by Briana Cole
Just getting her upstairs, he reassured himself. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. He was doing the right thing. So why did he feel so damn uneasy? And guilty.
Dorian made sure to lock his doors and followed Reagan up the walkway to the building. She started up a set of iron stairs, her hips swaying seductively with each step. He tore his eyes from her body and struggled to focus on something, anything else so he didn’t have to appreciate the gorgeous view from behind. Instead, he counted two pissy diapers, six roaches, and three cigarette butts on the way up.
They turned the corner and he heard Reagan’s sudden gasp at the homeless woman laid out across the stairs, her clothes like shredded rags hanging off her bony frame. Another crackhead, Dorian figured on a shake of his head. The woman looked up and instantly opened her mouth to speak, rotten teeth and blackened gums exposed. She attempted to clutch Dorian’s pant leg as he stepped by, her lips moving but no sound coming out. He easily pulled from the woman’s weak grip and continued up the stairs. He wondered if Shantae knew, or cared, that her sister was living in these slum conditions.
They made it to apartment 623 and Reagan pivoted on her heel, now facing Dorian. “This is me,” she said, holding a set of keys in the air. “Home sweet home. Feel better now?”
“Actually, I do. I just didn’t want anything to happen.”
Reagan let her eyes fall to the package between his legs and slowly, ever so slowly crawl up his body to meet his gaze again. She didn’t even bother trying to hide the blatant flirtation. “Is that so? And what could possibly happen, Dorian?”
Dorian chuckled, passing off the increased sexual tension with humor. “Go to bed, Reagan.”
“Come with me.”
“Girl, you are acting up.”
Reagan stepped close, her body heat causing Dorian to feel like he’d just stepped in a sauna despite the chilled air whipping around them. That signature smell of hers was just as intoxicating, now intensified with the added smell of liquor and cigarette smoke. Her face was only inches from his, close enough that if she dared stick out her tongue it would be all over his lips. She was teasing him, and it was turning him on in all the right ways.
He could have moved, could have told her to back up, could have quickly reminded her he was her brother-in-law, though she probably wouldn’t have cared. But he didn’t. He lingered, basking in the temptation, almost wishing for her to continue the initiation so he would have an excuse. But he felt the rising sexual tension, and the way she stared, licking her lips, waiting for his response, it was as if they were connecting like two partners simultaneously reaching a point of satisfied bliss.
As if sensing every one of his thoughts and wanting to tease him longer, Reagan stepped back and wordlessly turned to unlock her door. When she got it open, she turned and blew Dorian a kiss before closing the door in his face. He didn’t know what would have happened if she had continued, but thankfully things had stopped before they spun out of control. He tried to convince himself that what he felt was relief, even as faint disappointment marred his face.
Chapter Four
Dorian cupped each breast as he studied them with a critical eye. He could feel the woman trembling underneath his palms, and he gave her a comforting smile. “Nervous?”
She let out a quivering breath. “Very.”
“I understand. Do you want me to stop?”
“No. I want to do this.” She struggled to laugh off her discomfort but sounded way too forced. “It’s just . . . no one touches me like this but my husband.”
“Well, I’m sure he makes you feel a lot better than this.” More laughter, genuine this time, and Dorian felt the woman relax. He went back to work, carefully using his pen to draw on her tender flesh.
“I want to surprise him,” Ms. Davis went on, allowing her eyes to close while she waited for him to finish. “Don is such a great husband and father. I just wish he would look at me like he used to.”
Dorian’s bedside manner kicked in. All of his years of medical training had already prepared him for these types of conversations. Sure, he was a cosmetic surgeon and a damn good one at that. But his reputation extended past his stellar credentials. His patients knew he wasn’t just out for money but looking out for their best interest.
Dorian put his pen in the breast pocket of his button-up and wheeled his stool back a bit to create some space between them. “Is this something you want, Mrs. Davis?”
