by Logan Chance
I peer upward at the bright colored track. “Really? I’ve never been on it. Looks fun, though.”
“Trust me, it’s not.”
I look over at him. “It’s not because you’re afraid of heights, is it?”
“Of course not,” he denies, but I don’t believe him.
“I’ll be with you.”
He raises a brow in my direction. “I love heights. In fact, I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Except public speaking.”
He raises a finger to tsk me. “I never said I was scared, just that it made me nervous.”
“Like the same kind of nervous the rollercoaster makes you?”
He winks. “Careful, Miss Thorne. I might have to write you up for insubordination.”
For some reason, I find his playful remark hot. I really wish he’d stop making me like him by showing me this side of him. This is getting way out of control.
We walk around, riding a few rides, playing a few games, ignoring the obvious tension between us until it’s time to go. Before we leave, Declan wins a stuffed baby goat with devil horns shooting hoops and hands it over to me.
“Are you sure?” I ask as we walk toward the pier entrance.
“Yeah, don’t girls like that stuff?”
I smile. “This girl does.”
He wets his lips and gives me a lazy smile that makes my heart do this weird flip in my chest. “Good.”
If this were in my book, this is when he’d kiss her. He’d stop walking, lean in, splay his hands against her cheeks, and crash his lips to hers. But this isn’t a romance novel and I make an awkward joke instead. “Might have to hide it if my Dad comes over.”
“Your father never let you have any experiences, huh?”
“Sure he did.” I smile when our eyes meet. “As long as it was of the church variety.”
“I have nothing against church,” Declan says. “I just believe sex, relationships, and things like that are something that should be between the couple, not God.”
I fondle the horns on the baby goat and speak the truth, “I agree.”
“Any brothers or sisters?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nope, only child. You? Well, I know you have Chelsea, anyone else?”
“Nope, just Chels and me.”
Instead of heading to the exit, he veers toward the rollercoaster. “We don’t have to,” I tell him.
“No way am I not going to ride it with you.”
“It’s really ok,” I assure him.
“No.”
We step into the line, and I grab a hold of his hand to reassure him. “It’ll be ok.”
Some things just go together—chips and salsa, apple pie and ice cream, Han Solo and Chewbacca—and that’s how my hand feels in his. Like it belongs with it. He looks down at our joined hands but doesn’t pull away.
“It’s not safe,” he says into my ear.
I glance up. “It’s been here a long time. I’m sure it’s ok.”
“Exactly. It’s old and decrepit.”
We move forward at a rapid pace and are seated near the back. He places his hat under his leg, and when we’re buckled in, I make the sign of the cross over my chest, even though I’m not Catholic, and look over at him. “When I said I hadn’t been on this, I meant I’ve never been on a rollercoaster before.”
His head snaps to me. “What? This is your first time?”
We inch forward. “Yeah.”
“So your everything will be ok was a lie?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“You’re a child of God, you're not supposed to lie.”
I’m probably not supposed to let my boss finger me either, so hopefully I’ll get a pass. “Sometimes we have to do what’s best, not what’s right.” We move forward a little faster, and to the right, waves crash against the shore. “That view, though.”
“Yeah, it’s stunning.”
We pick up speed, dipping and turning, and I don’t know if the adrenaline in my veins is from the high of the ride or the fact his eyes never left my face when he said the view was stunning.
That rollercoaster yesterday is definitely a metaphor for my life. I feel like I’m free falling—of my own free will—into something I won’t recover from. When Declan and I arrived back to our hotel, it was late. If it had been a date, he would’ve kissed me. But it wasn’t a date, and there was no kiss. We said goodnight, and after stepping inside my room, I couldn’t sleep. So I opened my laptop and wrote. I couldn’t do anything but write about longing so sharp you don’t feel the slice until you’re bleeding. And then I got to the blow job scene. Cue the record scratch. I’ve never done the act per se, but after being around Declan all day, that’s right where the story lead me.
Annette and the man she wants are at a high-society ball. Elaborate masks hide their identities, and Annette has to find him out of all the men at the party. Obviously I made that hard for her, because she can’t just go traipsing up to him. No, Annette’s got to work for her man. After torturing her a bit, building the tension, she found him. She knows his hands. They’re skillful hands. Protective hands. She’s a minx, so she leads him into a small restroom and drops to her knees to give him one of the best blowjobs he’s ever had.
Except, Annette picked the wrong hands. She’s about to blow the wrong man with the right hands.
Her enemy. I love my story so far. There’s depth to the characters; it’s not all sex. I’m sure Pru wouldn’t think so, but the sex scenes I’ve added since working with Declan are on fire. We have one more day and then it’s back to before, so I need to make what’s left of our time count.
Today was spent in lectures and being professional—no lazy smiles and seductive winks— and tonight, right now, we’re at a goodbye dinner party. I’m going to get a little more help, hopefully of the blowjob variety, and then I’m on my own.
Declan pulls me a bit closer on the dance floor and like our hands, our bodies just go together. This event is like living in a fairytale. It’s all so posh and upscale. I’ve never been to a party this extravagant before, well unless you count the endless church functions my mother would host, but those don’t count because I never had any fun at them.
