by Logan Chance
Love Doctor
Logan Chance
Copyright © 2019 by Logan Chance
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For Paula
I do things like get in a taxi and say, “The library, and step on it.”
David Foster Wallace
A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.
Franz Kafka
Contents
1. Rose
2. Declan
3. Rose
4. Declan
5. Rose
6. Declan
7. Rose
8. Declan
9. Rose
10. Declan
11. Rose
12. Declan
13. Rose
14. Declan
15. Rose
16. Declan
17. Rose
18. Declan
19. Rose
20. Declan
21. Declan
22. Rose
23. Declan
24. Rose
25. Declan
26. Rose
27. Declan
28. Rose
29. Declan
30. Rose
31. Declan
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Acknowledgments
The PLAYBOY Series
Sneak Peek TAKEN
Sneak Peek PLAYBOY
About the Author
Also by Logan Chance
1
Rose
“You don’t start out writing good stuff. You start out writing crap and thinking it’s good stuff, and then gradually you get better at it. That’s why I say one of the most valuable traits is persistence.”
― Octavia E. Butler
Maybe I shouldn’t be a writer. Well, technically, I’m not—yet—but becoming an author is in my ten year plan. Get a Husky, name her Thumbelina, and become an author by the time I’m thirty, those are my lofty goals. I’m running short on time. However, since joining this erotic writers group, I’m not so sure about aspiring to publish a novel. Maybe it should remain a secret hobby, because I’ll tell you, writing is hard. Writing sex is even harder. Having it picked apart and dissected is excruciating. I’d rather shove the tiny black stirrers peeking out of everyone’s coffee cups under my fingernails than continue to have the four people sitting with me in Carl’s Coffee analyze my technique. Or lack thereof.
“I’m telling you, member is just not a sexy word for a man’s penis,” Pru Palmer, published author, scoffs with undisguised disgust in her brown eyes. “Is it in a club? No, it’s a dick.”
Uncomfortable with her criticism, and maybe a bit envious at the way she effortlessly says dick, I shift in my black leather chair while three sets of eyes study me like a specimen under a microscope at our early morning meetup for today. “Yes, well, I was trying to change things up,” I defend myself. I mean, I didn’t have a lot to work with in five hundred words.
“Change it to dick,” she advises, arrogance lacing every word as she lifts her caramel latte for a sip. Her smoke shadowed eye winks at me. “Maybe then your sex scenes won’t be so tame.”
Ouch. Once a week, for three months, I’ve gathered with these people for creative writing exercises, and I’m still not used to the non-sugar coated critique from Pru and her overarched eyebrows. Obviously, I know member isn’t sexy, neither is shaft, but I can’t write dick a million times. She pumps out bestselling books faster than the hero in my book can pump his ‘member’ into the heroine, so maybe I should heed her advice and stop agonizing over word choice.
“You’ve got immense natural talent,” Christian, our organizer, tells me, shrugging off Pru’s judgement and pushing his glasses further up his nose. I don’t miss Pru’s minuscule eyebrow rise at his praise. “How is your manuscript progressing?”
“Good,” I answer as vague as possible. “I’m almost done.”
At some point, I’ll have to share with them, but other than sex scene snippets, I’m not ready to divulge what my novel is about just yet.
Thankfully, he moves on to Rebecca, a wisp of a girl with pink streaks in her blonde hair and a tongue as sharp as a razor blade. “Don’t even try to tell me rod isn’t ok,” she directs at Pru. “Your ghost writer needs to learn to use a thesaurus.”
“Rebecca,” Christian chastises, futilely trying to stop the storm brewing. He’d have more luck stopping the earth from turning. Rebecca lapses into the same tirade I’ve heard since I joined—there’s no way Pru can publish as often as she does without outside help. I’m beginning to wonder if she isn’t right. Pru’s readers don’t seem to question the plausibility of whether or not producing a novel every few weeks is actually possible, but I do.
“Well, it’s true,” Rebecca continues, not backing down. “She has everyone fooled, but people can’t stay blind forever. Why are you even here?”
Her words ricochet off Pru, leaving no dents. “I like to give back.”
Christian wrangles control of the conversation and the critique of Rebecca’s story about bear shifters becomes the focus. In the midst of debating whether supplying condoms in a forest is indeed necessary, my phone vibrates. I glance down at a text from my boss, Dr. Declan Sincock. Yes, that’s really his name. And how fitting it is for all six feet plus, hotter than magma inches of him.
I need you to bring me a blueberry muffin top, his message reads.
Just the top, Rose.
T.O.P.
I like the top. No bottom.
Dr. Sincock and I are still in the getting to know you phase, and somehow, in the two months I’ve worked for him, he has managed to burrow so far under my skin, he lives there. I can’t shed him. Of all the days to request a beheaded muffin, he’d pick today. Normally, on Thursday’s, Dr. Sincock always arrives late, or I wouldn’t have agreed to Christian’s schedule change.