The woman blinked and a red hue colored her caramel cheeks. “Of course I do,” she said with an affirmative nod. “I’ve had four kids and I’m forty years old. My body didn’t exactly snap back like it used to.”
Dorian heard the damaged self-esteem through her comment, almost like she wasn’t speaking her own opinion but someone else’s entirely. He begged to disagree. Mrs. Davis looked damn good for her age. Some would argue she wasn’t taut and trim, but who the hell expected a grown-ass woman to have a college student’s physique? She was still slender, and an in-depth consultation showed Dorian she had just a little jiggle expected of a mother of four. But he certainly saw the fruits of her labors in the gym and vegan diet.
As if afraid he was reading her uneasiness, Mrs. Davis slipped her fingers through her auburn hair, fiddling with the few gray coils that were tangled in her curls. “Sometimes he just looks at me like I’m ugly,” she admitted after a moment of silence, blinking back tears. “I just thought if I could get a few nips and tucks, he would love me more like he used to.”
The words stung, and his heart went out to the gentle soul. Mrs. Davis was soft-spoken and quite mild-mannered. She had come to him on a referral. But her laundry list of enhancements had well surpassed what she had described as “a few nips and tucks.” Breast enlargement, fat transfer, tummy tuck, face-lift, nose job, lip augmentation . . . He would’ve done less work, it seemed, if he had just built her body straight from scratch. And from the time she stepped in for their consultation an hour ago, it was clear she was afraid of the entire process and was perfectly happy with her natural frame.
A compassionate smile spread on Dorian’s face. “Mrs. Davis, you are beautiful,” he said. “Inside and out. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. I want you to go home and think about everything. I mean really think on it. Cosmetic surgery is not without its cons, and the recovery time for everything you want should also be considered. Sleep on it, and next week I’ll have my nurse follow up with you. I’m willing to do the surgery only if it’s something you want. And I don’t mean to please someone else. I mean you and you only. Understood?”
Mrs. Davis appeared visibly grateful as she nodded and clutched her robe close to her breast. “Funny. You gave me more than my psychiatrist, and I’m paying him $330 an hour.”
“Nah, you can pay me in food,” he teased as he rose. “Get dressed and see my assistant on your way out. No pressure either way, and this stays between us, I promise.” He didn’t know if she would actually take his words to heart, but right then and there she looked as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
Dorian left his patient to get dressed and he crossed the hall back into his office. The blinds had been drawn to reveal an expansive view of the city through his floor-to-ceiling windows. He often found comfort in the scene from twenty-eight floors up, overlooking the tangle of freeways of the East-West Connector. It was still early but by the looks of the congested walkways, people were already trying to get a jump start on lunch.
He took a seat, stifling a heavy yawn. For some reason, he hadn’t been able to sleep last night. He couldn’t even pinpoint one particular reason why, but he had found himself staying up until this morning, passing the time with social media and sports highlights on ESPN. What really shocked him was when he was watching an auto loan commercial and his mind had wandered to thoughts of Reagan. He didn’t know why or where that had even come from, but it had him glancing over to Shantae’s sleeping body as if she could read his sordid thoughts. He remembered eventually doz
ing off around four with fresh thoughts of his wife’s sister still on his mind.
Then, when he woke only a couple hours later, the dream was still so vivid he could almost taste her. He had rolled over, intending to act out lingering desires with his wife instead, but she had already left for work. She did leave a text, though, insisting she still wanted to talk to him about something. Part of him did want to know what was bugging her. The other part, the less tolerant part, didn’t give a damn.
Again, his mind drifted to Reagan and their little interaction Saturday night. The fantasy was wishful and intense. She was straddling him with nothing on besides the paper-thin hospital gown he gave to his patients during their examinations. She had it open to the front, gently massaging her own breasts and tossing her head back in self-induced ecstasy. Reagan’s lips parted, her breath catching in her throat before she released a low, throaty moan that was on another level of euphoria. It was erotic and Dorian could only watch, his eyes capturing snapshots of her every dip, bend, and angle to file away like a Polaroid.
