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“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m so bloody late.”
Dr. Rawlings will drop me as a patient if I cancel again. I already didn’t show to the last three appointments I made this month.
Though I must say, it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to find another doctor. Daniel Rawlings, MD, FACOG was a mediocre physician at best, and I’d be better off without him.
Regardless of his questionable capacities, it’s been six years since my last check-up, and I need this done if I want another Mirena. Even if I haven’t had much in the way of sex lately, the last thing I need to worry about with my busy schedule is monthly menstruation.
There’s no time for a shower, but fuck if I’ll take my knickers off for a man while smelling like I just worked an eighteen-hour shift at Pike’s Place down at the docks. This will have to be the quickest shower I’ve ever taken.
I don’t have time to wait for the water to warm, so I grit my teeth and bear it. “Bloody fucking hell.” Shivers raise goosebumps from head to toe as I step in the freezing spray of water, and I can’t help thinking that I look like a freshly plucked hen.
Rubbing soap all over my body has the beneficial effect of creating friction and making the freezing water slightly more tolerable. I bypass washing my hair in favor of a messy bun. It’s not like the bastard is going to be sniffing my head anyway. I’m six inches taller than him, for God’s sake.
I cannot, however, bypass shaving my punani. It’s a dangerous game to play in a hurry, but a peril in life a woman must endure when she can’t fucking manage her time like a fully grown adult is meant to do. Thankfully, the endeavor concludes without bloodshed and with perfectly soft skin.
As I grab a towel and rush to the closet, I ponder the tragedy that Daniel Rawlings will be the only man to have seen said punani in the last year…or is it two years now?
Fuck, I need to get laid. I’ve just been so busy at the hospital. There never seems to be enough time.
I suppose that’s my fault too. Picking up extra shifts was meant to be a temporary practice to distract myself from a broken heart after my divorce with Frank three years ago, but somewhere along the way, it became the standard operating procedure. Now every time Brianna leaves to spend her allotted time with her father, I’m in the ER, giving some attending the day off to catch up on much needed sleep…which leaves me rushing around after work to make my pussy presentable to a sixty-seven-year-old gynecologist with a permanently sour look in his eyes. (For God’s sake, man, staring at a plethora of vulva all day would make most blokes right cheerful. For the sake of my mental health, at least act grateful that I’ve spent the time hacking off the overgrown forest for your unworthy approval.)
“Hurry up, Beauchamp.” I throw on deodorant and a bit of moisturizer, then head to the kitchen to shove one of Brianna’s GoGo squeeZes in my purse for dinner—I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’m bloody starving.
All my running around has me working up a sweat, so I swipe a hand towel off the counter where Bree and I have been working on Christmas cards, and I give myself a little dab on the snatch to keep things fresh and dry.
Leggings and a jumper will have to do as I can’t be arsed to wear jeans. It’s not like Rawlings will catch a glimpse of my pants anyway, except to see them folding neatly on the chair by the examination table.
As I hunt down a coat, I promise myself that after all this hassle, the next man I see—aside from Dr. Rawlings—will reap the benefits of both my newly depilated cunt and its brand-new IUD.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Beauchamp, but Dr. Rawlings went home ten minutes ago.”
“It’s Doctor Beauchamp.” I rarely correct people, but throwing around my title for a little professional courtesy never hurt anyone. “And I’m only…” I check my watch, and my heart falls. “Thirty-five minutes late.” It was the road construction on Pine that did me in.
The blonde receptionist has her purse on her shoulder and her keys in hand. She’s ready to go home.
“Oh, all right.” I concede. “Can you book me for next week, then?”
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Rawlings has a no-show policy of two missed appointments in a year. This is your fourth. I’m afraid he won’t allow another—”
“Come, now. I was at the hospital patching up a gunshot wound. What if it was your mum or dad who was brought in? Wouldn’t you want their physician to finish their job before rushing off to a Pap smear?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Beauchamp. It’s out of my hands. You’ll have to find another physician.”
“Unbelievable.” It’s not actually unbelievable, but my frustration demands I assert it so.