Just so I understand correctly, I type back: You would like an unattached muffin top?
“Yes,” is his swift reply. “Top is always best. It’s my favorite.”
Immediately, my imagination conjures up a new scene for my novel with my hero, Eclan, on top of Annette: vicious red welts, from where she marked him, stretch down his corded back while his hips thrust, driving into her. It’s so clear in my mind’s eye, I can even see the tightening of his rounded ass cheeks as his ferocity intensifies. I jot down ‘angry sex’ on a sticky note and slide it in the pocket of my slacks before waiting for a lull in bear shifter orgies to excuse myself.
“I’ll get right on it,” I send back.
If he wants a half muffin, then that’s what he’ll get. I may be a questionable writer, but I’m a damn good personal assistant. Even if his requests are bizarre.
Last week, I spent an hour searching for a ‘hot buttered biscuit dripping with honey,’ only to find it still sitting on his desk, uneaten, an hour later. Rather than ask him about it when he returned from a meeting, I wrote a steamy breakfast scene with Eclan, shirtless and barefoot, licking drips of bees nectar from Annette’s nipples while I devoured his biscuit. He doesn’t know that, though.
“Hurry, please,” he replies.
I slide my purse on my shoulder and stand. “Sorry, I have to get going.”
“No problem,” Christian says. “See you next week.”
On my way out, a quick search of the internet reveals a bakery about ten minutes away. After retrieving the muffin, I drive to the medical building where Dr.
Sincock practices sex therapy.
“Good morning,” Katrina, the gatekeeper at the information desk, greets me when I step into the quiet lobby. The sun pours in through the big, bay windows and I pass by a large potted plant in the middle of the tiled floor.
“Morning.” I give her a little wave, hustling to the elevator.
I punish the circular silver button with a little extra jab as payback for the way Dr. Sincock so easily pushes mine. On my ascent to the fifth floor, I map out the last few chapters of my novel in my head. Honestly, I’m not sure how it will end. I’m not an outline writer, and right now, Annette and Eclan currently have an obstacle in their way—he’s her boss. Maybe they don’t live happily ever after, who knows.
My heels click against the marble floor as I hurry to the office, drop my bag at my desk, and then rap on his door with a pink Magnificent Muffin bag in my hand.
“Come in,” his deep voice beckons.
When I enter, I brace myself for the Sincock effect. It’s an effect he’s had on me since I sat down in his office for the obligatory interview. I wasn’t prepared for him to be so handsome my nipples became steel juts of lust or the first question to be whether I liked avocado.
When I said yes, he unexpectedly pushed a button I didn’t know I had by cringing at my answer and saying we could continue anyway. It was twenty minutes of damp panties and irritation that turned into ten chapters when I got back to my house.
I’ve never had anyone trigger me the way Dr. Sincock does. I’m in a constant state of haterousal. I hate that I’m oddly attracted to someone who is off limits and loathes avocados. They’re a superfood, how can he not be an advocate?
Mossy green eyes track me as I cross to the glossy desk he sits behind. “Breakfast is served,” I quip. I place the bag down and pull extra napkins for him from my pocket.
“Thank you,” he responds with a charming grin before placing his finger on the button. “Thought I might die from hunger before you got back.”
My eyes flit to the protein bar sitting next to his coffee mug. It’s like I can literally feel the button being depressed. My smile is as forced as the solar stickman gadget pedaling away beside his monitor. I want to swoosh all the neatly stacked piles of paper off his desk, climb across, wrap his silver tie around my fist and wipe that smirk off his face with my tongue.
I’m not sure why he gets to me so much. His requests aren’t that far from the norm of what I encountered at my previous job. My last boss, God rest his soul, the CEO of Westerhouse Puppy Modeling Agency had me dog sit at his house on the regular. And I did it, without complaint. Usually, I’m very eager to please, because I like knowing what my boss needs before he can express it. Until now.
I’m sure Dr. Sincock would equate my trigger ready buttons he’s been able to activate so easily with some sort of sexual repression. And maybe he’d be right, he’s the sex expert. I’m sure he’d know exactly how to set my inner slut free. She’s inside me, living a very chaste existence.
The sound of crumpling paper permeates throughout the office as he removes his life support from the bag. Just so you know, he looks nowhere near close to death. This man with his sandy brown hair and chiseled features is the epitome of excellent health. His tailored black suit, which I picked up from the cleaners, only emphasizes the virile power in his tall frame.
“This isn't a top,” he points out, staring at the oversized streusel muffin.
I hold up a finger, walk to my desk, and return with a pair of scissors.
Before he can object, I take the muffin and snip off the top.
“Now it is,” I tell him, placing it on the delicate tissue wrapper.
He arches a brow before leaning back in his executive leather chair, and I hightail it out of his office before things escalate. By escalate, I mean him firing me.
When I sink down into my chair, my phone vibrates. I read the text message from my best friend, Julie:
“Did you pick a pen name?”
