pleasingly tight blue dress. God, how I love short dresses. Her hair down, her skin nicely tanned, she’d been rocking high heels that made her ass stick out just right—like the girls you see in rap videos. But the second she opened her mouth, it all went downhill. Fast.
“Oh, you’re a doctor? You must make a lot of money, right?” The question sounded like nails on a chalkboard. At least she’d saved me the trouble of putting any real effort into the evening.
Along with cougars, Miami Beach has become home to another breed of women to be wary of: climbers. They’re usually very attractive and/or easy, and use their looks to climb the social ladder to previously unattainable levels. Climbers generally demand and expect VIP access to unique locations and situations, along with expensive gifts, wining, and dining. And introductions, of course. They’ll want to meet all the bigwigs because you might not be their final destination, know what I mean? Dirty breed, these climbers.
I’d first been warned about them by an Australian nightclub owner as he explained the female situation down under. But the entire month I’d worked and played in Oz, shuttling between modeling gigs in Sydney and Melbourne, I never once encountered a woman like that—one seeking a victim with fat pockets and poor self-esteem. But I sure as hell had now.
Needless to say, for last night’s lovely, the rest of the “date” had consisted of a free dinner, access to an exclusive, private event, and a carefully crafted (and entirely gentlemanly) “thank you, but no thank you.” For me it had been a painfully boring exercise, ending in a quick exit and a good night’s sleep.
Damn. I sure could’ve gone for a lay, though.
I shook my head and laughed. What else could I do? And I’d still made no progress on my story. You see what I’m dealing with here? It’s time to stop relying on my friends to set me up, grow some balls, and just go for it when I see a girl who rings my bell or tickles my fancy. Maybe this weekend…Ah, who was I kidding? I’d made these deals with myself before, and I was beginning to doubt I’d ever find that lightning in a bottle again.
Okay, stop screwing around and just finish this!
I twiddled my pen between thumb and forefinger and willed myself to concentrate. Finally the conclusion came to me, and I began to type: Love can happen in any place and at any moment. But having the right balance of hormones and neurotransmitters coursing through your veins can definitely aid in the process!
And, send. I clicked the submit button on The Washington Times site, officially adding another wellness and sexual health article to the weekly column I write. It’s funny, I seem to be riding the same trend in both my column and my medical practice. Patients and readers alike are shifting their mantra from “Make me look good!” to “Help me have better sex!” I love seeing my female patients embrace their sexuality. I think of it as the latest frontier in women’s liberation—nothing to do with political or cultural issues, but more of a XXX spin. I love my job.
My patients are great, and I’m part of a practice that can offer just about any procedure, test, or treatment to get you on your way to looking and feeling better—from plastic surgery to skin specialists to cosmetic dentistry. And then there’s the clinical sexologist I work with. What a life. My focus is wellness, weight loss, physical enhancement, and sexual health, so I have the distinct privilege of being the physician who can make you look, feel great, and fuck like a superstar.
And our office is in the Four Seasons in Miami. Did I mention that? Love it.
I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, reclined in my chair, and checked my watch. Noon. “Fuck, yeah!” I announced aloud. “That’s a wrap.”
I’d taken the afternoon off to drive to Sarasota for what was sure to be a grand affair at tonight’s annual Winemaker’s Dinner. I was particularly psyched because some Australian friends of mine from the Mollydooker winery would be there as the presenting sponsor this year, and I looked forward to catching up with them.
With the Winemaker’s Dinner in my immediate future and the encounter with the climber in my immediate past, wine and sex were heavy on my mind. Honestly, either would suffice after the string of women I’d been set up with over the past few months. Okay, there’d been a couple of times the sex was good when it even got that far, but finding someone worth cooking for in the morning was proving completely impossible.
I turned my computer off, stood, and immediately felt a bit woozy after sitting so long. And no, I had not spent the entire morning procrastinating on that story. I spent the first few hours listening to patients explain why they wanted to lose weight or have more energy—all of which basically boiled down to “Please make me look good naked so I can get laid more often.” Thankfully, I must say I’m damn good at helping my patients achieve that. Proper nutrition, exercise, and a hormone boost here and there. No problem.
I grabbed my bag and a stack of paperwork to be reviewed and approved, switched the off the lights in my office, and headed out. I had to weave a little between office coordinators scurrying patients around to VIP rooms and other physicians’ offices for plastic surgery consults. My work environment is definitely a spectacle sometimes, but I love it. Hell, I’m a bit of a spectacle myself. Today I was wearing my usual dress pants and tailored shirt, which I always leave unbuttoned at the neck for less uptight-doctor style and more Miami style. But it’s not just my style of dress that sets me apart. I’ve also got hair to my shoulders, a silver hoop in my left ear, and a tattoo on my wrist.