“Mary? What’s going on, lass?” says a deep, Scottish voice from somewhere in the office.
Oh, bugger.
“Dr. Rawlings left for the day,” says Mary. “I’m afraid his last patient”—she points to me—“was very late, and the doctor advised me not to reschedule her for any reason. It’s not her first time being this tardy.”
A large shadow falls over Mary as the enormous Scot steps into view. James fucking Fraser. Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine. Fellow of the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists. Red-headed heartthrob and the only doctor to ever make me orgasm mid ultrasound.
Fuck me, he’s gorgeous.
His eyes find me standing at the front desk (Dear God, why are they so blue?) and his mouth curves in a way that tells me he recalls exactly who I am and what I did the last time we met.
Kill me now.
“Dr. Beauchamp.” The way the r rolls off his thick Scottish tongue does very moist things to my reproductive organs. “It’s lovely to see ye again.”
“Call me Claire. Please.”
“Of course, Claire.” Clay-yerr, he says. I need another cold shower. “Mary. Move Claire to my schedule, will ye?”
“For when, doctor?”
“Now, of course.”
“But—” Mary looks around. “You don’t have a medical assistant. They’ve all gone home.”
“Dr. Beauchamp and I have two medical degrees between us. I’m sure we can manage. Get her registered and in an exam room, then ye can go on home, aye?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr. Fraser gives me a little two-eyed wink before disappearing into the back.
Mary comes around to let me in, and to her credit, hides most of her impatience. “Sorry I’m not much help,” she says, leading me to an exam room. “I have no idea where Marsali keeps the gowns and things.”
“I’m sure they’re in the cabinet. I’ll manage on my own. Thank you, Mary.”
She closes the door, and her footsteps can hardly move faster down the hall. I turn to scope out the room, trying to remember anything useful from my women’s health rotation in med school that might be beneficial in assisting my doctor with my pelvic exam.
Blessedly, the medical assistant, Marsali, set up the room for the next day before leaving. The bins have all been emptied, the room cleared of debris, and the examination table has a fresh bit of creped paper covering the leather.
We love a diligent MA.
I find a stack of underpads and paper gowns in the cabinet and proceed to strip down both my dignity and clothing for the sake of reproductive health.
Standing naked, I hold up the paper gown and try to recall if the open bit goes in the front or the back. How do I forget every time?
I think back to my last appointment with Dr. Fraser—my only other appointment with him—and try to remember. It was for an ultrasound. In fact, the appointment wasn’t even with him. It was with Rawling’s completely incompetent NP at the time, what was her name? Geneva? I’m pretty sure Dr. Fraser got her fired after that fiasco.
“Opens in the front,” says a Scottish voice behind me. “For the breast exam.”
“Right.” I’m sure I blush to my arse cheeks as I slip the damn thing on and move to sit on the table. Memories of that ultrasound linger in my entire body as I attempt to keep covered in that little blue piece of paper. “Thank you for accommodating me. I’m sure you have plenty to do with your evening aside from take on another patient.”
“Not at all. I was just going to go home to my cat and continue bingeing Yellowstone.” He adjusts the exam table to the right height and lays my head back on the pillow.
Though a blood pressure machine stands charging near the wall, he pulls out a manual cuff and proceeds to take my vitals the old-fashioned way.
“How do you like it so far?” I ask, trying not to pay attention to how nice his hands feel on my skin. “Yellowstone, I mean.”
“Och, I like it fine. I’m fond of horses, ken. Grew up on a farm.”
“How did you end up in a big city?”
“Never left after med school. I’d love to go back to Scotland one day. Set up a practice. Keep a few horses.”
“I’m sure the Scottish lassies would be lining up for a chance to ride your thoroughbred.”
He snorts sweetly, but keeps silent as he listens to his stethoscope. I remain quiet so I don’t disrupt his counting. Finally, he pulls his computer cart over and types in the data. “Yer vitals are a bit elevated, but nothing to fash about. Probably all that rushing around to get here on time.”
“To get here thirty-five minutes late, you mean.”
“Nah. Ye were right on time. If ye’d come any sooner, ye’d have been examined by that crotchety auld Rawlings.”