”Not yet,” I reply back. “I might be scared.”
There’s no might, really— I’m terrified. If fright had a face, it would be mine. I’ve written lots of things but never put them out into the world. My phone vibrates again, this time with a call.
“Hey,” I whisper, “what if he finds out? What if my family finds out? I used the words pussy and cock.”
“Listen,” she whispers back, “do you want to be an author or do you want to always wish you had?”
Julie is one of those types of people who is fearless. My hesitation is foreign to her. When I met her two years ago at my last job, it was a classic case of opposites attract. Introvert and extrovert. Sprinkle cupcake and plain vanilla. When I sat in on a meeting about marketing graphics, I was in awe of her periwinkle hair and diamond studded nose. When she wants something, there’s no hesitation, no thinking it through for years like me. She wanted her own graphic design business—done. Just like that.
I drum my fingers on the desk. I know she’s right. I don’t want to always wonder what it would have felt like to publish because I was too scared to actually do it.
“Ok, let me think on the name.”
“Rose, you’ve been thinking for a month; you’re stalling. I just need a name to finish the cover. How about Ruby Red?”
Ruby Red. A little homage to my hair. The hair that’s going to fall out from anxiety. “Ok, Ruby Red it is.”
She squeals into the phone. “Give me two minutes, and I’ll send it over.”
We hang up, and true to her word, two minutes later, I’m staring at the Love Doctor cover in all its shirtless glory. Julie designs a lot of romance covers and assured me that abs is what sells. In the middle of wondering if Dr. Sincock’s chest is etched like this marble god, I nearly jump out of my seat when his deep voice says, “You dropped this.”
In his hand is a yellow note—my yellow note with ‘angry sex’ scrawled across it.
2
Declan
On average, doctors interrupt their patients during a consultation once every fourteen seconds. The busier a doctor tends to be, the more likely they are to interrupt.
I don’t think Rose likes me very much. And I don’t know why that thought bugs the hell out of me. She needs a desk plate that reads: Rose Thorne, Administrative Assistant, and a fucking thorn in my side.
What’s not to like about me? I wouldn’t say I’m a cocky guy—oh wait, can I say cocky?
Let’s start over, I wouldn’t say I’m an arrogant guy. I’m not haughty or conceited. I just know how to get things done, in the best possible way. Except, right now. Instead of preparing for my first client, angry sex is all I can think about. Angry sex with Rose.
Her cheeks flame the same rich hue as her hair when she takes the square piece of paper from my fingers. “Thanks,” she says, balling the yellow paper into her fist and tossing it into the trash can, with no elaboration as to its meaning.
“Is that regarding a client?” I dig for info, knowing it’s not. But, as a sex therapist, it’s highly possible this could be related to one of my patients, so my question is valid, even if I’m only interested in how it pertains to Rose.
Wide-eyed, she tucks a stray strand of hair behind the shell of her ear. “Um, no.”
Still no elaboration. Rooted to the marble floor, I slide my hands in my pockets. Obviously I can’t ask her, because that would be unprofessional, so the right thing to do in this situation would be to just fucking tell me. You can’t just drop a bomb like that and then not explain. I’m sure her silence is because she doesn’t like me, and our lack of a copacetic working relationship is her fault, really. If she didn’t walk around looking like sex on legs, I wouldn’t have to send her out on errands, just so I can breathe. She’s infuriatingly sexy. It’s the fiery hair combined with dick stiffening glasses. I can’t not look at her.
I don’t like being attracted to my assistant, and I like even less she couldn’t care less. And now I have to deal with this angry sex thing
. A condom study I once read showed that women with red hair are more likely to be into bondage and kink. What exactly is she doing? And with who?
Again, she’s a fucking thorn in my side.
What was I thinking hiring her?
I knew the moment she walked in, she was trouble. But I can’t fire her now, and I sure as hell can’t sleep with her. The only thing I can really do is boss her around, so I take great pride in that.
“Ok,” I take another approach and perch on the edge of her desk, “is there something you’d like to talk about, Rose?”
Startled blue eyes lift from her computer screen. They are an arresting shade behind the black frames she sometimes wears, like someone took the raging sea and filled her iris.
“Not really,” she says, a little dumbfounded at my question. “Thanks for asking.”
“Ah. You sure?”
Her quieter than usual attitude is pricking my skin like a thousand needles.
Is it so hard to acknowledge my presence? Normally, I don’t dwell on these things, but for some reason it irks me that she shuns me as if I’m a toxic virus.
She stands. “Positive. I have to run and make some copies before Mrs. Carter arrives.”
Her vibrant red hair hustles past me. I probably stare a beat too long at the way her black slacks fondle her ass. There’s no probably, I do. She’s turning me into a human resource nightmare. I’d replace her if she weren’t so damn efficient. I’ve never been so organized and horny in all my life. Well, fine. I don’t need her to talk to me.