When I made the decision to remain professional with Declan, it was difficult at first. Seeing him in his tuxedo, hair gelled just perfectly, and his green eyes pinned on me, it was really hard to keep him at an arm’s length.
It got easier as the night progressed. Until he cut in on my dance with James Clifford.
Which don’t get me wrong, I’m so glad he did. James is a perv and a half. He kept asking me what I was doing after the party, and if he could drive me home—three hours away. Yeah, no thank you, I watch Law & Order. I know he’s respected in the medical community, but still, I’m happy for the reprieve, even if that reprieve is Declan.
He tugs me closer, his hand resting just above the curve of my ass, and I breathe in his forbidden scent. Everything about him is perfect tonight, and I’m half-ready to beg him to claim me. But, I won’t do it. Even though tiny demons are screaming at me from inside my head to rip his tuxedo off and beg him for an orgasm. When did I become this needy?
“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispers close to my ear, breaking me from my naughty thoughts. My black lace cocktail dress is demure yet not, stopping above my knee and sheer above my breasts leaving hints of skin. The real sex appeal is on my feet, slinky black heels with a thin strap around my ankle.
“Thank you,” I whisper back.
He does a lopsided grin that if I were wearing panties, would make them wet.
Tonight, I want to be daring like Annette in my novel. She wouldn’t wait to give this man the best blow job around, no she’d march over to him and pull him into a corner and do it right then and there.
Here goes nothing.
I smile up at Declan with my best seductress stare.
“What?” he asks. But, I ignore him, getting into the mindset of Annette. “What are
you doing?” he asks a little more dumbfounded this time.
“Follow me.” I grab his hand and lead him off the dance floor.
I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I’m going to blow him.
18
Declan
Life sometimes speaks in doctorisms...
“Dr. Sincock,” a tall dark haired man calls out to me as I’m being led through the ballroom by Rose. “Ignore him,” she whispers. That’s pretty easy to do with the way she’s dressed. She is undeniably the sexiest little thing here in a black dress that worships her body. And fuck, she looks fantastic. I can tell others agree, by the way men’s eyes gaze at her as if she’s got all their research answers hidden beneath her dress. Jealousy snakes its way through my limbs, until I remember this is not a date. She’s my assistant. Which is really laughable. A lot of other doctors here have their assistants and office staff by their sides, but they aren’t looking at them like I’m looking at Rose.
“Dr. Sincock,” the gruff voice says again. This time, he stalks over, impeding Rose’s progress. She stops, dropping my hand, and then I realize it’s Houston Dale, a prestigious surgeon from New York.
“Dr. Dale,” we shake hands, “how are you?”
“Good.” His dark eyes flit to Rose. “Houston Dale,” he introduces himself, shaking her hand.
“Rose Thorne. I’ll just leave you two alone,” she says, excusing herself, obviously unaware she’s in the presence of greatness. Not me, Dr. Dale. Well, I’m great too, but that’s not in question. Before I can stop her, she’s weaving through the people scattered about the ballroom.
“I just wanted to let you know your speech was impressive,” Houston tells me, dragging my attention back to him. “My wife is a psychiatrist, and has read some of your papers.”
“Thank you. Is she here?”
“No, couldn’t make it.” He gives a head nod toward the direction Rose went. “Is that your girlfriend?”
“My assistant.”
His brow rises. “Ah. Been there, done that. She’s my wife now.” I feel like I’m suffocating. “I probably had that look on my face too. Your larynx is probably closing, making you feel like you can’t breathe. That’s the worst fucking feeling, man. You’ll survive.”
I rub a hand down my face. “Yeah, it’s not like that.”
“It is,” he says, matter of fact. “My wife would say you’re suppressing your emotions. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“No falling is taking place,” I assure him.
“You can tell me that again at your wedding.” He smiles. “I actually wanted to talk to you about a business proposition.”
“What kind of business proposition?”
“I’m opening my own practice in New York. I’ve heard great things about you and would be interested in talking further about bringing you on board.”
It takes a minute to absorb what he’s offering me. “As a sex therapist?”
“No. A medical doctor. I’ve read your bio, I know you volunteer at a clinic.” His dark eyes narrow a bit with contemplation, as if he has some wisdom to impart. “I once taught, and it was ok, but I didn’t live and breathe it. Nothing comes close to practicing medicine.” He chuckles. “Except, my wife.”
I smile. Working with someone like Houston Dale would be a fucking dream. “I’d like to hear more.”
“Good,” he clasps me on the shoulder, “I’ll give you a call and we can talk further.”
“Sounds good.”
“Have a good night.”
He walks away and I force my feet toward the exit. I need to find Rose, and end this.
“Dr. Siiincock, so glad you are here,” a female voice coos, drawing my attention.
I spin around and look into the ice blue eyes of Deidre Flanigan, a former colleague of mine. Dark hair piled loosely on top her head shines under the lights as she closes the distance. Her breasts reach me before she does. Deidre has been trying to get on my dick for years, and at one point, I may have entertained the idea. But, I never let myself go there, because we worked together. Apparently that was back when I had ethics.