“You’re right. This is much better.” The twitch in my overeager pubococcygeus agrees.
“Looks like ye’re six years in on the Mirena. Ye’ll be needing a new one, then?”
“Indeed.”
“Six years,” he says in wonder. “Yer wee bairn is about that age, aye? Did ye no’ get the IUD put in after her birth?”
“Just so.”
“So that means it’s been seven years since last I saw ye? It can’t have been that long, can it?”
“It has.” And yet I remember it as if it was yesterday. By the way his eyes rake down my paper-gowned body and his smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, I know he recalls that day just as vividly as I do.
Geneva Dunsany—Dr. Rawlings' shitty NP—was meant to be administering a routine ultrasound to help determine the due date of my baby, seeing as how I hadn’t been tracking my periods very regularly. Except she came up with measurements that suggested I was little more than six weeks along. Now, I may not have been that diligent in tracking my periods, but I knew the baby had to be at least eight weeks, if not nine. I knew this, because Frank had been on a work trip six weeks before, and I hadn’t been fucking the goddamn milkman in his absence.
Frank was present for the ultrasound, of course, and getting rather flustered as Geneva insisted I was six weeks along. I demanded to speak with Dr. Rawlings, who, much to my consternation, happened to be on holiday.
Covering for him was Dr. Fraser, fresh out of residency and gorgeous as the day is long. He listened quietly to both Geneva and me, then excused her so he could perform the ultrasound himself.
He took the wand (yes, it was that kind of ultrasound) and lubed it up with a handful of warm jelly. With his free hand, he split my labia apart (bloody hell, his hands were gentle) and slid the wand inside.
“Where are ye, wean?” he muttered to himself, looking for Brianna. When he found her, he took her measurements, and both of us were surprised to see she measured seven weeks. Not six. Not eight. Seven. That was still a complete impossibility.
“Hmphm,” he grunted, eyes narrowed in thought. Then, all the sudden, inspiration struck. “Pardon the pressure, Dr. Beauchamp, but I may ken what’s going on.”
His fingers spread my labia wider, and his palm inadvertently pressed on my very pregnant and very hormonal clitoris. He pushed the wand handle down toward my anus, tilting the tip to my g-spot, then twirled it around as though turning a crank.
My squeal could be heard from the waiting room as my entire pelvic floor contracted, sending me into an earth-shattering orgasm. Fraser was startled by my reaction, but his fingers quickly felt what was going on in my body. His eyes flared in what could only be described as possessive triumph before stars of pleasure consumed my vision.
“What’s going on?” asked Frank. “Claire, darling, are you all right?”
I was, indeed, very all right.
“She’s adjusting to the angle,” covered Fraser, not wanting to embarrass me to my husband nor face his ire for making me come harder than Frank ever had in the entirety of our marriage.
I breathed sharply, forcing back the whimpers and moans that threatened to escape my lips.
“It’s all right, lass. The discomfort will ease shortly.” His voice was almost soothing, and I would have believed him contrite if not for the devious twinkle in his eyes and his thumb’s gentle stroking of my clit that made settling down impossible. “Breathe through it.”
He kept his eyes away from the ultrasound screen, and I realized he did so to keep Frank’s attention averted as well. My insides were visibly contracting onscreen in sonology’s equivalent of HD.
“Better?” he asked, that sexy grin nearly causing another pelvic meltdown.
“Yes.” I glanced at the screen to ensure the contractions had stopped. “You can proceed.”
Fraser’s impish thumb remained in place, stroking my clit as his other hand positioned the wand just so. “There we are. Retroverted. See?”
“Ah, yes.” I tried not to moan the words.
“What does that mean?” asked Frank, intruding on this very intimate moment between my doctor and me.
“The issue is that her uterus is a bit tilted. Nothing to fash about. It was just throwing off the measurements.”
In order to take new ones, he (tragically) had to remove his thumb from my clit. There was no filtering the sound of disappointment I let out.
