Page 13 of Tempting the Doctor

I press down on her back, guiding her to lean further into the side of the jacuzzi. The position raises her pussy higher, and I stare at her soft pink folds. I have to taste her, so I lean forward and bury my face in her core, lapping at her clit and folds, before pointing my tongue and sliding inside her. She cries out and reaches one hand back to fist my hair. Her grip is tight, and my scalp stings, but it only spurs me on. Mandy begins to thrust against my tongue, riding my face and finding her own pleasure until she’s screaming my name, her whole body shaking.

I move to a standing position behind her and rub my cock between her cheeks while I reach around her front and continue to work her clit with one hand. “That’s right, let me make your perfect, wet little cunt feel good,” I say close to her ear. She shivers and groans, lifting her ass to stroke my cock. “Let me make your slippery clit swell while I touch you.”

She’s breathing hard, and as I slide inside her, I’m about to burst as she clenches around my shaft. I press harder, not sure who will break first. Her hands grip the edge of the hot tub so hard her knuckles are white.

My own release inside her is almost instant, but I manage to hold on long enough to tip Mandy over the edge again. As soon as her body begins to quake beneath me, I release, and it’s as if a dam has burst when I shoot my seed. An almost endless torrent fills her until I’m limp against her back.

After I can see and breathe again, I pull us into the water to warm our chilled bodies. The sun has started to set without us noticing, and after resting her head on my chest for a while in the soothing bubbles, she looks up at me, a questioning look on her face.

“I know,” I say, my bliss evaporating. “It’s almost time to go, isn’t it?”

“As much as I love this, I have to get back to reality,” she says, running her hand down the side of my face.

I nod, knowing it as well as she does, and not liking it one little bit.

Chapter 11

Mandy

Reality returns with the impact of a hurricane. As happy as I was during our getaway to the mountains, I’m equally as sad to return home. The past 48 hours have been perfect, but they weren’t real life. It’s easy to believe Trey and I could have a committed relationship when we’re far from our jobs in a place with little to no cell phone reception. But the closer we get to the city, the more I worry that what we had at the cabin isn’t sustainable.

Trey is an important man with an important career. People rely on him literally to save their lives. How can a relationship with me compete with that? And do I even want it to? I’d feel horrible if he refused a call from the hospital to spend time with me, and it cost someone their life.

He notices how quiet I am, and once we’re in the car headed toward my apartment, he takes my hand in his.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

“I had a wonderful time this weekend. Everything was perfect,” I begin.

“But?”

“But none of it was real. We were living out a fantasy. I want to be with you, Trey, but I still don’t know how that’s possible.”

“Will you at least give me a chance to show you?” he asks, and I hate the vulnerability in his normally confident voice.

I don’t answer right away, as I really think about what he’s asking. Giving him a chance to show me how great we could be together means putting my heart at risk. If I’m being honest, my heart is already at risk. I’ve fallen in love with Trey. It’s already going to crush me to say goodbye, letting this continue will only make it hurt that much worse when it inevitably ends.

“I’m sorry, Trey,” I tell him, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t.”

***

It’s been a week since I said goodbye to Trey, and it feels like I’ve lost half my soul. I’m sitting in my office, going through my notes and typing up the article about him. It’s so hard to look at the images of his handsome face, knowing what I lost, what I threw away. I regretted saying goodbye almost the moment the words left my mouth, but I kept telling myself it was for the best. Every night, I pull up the text thread between us and torture myself by reading our old messages. I miss him so much, it’s a living ache inside my chest.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus on the note my assistant left for me, informing me that one of Trey’s patients had called asking to speak with me.

I wanted to have quotes from past patients for the article, but I know I couldn’t ask for patient information due to privacy laws. So instead, I phoned Trey’s office and spoke to his receptionist. It was the same woman whose conversation I’d eavesdropped on weeks ago, and it took every ounce of restraint I had not to ask her how Trey was doing. Instead, I asked her if she could reach out to any of his patients who she thought might want to be quoted for the article. She told me she had a couple people in mind and would pass on my information so they could call me if they were interested.

Dialing the number on the message, I sit back and wait. It rings twice before a soft, feminine voice answers, “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Amy Dawson? This is Mandy Cline fromThe Manhattan Chronicle, returning your call,” I say.

“Oh, hi! I’m so glad you called.” Her voice is cheery and enthusiastic. She sounds young, and I’m curious how she came to be a patient of Trey’s.

“You were a patient of Dr. Trey Miller’s?” I ask.

“No, no. My father is his patient. His name is Mike Dawson. Dr. Miller did his heart transplant a couple weeks ago.”

A couple weeks ago? Trey and I were together then; he never mentioned performing a heart transplant to me.

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