“Deidre, how are you?”
She places a hand on my arm. “I’m doing much better now that you’re here.”
My pulse beats an unsteady rhythm. I’m getting agitated and I pull at the bowtie of my tuxedo.
“Well, I’m not going to be much company tonight.” I peer back over my shoulder, looking for Rose one more time.
Her blue gown clad body sidles even closer. “Need some stress relief?” I look down at her. Maybe I do. Maybe I do need to fuck Rose out of my system with someone else. “My lips aren’t just for talking.”
She eyes my dick. Let’s face it, I’m screwed in the head. I know most guys in my situation would love having a girl sucking his dick with no expectations for more.
But, maybe I want more.
Maybe, just maybe, I want more with Rose.
God, I need to pull it together.
You think it’s easy? It isn’t. It isn’t easy having strong feelings for your assistant, client. I don’t even know what to call her. She’s a client slash my assistant, and she’s completely off-limits.
I want to check on her. Make sure she’s ok, but I know if I knock on her door I won’t be able to not touch her.
“The answer is still no,” I tell Deirdre. The only lips I want wrapped around my cock are nowhere to be found.
I leave the party and head up to my own room, tearing my suit off the minute I step through the door.
The minibar is my best friend for the next few minutes as I sit in my boxer-briefs chugging little bottles of whiskey until I can’t take the silence anymore. I grab my phone, scanning through the contacts for Rose’s name.
I text her: Are you ok?
She answers back quickly: Yes. I’m sorry for leaving so soon.
I reply: That was Houston Dale. The Dr. Dale.
And then we keep going…
Rose: He seemed very stern.
Me: He offered me a job in New York. Medical doctor.
Rose: Really? Are you considering it?
Me: Maybe. I don’t know.
God, I want more than anything to hear her voice, but instead I lie back against the plethora of pillows on the King-sized bed in my room.
Rose: Why did you become a sex therapist?
Me: Money.
I hold my breath, hoping I haven’t scared her off with how callous that sounds.
Rose: Did that money make you happy? You should probably think about that.
I do think about that for a minute. Sure, I get temporary enjoyment out of expensive gadgets, but there’s no denying there’s a vast hole that can’t be filled with things. But I’m solid—successful—and I have a big ass house... that I go home alone to every night. What more could I want?
Me: Maybe you should have been the therapist.
Rose: Ha! I’ll send you my bill.
Me: Where were you taking me?
She doesn’t answer for a while. But, then my phone dings.
Rose: I thought I’d get in one last help session, but changed my mind.
I don’t text her back, for fear of asking her if I can come over to her room. No matter how much she turns me on, I won’t have sex with her. That’s not part of the deal. Tomorrow things go back to normal, and that’s for the best. I spend the rest of the night, tossing and turning, wondering what Rose would do if I accepted the position in New York. She’d work for whoever they replaced me with, but would she like them? Would she miss me? As hard as it is to admit, I’d probably miss her annoying ways, amongst other things I don’t want to admit to myself. It’s the alcohol making me a pussy.
The next morning, we check out and it’s like we’ve morphed back into pre-trip. Rose is back to withdrawn—but still sexy as fuck in white capri pants and a clingy black, v-neck T-shirt—and I’m still studying her like I’m a buyer at a fashion show.
“Here let me grab your bag
s,” I offer, setting my suitcase in the trunk.
“Thank you.” Faint dark smudges under her eyes tell me she slept as shitty as I did.
I toss her suitcase in and when I’m pulling away from the hotel, I gaze at her for a second. And rip the band aid off.
“We should talk about what all this means.” She remains quiet, so I continue. “The sessions are done, but if you feel you need more, I can refer you to someone.”
“No, I’m good.” She smiles, slipping on her sunglasses to shield her eyes from me. “Everything is professional.”
Narrowing my eyes a bit, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “No weird... feelings?”
‘Cause I sure have them.
“None. Thank you for your help, Dr. Sincock.”
Oh it’s like that, huh? I turn up the radio and focus on the road. Things are definitely back to ‘normal.’ She’s a thorn in my fucking side.
Being back from Santa Maria feels like the first page of a whole new story. I don’t know what happened to me there, but everything feels so different now. Like, I don’t know how to act around Rose, even though she made it crystal clear she’s harboring no residual thoughts of our sessions.
And I have no time to figure it out because I leave to meet with Houston in New York tomorrow.
This week, since we’ve been back, she’s been her usual distant organized self. And part of me wonders if she’s put her new found awareness of what turns her on to use with someone else. As if I summoned her with my thoughts, Rose saunters into my office. “Did you need anything else before I go grab lunch?”
“No, thanks.” What I need is for her to not wear a skirt so tight I’d have to peel it away with my tongue. Before I can request she go home and change, she disappears.
For a few minutes I can’t get out of my own head. My thoughts roll over and over about Rose and her wardrobe.
In frustration, I push away from my desk just as a blonde walks into my office. “Please tell me you’re not my next patient.”
“As if.” She walks closer, smiling. “I’m sure you’d love to hear all about my sex life though.”