“Eight and a half weeks,” he confirmed. “Just as ye said, lass. And even if it didna measure so”—his eyes darted disapprovingly to Frank—“my concern would be that it was due to lack of normal development of the fetus, rather than assuming that conception happened on an alternate date than yer wife insists. As it is, all looks healthy and well for both mother and child.”
He reached beneath the gown and returned his thumb to my clit as he eased the wand out, eyeing me hungrily the entire time.
“Seven years,” Fraser repeats, looking back from my chart to me. “That tiny little bean is a whole person now. She’s in school?”
“She is, and terribly disruptive to her poor teachers.”
“She didna get that from her mother now, did she?”
“Well, she certainly didn’t get it from her father. He’s a professor at UW.”
“Hmphm.” His eyes return to the computer screen.
“We divorced three years ago.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently, his work trips were more pleasure than business after all.”
“I kent he was a bastard the moment I laid eyes on him.” He looks at me again, disgusted and dead serious. “Accusing ye of conceiving while he was out of town, all the while dipping his pen in the company ink.”
Reminding the good doctor that he once dipped his own ultrasound wand inside my ink while I was married to said bastard seems like a poor idea. Instead, I just thank him for his adamant defense of my honor.
Fraser stands and examines me with those perfect blue eyes. “Have ye noticed any problems since yer last Pap? Concerning lumps in yer breasts? Irregular aches, pains, cramps, or bleeding?”
“I don’t menstruate regularly with the Mirena, thank God. Aside from that, everything seems normal. Though I must admit”—I place a nervous hand to my chest—“I’ve always been terrible at self-exams. I can never tell which lumps are normal and which are causes for concern. I probably should have failed my OB rotation.”
He laughs, warming up his hands. It doesn’t escape my notice that he hasn’t put on a pair of gloves yet. If he were anyone else, I would insist on it. But he is not anyone else.
“Ye’re no’ the only one,” he concedes. “In fact, a good deal of ladies who come in for concerning lumps didna discover them on their own. Their partners helped.”
“Seeing as how I haven’t had a partner in a long time, I’m afraid if there are any new lumps, they’ve gone unnoticed.”
“Ye’ve just got to get into the habit of checking yerself regularly. Here. I’ll show ye how.”
He pulls a flap of my paper gown aside to reveal my right breast. I immediately shiver as his eyes take me in. Goosebumps tighten my nipple, shooting it up like a bloody erection.
“Cold?” he asks, rubbing his hands together again.
“I’m fine.”
“Pick one day a month to do yer self-exam, and force yerself to keep that date, no matter what else is going on around ye. Since ye dinna menstruate, ye can choose any day of yer liking. What ye’ll want to do first is stand in front of a mirror for a visual inspection.” A warm finger traces around the lower swell. “Check for changes in symmetry, puckering, dimpling, size, shape. Be sure to examine the nipple.”
His finger traces around my areola, ensuring it looks just as it should.
“Then ye’ll want to lie down to spread out the tissue for a tactile inspection. Arm above yer head now. There ye go.”
I shiver again, knowing what’s coming.
“Now, I’m doing this dry, but some prefer to use a bit of lubricant or oil.”
Jesus fuck, his hands feel good. I’m horny as hell, and if this man doesn’t stop being so goddamn sensual, my pussy is going to be dripping for the fucking Pap.
“Use the pads of yer fingers, not the tips, and apply pressure—light at first, then firm. Ye’ll want to feel different depths of tissue, and the harder ye press, the deeper ye feel. Aye?”
“Mmhm.” Bloody hell. It’s an erotic massage for the measly cost of a five-dollar co-pay.
“Dinna rush this. It may take a bit of time, but saving yer own life is worth a few minutes a month. Besides…” His smirk is all mischief as he massages close to my nipple. “It doesna have to be all business. Ye can make it fun if ye like.”
“Oh, I bet you make this very fun for your partners, Dr. Fraser.”
“Call me Jamie, Claire. And I havena had a partner for some time. I certainly havena had one long enough to make a routine of this.”
I’m beginning to think I need this as a part of my daily routine, not monthly. Is it wrong to ask your OB to allow afternoon walk-ins for the sake of mammillary health?