A notification chimed on his cell and had Dorian cursing under his breath at the interruption. He swiped his touchscreen to read the text, expecting to see a message from Shantae. Not her. Better. The two words were indicative of only one person: HEY STRANGER.
Dorian sat back; the corners of his lips turned up into the ghost of a smile. He hadn’t even spoken to Reagan since taking her home over the weekend. Nor had he expected to. How ironic she had messaged him right when he was . . . what? About to get off on his fantasy, that’s what.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard on his cell phone, unsure how to respond. How did she get his number? Thankfully, he didn’t have to as her second message popped up on the screen: CAN WE TALK? YOU GOT A SEC?
Curiosity piqued, he typed SURE and waited, wondering what she wanted to talk about. Hopefully, that Ebony “friend” from the club hadn’t come around wanting to finish their little argument. His phone rang not even five seconds later.
“Hi,” she greeted. “How you doing, Dorian?”
Damn, it was good to hear her voice. It had this sensual, husky edge to it, like she was auditioning as a phone sex operator. And the way she said his name, like her tongue was licking each letter in her enunciation. Or maybe that was just his imagination. Dorian frowned at the intrusion of his own lustful thoughts. What the hell was wrong with him? Focus.
“I know this is weird. I’m sorry. I got your number from your boy Myles the other night at the club.”
“Oh, you and Myles were talking?” He hadn’t meant to sound so surprised. So . . . interested. Why was he inquiring? So what if she and Myles were talking? He was single and so was she. Good for them.
“I don’t know,” Reagan answered, not bothering to elaborate. “But anyway, I’m glad you let me call you,” she went on. “That meant you weren’t mad at me.”
“Mad at you for what?” he asked.
“For the way I behaved at the club and even after when you took me home.”
He should have been relieved. Why wasn’t he relieved? “Oh, don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s all good.”
“No, it’s not.” She lowered her voice as if ashamed. “I shouldn’t have said some of the shit I said. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have been flirting with you. I don’t do married men anymore.” Anymore? Was that supposed to be a good thing?
Dorian paused, not knowing how to respond to that piece of information. As if Reagan realized her brief lapse in judgment, she quickly added, “That’s just disrespectful to my sister, you know? You’re her husband, so I was really out of line.”
“Yeah, for sure. I know what you meant.” But did he really? He let out the breath he had been holding and swiveled around in his chair to eye the downtown activity once more. Lord knows he didn’t need that complication. A fantasy, nothing more. As erotic as it was, it was just that. Nothing happened, completely harmless, and hadn’t they stopped short of crossing those boundaries? And frankly, that was one less headache he needed right now. He hadn’t realized Reagan’s persistence had him so wound up, but now he felt himself much more relaxed than he had been. “We’ll blame it on the alcohol,” he teased.
He was met with silence so still he had to look at the phone to make sure the line hadn’t disconnected.
“Well, I guess that’s all I wanted to say,” Reagan said after a pause. “Hopefully next time you see me, I’m acting like I got some sense.”
“I’m sure you can handle yourself. Take care.”
“Of course. Talk to you soon.” Click. Dorian glanced at the phone on a frown after she hung up. Talk to you soon. Well, that was interesting.
His phone buzzed, this time on his desk, signaling an intercom call from his assistant out front. He pushed the button to answer.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Graham, your wife is on line two.” Claudia, Dorian’s receptionist, was a soft-spoken woman who had more years behind her than in front of her. Dorian hated working her too hard, but she was damn good at what she did, and Claudia claimed the work kept her mind busy.
“Thanks Claudia. Did Pam take care of Mrs. Davis?” Now, he didn’t even know why he was asking that. He knew she had handled business. She was an upbeat college student brimming with zealous professionalism. He was glad she had walked into his office with a request for a job in exchange for course credit toward her RN degree. Even though he was only six months young with his own practice, business was thriving, and thanks to both Pam and Claudia, their little team of three had things running like a well-oiled machine.
