I wonder if it’s the endless hospital shifts knackering his aim or the cocktails we sank earlier turning his coordination to mush, but either way, one thing is painfully clear—this ain’t it.
Just when I think he’s finally gotten a clue, he veers wildly off course again, exploring territories that absolutely do not require further investigation.
In a last-ditch effort to salvage the situation, I tilt my hips, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I can steer his tongue to where it needs to be. But all that seems to do is encourage him to double down on his misguided efforts, lapping away with the sloppy gusto of a golden retriever who’s just found a puddle.
He does look hot, though, completely naked except for that white doctor’s coat hanging off him.
Although now that I’m paying attention, it’s a bit . . . roomy.
Like he’s playing dress-up in his dad’s work wardrobe. Or swiped it from the hospital lost and found. Not a red flag, necessarily, but maybe a faintly pink one.
Instead of feeling like the sexy patient in some medical fantasy, I’m sprawled out, chilly and exposed on his massive bed, while Dr. McDreamy fumbles through what feels like his first go at an autopsy.
That said, you’ve got to respect the commitment. Questionable technique, yes. But theenthusiasmis undeniable.
The thing is, I know exactly what this is. This isn’t romance—it’s mutual objectification. Guys like him—posh doctor types—love a little fling with the girl who chugs wine from the bottle and moansjust right, before ultimately marrying Sarah from Cardiology who brews her own kombucha and knows the difference between a merlot and a malbec.
Just when I think itcan’t possiblyget worse, he decides to bring his fingers into the mix.
You know when you’re at the self-checkout, and some impatient lunatic starts aggressively jabbing the screen, as if sheer force will magically make it work faster?
Yeah. It’s exactly like that. Except it’s my vagina, infinitely more delicate than any touchscreen, and all it’s doing is makingme want to shriek “unexpected item in the bagging area!” and call it a night.
He’s a doctor, for god’s sake. You’d think he’d have a better grasp of anatomy. But maybe after pulling sixty-hour weeks, everything starts resembling a tonsil.
I squirm away from his misguided enthusiasm, my eyes darting around his bedroom in search of a distraction.
It’s . . . very manly.
The walls are shades of navy, charcoal, and some hue that’s probably calledMidnight Aristocracy.There’s actual mahogany furniture. Not IKEA pretending to be mahogany. A leather armchair sits by the window, exuding “I exclusively read hardcover books” energy.
I swerve another rogue tongue lunge. I telepathically communicate with my clit, offering silent apologies and pep talks.You’re doing great. We’ll get through this together.
Across the room, a valet stand holds a lineup of perfectly pressed shirts, each one looking more expensive than my entire wardrobe.
No clutter. No mess. Not a single abandoned sock.
Just a meticulously curated collection of expensive furniture and décor.
The thing is . . . this room doesn’t fit Spencer at all.
This is the kind of space that belongs to a man who reads theFinancial Timesover eggs Benedict and frowns thoughtfully while strategizing his five-year plan.
Not someone who orders cocktails that look like Smurf blood.
This room—this entire four-story townhouse in Primrose Hill, actually—feels too mature for Spencer.
Then again, he did mention he shares it with his brother, who I’m starting to suspect is the real adult here.
A noise from downstairs jolts me.
He said his brother wouldn’t be home tonight.
Then again, he also said he knew what he was doing down there, so I’m starting to question his credibility across the board.
It’s fine. It’s not like we’re beingloud.The only sounds in this room are confusion.
The noise comes again.