“Follow a pattern,” he continues. “Imagine the face of a clock over yer breast, or the slices of a pie. Begin near yer collarbone and move yer fingers toward the nipple before going to the next section. Dinna forget yer armpit, o’ course. And finally, gi’ yer wee nipple a squeeze to ensure there’s no bloody discharge.”
I suck in a breath at the pinched nipple, and he rubs it with his thumb as though in apology.
“Ye ready for the other side? D’ye want to perform it yerself while I watch and make corrections?”
I shake my head. “You first. I don’t want to miss anything.”
He moves to the other side, not bothering to cover the first breast. I make no move to do it either. He pulls the other half of the paper gown aside, and I lie there completely naked for him, goosebumps from head to toe and warm to the touch.
He takes my breast in his hands and begins his examination. I pay close attention to each of his movements, and I’m more than certain he repeats a few here and there, particularly when he gets close to the nipple.
“They’re perfect,” he whispers, voice caught in his throat. “Perfectly healthy, I mean. Now yer turn.”
My hands come up and each take a breast, grabbing like I haven’t listened to a word he said. “I think I may have a little performance anxiety.”
“Would ye rather just come back and see me every month until ye get the hang of it?”
“I’m not sure my insurance will cover such thorough treatment.”
“We dinna need to inform them.” His sexy little smirk is my undoing.
“Such a diligent doctor you are, Jamie. Do all your patients get this level of care?”
“Would it bother ye if they did?”
Yes. Yes, it fucking would.
“Good,” he whispers. “It should.”
He backs away and heads to a cabinet (again choosing not to cover me) pulling out all he needs for the Pap. He places things down on the tray one by one. My eyes land on the speculum, and my knees fall apart.
He steps around to the edge of the table and grabs my ankles with shocking familiarity. He lifts them up and pushes the footrest into the table. Then, one at a time, he places my feet into the stirrups he pulls out from somewhere below.
“Come down to the edge here, lass.” He steps between my spread legs, then grabs my hips, as though he’s about to pull me toward him. Something stops him, and he stands frozen, staring at my vulva, face unreadable.
Does he want to fuck me? Is he deciding whether or not to forgo this whole mess and plow me into this table?
Laughter escapes his lips, and his eyes light up with the sweetest humor.
“What?”
“Ye’ve decorated for the holidays, I see.”
“What do you mean?”
“I always appreciate a lass tidying up, but the glitter is above and beyond.”
“Glitter? What do you mean?” I reiterate.
He takes a finger and slides it through my very wet cunt, catching the arousal that’s been building since the moment I saw those blue eyes in the waiting room. Holding it up, I can see that he wasn’t being metaphorical about the shine of my natural lubricant. My pussy is fucking full of red and green glitter.
“What the hell?” And then it hits me. The towel I used to wipe myself before running out the door. It was the one next to where Brianna and I had been crafting. “Oh God. I grabbed the wrong towel!”
His laughter fills the quiet space as I fall back, completely mortified. “I’d say it was the right one. Verra festive. Auld Rawlings will be sad he missed it.”
“Shut up, Fraser.”
“I’m serious. It’s the prettiest vulva I’ve ever seen, and ye ken I've seen a few.” He wipes his finger on his white lab coat, leaving a trail of glitter.
I try to close my legs, but his hands are on my thighs, holding them open like he really is enjoying the view. For God’s sake, I wonder how it looks…
“My phone is in my purse over there.” I point to my things. “Get it out, will you?”
His eyebrow raises, but he does as instructed. He tries to hand it over but I push it back. “Take a picture. I want to see.”
That wide mouth smiles like it’s already Christmas. He wastes no time taking the picture, ensuring he gets it from several angles. “Need a few in portrait mode,” he insists. He steps back and takes those too.
“Quit laughing, lass,” he says between giggles. “You’re blurring my photographs.”
“He’s an artist, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Here.” After an absurdly long photoshoot, he returns my phone so I can see my bedazzled snatch. “Enjoy.”
The pictures are exactly what I expect them to be—ridiculous. Jamie is staring at the phone longingly, though I can’t figure out why. He has the glittery cunt right in front of him if he wants to catch a glimpse.