In a world full of carrots, I always say I want to be an apple, and working at such a great practice as a twenty-eight-year-old makes me feel like a golden-red Honeycrisp. Plus, just
being myself makes my patients more comfortable. If I sneak in a dirty joke, drop an F bomb, or call them out when they’re trying to bullshit me during their consult, it lightens the mood and breaks through that doctor/patient awkward phase.
I made a quick stop at the front desk to say good-bye and make sure everything was sorted for the weekend. It was. I then grabbed my leather traveling bag and headed for the secret back door usually used to usher super VIPs and celebrities in and out, away from prying media and paparazzi.
I trotted across the parking lot to Betty, my old-school black Jeep Wrangler, complete with oversized wheels and bushwhacker tire guards. I tossed my bag into the open back, looked around to make sure I was alone, then kicked off my shoes and stripped down. I traded my designer duds for a white tank top, camouflage cargo shorts, and aviator sunglasses. No need for long sleeves and pants on a bluebird day like this. With two hundred and thirty miles between me and a weekend of amazing wine, elegant food, and hopefully, a connection with a stunning woman in Sarasota, I just wanted to savor the ride with my favorite music.
My phone chirped in my hand. Good God, I’m fifty yards from my office and the messages are already finding me. I needed a little break from being Dr. Ivan Rusilko. Even if only for a few hours, I wanted to turn it all off and be just Ivan.
Once I powered down my phone and set up the iPod, I tore out of the Four Seasons parking garage and hit the streets.
Halfway through Alligator Alley, my traveling rock star show, complete with bad sing-alongs and the occasional missed lyric, ended, and the playlist shuffled to a song that completely shut me down. I wasn’t prepared or in the mood for the tune, but I guess I needed to listen. Or maybe it was like a train wreck and I couldn’t look away.
As Dave Matthews gave me the option to “Stay or Leave,” remorse, anger, and finally lingering affection flooded my mind, along with my images of the mornings spent in bed lost in her gaze, the nights discovering every inch of her body, and the moments shared that helped make me who I am today. I couldn’t help but smile. The four minutes and two seconds of lyrics and melodies painted a picture of true romance—the kind destined for eternity—ending in tragedy. The song taunted me. With a sigh, I had to comfort myself with the reminder that I done all that I could.
I hoped like hell I might find a connection like that again—one where my happiness was inextricably linked to a woman’s smile. I wanted beyond anything to wake up more in love with someone than I’d been when I fell asleep, but not as in love as I’d be the next time I drifted off with her in my arms.
As the song continued, I remembered the first time I saw her. Her eyes, shimmering like blue topaz, had pierced my soul. The year and a half I had with her, the joy and the honor of calling her mine and knowing I belonged to her, would forever live and breathe in the most romantic depths of my soul, surfacing occasionally to flood me with loneliness or draw an unfavorable comparison to any possible challengers. I both love and hate her for this still.
I wondered what people would think if they ever found out what we did behind closed doors. By day we were upstanding members of high society: Little Miss Perfect and Dr. Charming. But by night, in our own cocoon, we transformed into Mr. and Ms. Sexy Hyde, completely unchecked and uninhibited in our private, uncensored sexcapades.
My God, the naughty nurse outfit on my birthday…A smile crept around the cigar between my teeth. She’d made me sit in the chair and promise not to peek. I did as I was told. She asked me if I was ready, and I was. As Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On” began to play, she finally appeared in the doorway, her dark hair dripping wet. Beads of water slid down her chest, soaking the red, lacy bra beneath the skin-tight, white “uniform.” The hem of the tiny skirt brushed the curve of her ass, barely covering her matching thong, and her very impractical high heels sculpted her legs into perfection. But best of all was the crazy-confident, fuck-all, sexy air about her and look of desire in her eyes.
As she walked toward me, every step brought more and more blood to what already strained against my jeans. Then this beautiful goddess began to dance. Her hips swayed with every beat, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her ass. Just the memory of the peek-a-boo view beneath her too-short skirt still drives me fucking wild.
She stepped up and brought my hand to her lips, slowly licking my finger before taking it into her mouth to suck on. Fuck me, I couldn’t stop squirming, but she knew I was always ready to turn the tables. She shivered as I trailed my finger across the softness of her lip, over her chin, and down the length of her neck. My hand passed over her breasts, across her stomach, and under her short skirt. My finger traced the warm and inviting wetness between her legs through the silky fabric of her thong. She looked down at me, biting her lip as my thumb slowly nudged the pesky bit of satin aside. Her legs spread for me, and she took a deep breath as she worked herself against my hand, somehow keeping perfect time with the music while I drove her into a frenzy.
