Page 109 of Darling Venom
“Well, don’t worry about mine. This was just a one-time Pap smear. As you mentioned in your office the other day—I can’t afford your clinic.”
“Speaking of, Reagan requested I bill her for your appointment. Sylvia will email her the invoice.”
With that, the bastard left the room, not even sparing me a goodbye.
I escaped the building, relieved that at least Tate didn’t know the whole story. That in his office, the penny hadn’t landed on tails.
It landed on heads.
F
ate didn’t want him to feel me up.
I did.
My busy delivery schedule spared me from hours of stewing in private over Charlotte Richards’ orgasm.
Sometimes, patients came.
It had happened in the past.
Would happen again in the future.
I didn’t make a habit of shaming them for it. Or even thinking about it, for that matter, other than to assure them they had nothing to be ashamed about.
Yet…
Charlie had a tendency to provoke a response from me that went against the grain of normalcy. Namely, she reduced me to a low level of decision-making ability previously reserved for reality television.
Over the next few days, I shuttled from patient to patient. Even offered to take over a routine ultrasound from Walter after his gout flared up.
Slathering gel onto a protruding belly failed to divert my thoughts. Didn’t help that the loud squish of the transducer probe gliding across the patient’s wet stomach rivaled the volume of Charlie’s pussy after my fingers sank into it. (The latter required no lube, and I am not proud of how proud I am of that.)
The patient cooed over the blob on the screen, clutching her husband’s bicep. I coughed up a print of the twenty-two-week-old fetus, its legs curled inward. Couldn’t tell the sex for shit in that awkward position.
The parents didn’t care. They fawned over the tiny photo, and I got it. With the many failed pregnancies I saw, birth had become a miracle to me, too.
After they left, I found myself with four hours to spare before a scheduled C-section. Naturally, I spent minutes one through two-hundred and forty at home, with my dick in my fist, failing to convince myself to pick up a one-night stand from the nearest bar and work out my frustration.
Not my typical MO.
Not even close.
It infuriated me that Charlotte Richards had managed to undo the control I’d built up over three and a half decades of living.
My irritation simmered, boiling over.
I finished the C-section without any complications and hopped onto the subway, riding it out. I ended up at a stop I had no business being near.
Didn’t take a genius to figure out why.
Charlie’s office could be seen as soon as I exited the station. I hadn’t expected to actually find her here—never consciously decided to come, either—but she was.
In all her Charlotte Richards glory.
Tits pushed up by a black lace corset. Neck restricted by a maroon tie connected to a fake collar. A mile of legs peeked out beneath a mini plaid kilt.
Fuck. Me.