“She sure did. Mrs. Davis said she felt good after talking to you. She’s buying us all lunch after the holidays,” Claudia said with a laugh.
Dorian grinned as he clicked over to line two. Now if Mrs. Davis just left that piss-poor excuse for a husband of hers, she would feel even better.
“Hey,” he greeted.
“Hey.” Shantae’s voice carried the same dryness. They had yet to talk after that last argument, and apparently, she was still riding on her little attitude about him going out to the bachelor party the other night. She had even pulled one of her “disappearing stunts” all day Sunday, leaving early in the morning and returning late Sunday night. Usually she would just go to her parents’ house when she didn’t want to be bothered, which was fine with him. He hadn’t been in the mood for that bullshit either. “I’m able to get away for a little. You want to meet for lunch?”
He weighed the offer. The silent treatment was becoming a little aggravating. Plus, they had a vacation coming up. It was planned and paid for while they were on their honeymoon last year. The last thing they needed to do was carry tension with them to Jamaica. And over what? A bachelor party that was over and done with? One thing was for sure, if he let it go on, it would completely ruin his trip because Shantae’s stubborn ass could carry a grudge’s grudge to the afterlife. “Sure,” he agreed. “We need to talk anyway.”
Shantae was already waiting when he arrived at their little wing spot. It was a common meeting place for them because it was in short walking distance, a perfect midpoint between Dorian’s practice and Shantae’s office at the bank.
The restaurant usually had a line spilling out the door, partially because the food was so damn good, partially because it was the size of a bedroom with just enough space to accommodate a handful of wobbly pub tables and some tattered chairs. Behind the cashier counter, a marquee board displayed a simple menu: wings, fish, fries, and Coke products. That’s it. Dorian knew the owner, Ben, and the joke That’s it! had even been added to the marquee board; since their food was so delicious, they kept getting requests for a larger selection of American Deli-esque dishes. “Don’t ask ‘do we have’ or ‘are we going to get,’ ” Ben had said. “Wings, fish, fries. That’s it!”
Dorian was glad she had suggested lunch early because they had managed to beat the rush as some of the only patrons there.
Usually they had to take their food to go, b
ut Shantae was seated at one of the tables when he entered, nursing a bottled water. “I ordered your usual,” she said as Dorian pecked an absent kiss on her forehead before sliding in the seat across from her.
“I appreciate it.” He already could taste the twenty-piece hot wings. The restaurant had perfected some kind of signature sauce that had his mouth burning with flavor but was too good to put down. “You look nice,” he complimented, addressing her crisp, navy blue pantsuit and canary yellow blouse. A thin line of pearls paraded across her neck with the matching earrings in each lobe. A few years ago, Shantae had cut her mahogany tresses up above her ears, and now it was growing back into a teased bob she’d enhanced with a few loose curls.
“Thanks,” she said with a small smile. “How’s work?”
“I played with some breasts this morning. And I’ll be looking at thighs and ass this afternoon. You know, the usual.”
Shantae snickered at his customary double entendre. “Well, you never could keep your hands off other women,” she said and lifted her water to her lips.
Dorian didn’t like how Shantae didn’t have a trace of humor in her voice.
“I’m kidding,” she quickly said and plastered a smile on her face at his prolonged silence. “Damn, D, chill out. You think I would’ve married you if I still felt like you were up to no good?”
Dorian shrugged off the brief tension. “You lucky I love you,” he said. At least she wasn’t harboring her anger anymore.
Shantae blew a kiss at him teasingly before getting up to grab their lunches from the counter.
“I’m glad we did this,” she said after returning to the table with their meals. “Work has me stressed out with this new merger. And we’re having crazy systems issues. We think someone hacked the network.”
“Damn, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, it sucks. I’ll probably have to stay late a little to get all that shit squared away. I need to have it all done before we leave for Jamaica because I’m not trying to have them calling to ruin our vacation.”