She leaned forward, bracing herself with one hand on the arm of the chair, and began rubbing my cock with the other. Gracefully, she shifted positions and bent to unbutton my jeans, freeing my fully erect cock, which she immediately took into her mouth. As my finger worked her over with increasing speed and pressure, she stroked my dick with a maddening combination of her sweet mouth and hand. She eased up only long enough to let me gasp out an occasional breathless, “Ohh, fuuuuckk.”
She now stood, bent over at the waist, ass in the air with my fingers buried in her pussy. While she eventually lost focus a bit on her end of the deal, she never let go of me, just left me hard and neglected in her hand. I didn’t really mind, though. I’d get mine. But now I felt her tremble under my hand and sensed she was on the verge of orgasm. I gave one final upward thrust that lifted her feet off of the floor, and she came, hard and long. One hand still held tight as fuck around my cock, and the other gripped my shoulders and grabbed at my hair as she came over and over again. God, I loved watching her climax. I was still looking at her when she opened her heavy-lidded eyes, silently begging me to make her come harder. So I did.
I continued to finger her even as her body rocked with another orgasm. Her head fell back, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, her trademark “tell” that I’d mastered the body I knew so well. Watching her piercing blue eyes as they came back into focus, I smiled as she looked at me with love. A smile crept across her face when my long-forgotten dick twitched in her hand. I leaned back in the chair and watched as she knelt and took me into her mouth. I ran my hands gently through her hair. Watching her work my cock was fucking amazing. She brought me to the brink almost immediately, and to my surprise, she took even more of me in, milking me with her mouth. With a guttural growl and uncontrollable thrust, I came hard and fast, and she accepted everything I had to give.
My breathing was rough and uneven as I settled back into the chair again, pulling her with me as I relaxed. She climbed in my lap and straddled me, nuzzling my cheek with her own and wrapping me in a blissed-out embrace.
Damn. That gets me going even now. I adjusted a little in my seat. That was one of the best memories I had of her—of us. And not because of the crazy sex we’d shared (I know what you’re thinking), but because we were so attuned to each other and comfortable. I knew her body better than my own in some ways, and she knew mine as well.
Our steamy connection didn’t fall apart or fade away like most do over time. Instead it died suddenly one fateful weekend long ago. And when it did, it forever changed my outlook on life and love.
Who was to blame didn’t matter in the overall scheme of things. Neither of us deserved the ending fate wrote for us. Some relationships break up, and some just plain break. Ours shattered and left me broken. Since then I’d been scared and unwilling to risk anything unless it conjured the same soul-piercing, deliciously torturous sensual electricity. And nothing had. It took a while but I’d come to realize things happen for a reason. What we shared helped me appreciate what true l
ove is and can be. It was time for me to find my next miracle.
Just as quickly as the last song had sent me on a nostalgic, romance roller coaster, Nine Inch Nails’ pounding, sex-crazed “Closer” cut in, diverting my attention back to singing off-key and smoking cigars. The Everglades now whizzed by in a vibrant green glow as I sped past, and I thanked God that I was where I was. I was content.
Three hours and seventeen minutes later, Betty’s tires squealed to a stop in front of the Windsor Arms, the fanciest hotel in Sarasota, and her overheated engine clicked off, as did the sounds radiating from the stereo. I hopped out and stretched, trying to realign my spine after the lumbar-rattling assault of the flimsy Jeep seats. “Jesus. Maybe it’s time for an upgrade,” I muttered as I turned to grab my bag from the back. The bellman shot Betty a judgmental look, but I just tossed the keys to valet. “Feel free to park her out front to impress the guests.”
As I walked across the marble floor of the lobby, the warm welcome continued. I noticed more than one of the hotel’s posh guests turning up their noses at the windblown, scruffy, surfer-type who’d invaded their elegant playground. Ah, lifestyles of the truly unhappy. I like to think of myself as hillbilly chic, a tribute to my rural Pennsylvania roots. And anyway, people make assumptions too quickly. I stepped up to the desk, dropped my bag on the floor, and pulled out my wallet.
The guy gave me a snooty look. “Name?”
“Rusilko.”
Seemingly confused by what he found in his computer, he required further clarification. “First name?”
“Well, I’m betting there are no other Rusilkos within a four-hundred-mile radius, so Ivan is likely the only name you have on your little list. Maybe there’s a Doctor in front of it?”
“Your room is ready, sir,” he said, his face losing its color.
Busted. You made an assumption too, didn’t you? “Thank you,” I replied.
The Winemaker's Dinner: RSVP Page 1