“I put my number in there if ye’re feeling generous with those pictures,” he admits. There is not one bit of blush in his cheeks. He has no shame in asking.
“Want to share with Rawlings, do you?”
“I dinna share wi’ anyone, Claire.” His voice is suddenly serious, and I know he means more than the pictures.
I go back to looking at them and realize there are some pictures taken with particular care—the lighting is just so, and the focus is in the right spot. He really is a fucking artist.
My inappropriate gynecologist backs away and exits Cuntmas Tree Lane in order to dig through the cabinets yet again. He pulls out a white cloth and takes it to the sink, running the warm water.
“It kills me to do this,” he says, rolling his chair between my legs to sit down. “But I’m afraid your manic holiday spirit may interfere with the results of the Pap.”
The warm wet cloth comes down on my pussy, and he does his best to wipe away the inadvertent Christmas cheer. I’m surprised at how quickly my mortification disappears.
“You have quite the bedside manner, Dr. Fraser.”
“An easy thing when it’s your bed I’m sitting beside, Dr. Beauchamp.”
Looking over his progress, Jamie knots his brow, folds the cloth in the opposite direction, and wipes again. “I’m afraid I just keep smearing it around.”
“Glitter sticks around forever, I’m afraid.” I rise up on my elbows. “Shall we call it quits? Perhaps this Pap wasn’t meant to be today.”
“Nah. Let’s press on. I dinna think the glitter is inside the vagina. If I can maneuver the speculum just so, we might get a sample to the lab that doesna look like it’s been contaminated by St. Nick’s d—”
“Don’t you dare.”
“—decorations.”
I throw my head back, roaring with laughter, and he grips my thighs again. “Seriously. Stop giggling. It’s getting everywhere.”
“It’s your fault I’m laughing!”
“I’m not the one who decorated my privates.” He holds me tight and spreads my labia wide. “Be still, lass. I’m inserting the speculum now.”
I try like hell to hold it together. He does it quickly and opens it wide.
“Oh, fuck,” he curses.
“What?”
“I forgot the jelly on the speculum.”
“It’s fine.” I’m fucking wet enough as it is from lying here naked and spread open for the sexiest gynecologist alive. “I didn’t even notice.”
His quiet chuckle blows warm air over my cunt, and I wonder if he can see the waterfalls of natural lubricant he’s creating in there as we speak.
“Everything looks good,” he assures me. “You’ll feel a little pressure now…that’s it. Got it.”
He pulls the little brush and scraper out carefully and turns to place the specimen on the tray. “Not a single fleck of glitter.” His tone makes it clear he’s proud of himself for that feat.
He returns between my legs with a bright smile, expecting applause.
“Well done,” I profess. “There’s no one better.”
He takes a bow, then his warm hands come to my pelvis again to remove the speculum. “I’m just going to finish up with the bimanual examination.”
The what—
And two of his very long (very ungloved) fingers slip inside my vagina. My body instantly fucking melts. His rugged exhale betrays his arousal as he feels up every reproductive organ I have.
“Tell me, Jamie…” My voice trails off, forgetting itself with pleasure.
“Hmm?
“Does the bimanual examination…require you to spend so much time with the…oh God…Gräfenberg spot? Or the bloody clitoris, for that matter?”
“Require? No.” He’s huffing and puffing now. “The bilingual examination, however…”
“Bi-lingual?”
He drops down and whispers above my clit, “Mo Dhia. Tha thu bòidheach.” And then he kisses my pussy like he’s been waiting seven years to do it.
“Jamie!” I know I should stop him. I know it’s not right, but bloody fucking hell, the man knows his way around a clit. His tongue is Christmas morning—all the joy and hope and pleasure I’d lost since childhood. It’s carols and sleigh bells and bright warm fire. It’s the fucking gift that just keeps giving.
“Fucking hell, you’re good at this.”
And then I explode. I never knew I could see stars beneath fluorescent lights.
“Never once,” he rumbles. “Not in all my years as a physician, not in internship or training, not even as a med student, did I ever think I would cross this line.”
