Mailing List Sneak Peek
“Doctor Owenson will be with you in a minute.”
The doctor’s personal assistant smiled a vague, practiced smile before she turned and stepped out of the exam room. I chewed on my lip, the crinkly paper of the exam table ruffling under my butt as I shifted. I kicked my legs, my heels tapping the side of the table as I picked at my nails.
Okay, I was nervous.
I furrowed my brow, still twisting my fingers together as I glanced around the small, white, sterile room. The exam room was off of Doctor Owenson’s main office — this gorgeous, elegantly decorated mix of modern and old, with the big windows overlooking Manhattan. The office was beautiful, and warm. But the exam room off it it was, well, an exam room.
I sighed heavily to myself. This whole thing was stupid. And I wanted to roll my eyes and ask myself why the hell I was even there. But then, I knew why I was there.
Because of my problem.
Whatever. I was twenty-four, I had a killer apartment, and I had a job with Haut Fashion Magazine that I was — frankly — kicking ass at. I mean, I was the youngest junior editor they’d ever had, and I wasn’t even done rising through the ranks. No, it hadn’t been handed to me or anything like that. I worked my ass off. I’d put in the time.
And why did I do those things? Well, because I had zero distractions. And by distractions, I mean men. No, I wasn’t repulsive, or socially weird or anything like that. I worked out, I ate right, I dressed well. I had a killer shoe collection.
But attracting men wasn’t my problem. It was what happened after that. It was the looming, inevitable conversation that’d happen sooner than later, and the inevitable giving up on their part.
Maybe I’d have done okay in another era. The fifties, maybe. I mean, Don Draper never cared about making a girl come, right? But men in today’s world, they cared. Which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. But, they cared a lot — like, it’s a blow to them if you don’t, which is why women fake it all the time.
That’d been me. For years, I faked it.
Every. Single. Time.
The problem — well, besides the fact that I was faking my orgasms — was that it wasn’t just with my boyfriends.
…It was with myself too.
That’s why I was waiting in Doctor Owenson’s office that day. Because I was twenty-four, successful, single, doing great in life, and I’d never had an orgasm.
And I do mean never.
Not with a man, not by myself, nada.
I’d stopped dating because of it. My first boyfriend had left when I finally admitted the truth, that he’d never, you know, pulled my trigger. He just flat out left after two years of dating. Great. There were two serious boyfriends in college, and one not so serious one after. Decent, good looking, nice guys. But, yeah, same thing.
And it was getting ridiculous. I mean, I tried — hell, I’d tried everything. I had a drawer full of the latest and greatest sex toys in my apartment to prove it — all of them used multiple times, on every setting, to zero effect.
It was Savannah, my best friend and an art director at Haut Fashion who’d finally gotten it out of me, after we’d had one too many tequilas after work. She asked why I was so tense, I’d brushed it off, and she’d jokingly said I needed to get laid and blow off some steam.
“Nothing a good orgasm can’t fix,” she’d said.
And then I’d started bawling, and the whole thing had come out.
She soothed and comforted me, because she’s a great friend. But the more I told her, the more serious she got.
“Wait you mean never?”
“Yes, I mean never.”
The next day, she’d come over and sat me down, and talked to me about the doctor her sister-in-law had gone to.
“Oh, after my brother and Patricia’s first kid?” She’d shook her head sternly. “No way. She just couldn’t anymore. The baby like, moved things around down there.”
She’d laughed. “Look, I’m telling you because this doctor she saw is a miracle worker. Three sessions and she was right back on the horse.”
Savannah made a face. “Ew. Actually, pretend I never said that.”
“I’m serious! Go see him. You have to. He’s in the city.”
“I’m not seeing a…” My face had blushed. “An orgasm doctor.”
She laughed again. “He’s not an orgasm doctor, he’s a fucking gynecologist. But...” she giggled.
“Well, Patricia did start calling him ‘Doctor O.’ I mean, he’s a women’s sexual health doctor, and his name starts with O.”
I rolled my eyes.
“He’s also fucking gorgeous, if that helps.”
“Oh, please, it does.” My friend had sighed, taking my hands. “Look, while you think about it, have you ever thought about, I dunno, just going out and getting lucky?”
“Uh, yeah? Many times.”
“Ever acted on it?”
I’d frowned. “Nah, I’m not into that whole random thing. It’s not for me.”
“Well, it might be for you. Maybe the thrill of a stranger just you know, fucking you will do it.”
“Can we not talk about this anymore?”
“No, we can’t not talk about this,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Nat, you’re my best friend and I can’t let this keep happening to you. Or, you know, not happening as the case may be. C’mon! Dress up, go out someplace fancy, and get your groove on, girl!”
…And the damnedest thing was, I did.
I got dressed up.
I went out.
I picked an insanely expensive place. Not a club or a dive or a sports bar. A fancy three-star Michelin restaurant. I stepped in, dressed to the freaking nines, and stepped into the bar area to get a drink to calm my nerves.
And he’d just come out of nowhere — my stranger. Gorgeous, sexy as hell, and this commanding and magnetic presence around him.
…And he’d taken my breath away.
He’d looked right into me, making my heart stop with those eyes and that strong jaw. He’d whispered those things in my ear, he’d sent a shiver down my back that no man had ever done.
And then, like a crazy person, I’d just kissed him, and the fireworks had gone off. They’d gone off hard — more than anything had ever made me feel. He’d kissed me right back, and I’d melted into him. And I was so wet. Like, dripping down my legs wet. I’d wanted him more than I’d ever wanted any man ever.
But then, of course, my stupid head had decided to butt in, and I’d freaked. I’d freaked that I was kissing a fucking stranger in some bar I didn’t belong in, and how much that wasn’t me.
And so I’d left.
I’d jumped away from him, turned, and fled out the front door.
…You know, like a crazy person.
At home that night, I’d tried to recreate it that feeling he’d sent through my body. I’d stripped down, slid my fingers between my legs and rolled my clit under them. I’d closed my eyes so hard, and I’d tried to sink into the pleasure of it all as my fingers had slid over my wet, aching pussy. I’d tried desperately to imagine his face, and those kisses as I eased a finger inside, and then a toy.
Nothing. I’d worked at it for an hour, until finally, I threw in the towel. Another swing and a miss.
I’d called Doctor Owenson’s receptionist the very next morning, and gotten an appointment in that very same afternoon. And so there I was, about to meet the famous Doctor O, so that the next time a hot gorgeous guy like that who took my breath away and made me soaking wet approached me, I’d have the confidence to say “yes, take me home and fuck my brains—”
The door swung open as Doctor Owenson backed into it, his face buried in a clipboard of my medical files.
“Why don’t we—”
He turned, he looked up.
And we both froze.
Oh holy fucking what the fuck.
“You,” he growled, his eyes blazing as he stared right at me.
I shook my head, leaping from the table.
“I— this was a mistake, I have to—”
I gasped as his hand grabbed my arm, pulling me back, spinning me around, and then shoving me against the wall. My heart lunged into my throat, and the same exploding, fiery feeling from the night before came roaring through my body, making my ears ring as I stared into his eyes.
“No,” he growled firmly.
“What?” I panted back.
He moved closer, throwing the clipboard to the side and pinning me to the wall with his hands on my arms. I trembled, the heat of his body sizzling through me — making me gasp, making me shake, making me crave.
Making me wet.
“You ran from me once,” he growled, his lips barely three inches from mine.
“It’s not happening again.”