My blurry eyes force their way open as I come down from climax, bringing a glittering ginger’s face into view.
“Not until ye came beneath my hands seven years ago, right in front of that worthless bastard ye called husband.”
Red and green flecks of glitter sparkle in his scruff as he stands, yanking off his belt and pulling down his pants.
“Holy fuck!” I gasp. “What do you think you’re going to do with that?”
“Compliments for a man’s cock are a fine thing to hear, Clay-yurr.”
“Lubricant, Fraser. There’s no way in hell that’s going to fit.”
“Ye’ve had a child, and ye’re worrit over this wee thing?”
“Wee? I’ve never seen anything less wee in my life.”
He grabs the bottle of lube, then squirts it all over his cock and my cunt (bless an OB to know how to properly lubricate a woman). My legs rattle in the stirrups as he brings his cock closer. He lifts me by the hips, so my arse hangs just off the table, then he rams that massive pole inside like he intends to batter the fucking Mirena out of me.
I screech again, and he halts, worried he’s hurt me.
“For God’s sake.” I smack his arm like he’s a bloody thoroughbred. “Don’t stop now!”
I grip the sides of the exam table as he fucks me hard. His growls grow louder with every thrust, and he watches my tits bounce like they’re on a sleigh ride through the bloody construction site on Pine Street.
His balls slap my arse as though rewarding me for a job well done on the rugby field…many jobs well done, it seems. I didn’t know balls could batter a woman’s arse during sex, but it’s good to know Jamie’s are made of fucking steel—they’d have to be to endure that forceful impact.
“I never orgasmed from penetration,” I admit, “until you shoved that fucking wand inside me.”
“Is that so?” The glimmer of determination in his eyes has nothing to do with my arts and crafts. He lifts my arse higher and hammers my g-spot with unshakable enthusiasm.
My legs are shaking with tension, and my abs haven’t gotten this good of a workout in their entire life. Just when I think every muscle in my body might give out, they all clench together, strangling the life out of this man’s dick like a ferocious bloody murderer.
I scream in sheer euphoria. My cum pools beneath me as it gushes out every time he moves his hips. I grip his lab coat, holding on for dear sanity. (Can mental stability literally be fucked out of a person? After a single Pap smear with James Fraser, I do believe it can.)
And all the sudden, he’s yelling out in Scots or Gaelic or Ancient Greek or God-fucking-knows-what, and he lays on me, rutting brutally until he explodes.
Textbooks assert orgasms only last seconds. If that’s true, then I’m apt to believe a mind-blowing climax may literally bend the fabric of spacetime. I don’t remember anything in life before this orgasm. It’s been my entire fucking existence, and you can’t convince me otherwise.
“I think we should leave that IUD in another week,” Jamie mumbles in my ear. “Just in case.”
“Are your sperms as powerful as your dick?”
“Possibly.”
“Then the hormones don’t stand a chance.”
He lifts up, glitter shining from nose to chin, somehow brightening his angelic face further. Then he kisses me so thoroughly, I know I’ll be picking flecks of sparkling joy from my teeth for a week.
“How’s your cervix?” he asks, standing up. “Did it survive?”
“Who fucking cares?”
We look down as he pulls out, glitter covering his entire cock, semen dripping from my pussy like the fanciest unicorn slime on sale at Target.
“Well,” I consider, as he wipes us both down, “I’m certainly glad you’re not my proctologist. I’d be shitting sunshine for days.”
“It’s never too late for a new profession. Come, lass. We’ll order something more substantial than that applesauce ye’re carrying in yer purse for dinner, then we can spend the next two hours soaking in my tub.”
“A big dick and a thoughtful heart? This is the best doctor’s appointment I’ve ever had.”
“Speaking of which…” He picks up my clothes to help me get dressed. “I’m afraid ye’ll need to find a new OBGYN. I canna be fingering ye wi’ one hand and writing yer prescriptions wi’ the other.”
“Wow. I’ve been fired by two OBs in one day. That must be some sort of record.” I secure my bra in place. “You’ll at least help with my monthly breast exams?”
“Wi’ pleasure, lass. Always wi’ pleasure.”