Then dammit, I’m going to set this right.
Rainier
She was on my mind for my entire shift.
It’s strange how a single, simple memory of a hot naked blonde waiting for her clothes to finish drying got me through twelve grueling hours of work…but it did.
It got me through the emergency appendectomy that we caught just in time.
Through the careful extraction of three quarters that a sobbing four-year-old decided to stash up his nose.
Through the five minutes I spent wrestling a loaded pistol from the hands of a Wall Street fat cat who had put all his money on the wrong company, and through the hour I spent talking him down afterward before they could find a bed for him in the psych ward.
It even got me through the awkward explanations of a man who accidentally sat on a 12-inch vibrating dildo, accidentally getting it stuck up his ass.
Poor fucker vibrated the entire way to the ER, too.
So, yeah. I thought of Sabrina’s tits for twelve hours straight.
Even I can admit that it wasn’t healthy, but even I can’t deny that it helped me get through the day, either.
By the time I get home, all I want to do is start knocking on doors. The Bradford is a tall building with a lot of apartments to cover, but I figure if I do a few every night, eventually I’ll either find her or come to regret it.
But even if I did find her…I don’t know what the fuck I would even say.
Hey, Sabrina, congrats on your pregnancy. I knocked on every door of this building because I’m in love with your cunt. Wanna leave your husband for me and hop on my dick?
Not fucking likely.
Instead, I slump down on my couch and consider my options.
She still has my lab coat.
And she’s got my apartment number.
It’s something. And I’m grasping at straws here—so something actually means a lot.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I hear the knock on my door.
She’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt with some obscure rock band’s name on it. I recognize them from the laundry I folded last night.
So I can’t help but wonder which La Perla she’s wearing beneath them. Red? Pink? Black?
God, I hope it’s black.
“Hey,” she says, biting her lower lip. “So, I just wanted to tell you that, like…so I know how it probably looks, but I’m super not pregnant.”
That should have hit me hard. After all, whatever little sliver of hope I might have had with this woman just got a lot fucking bigger.
But as soon as she says it, something else gets a lot fucking bigger, too.
And here’s the thing about erections: sometimes they can make a man say things that maybe he shouldn’t. Things that he maybe might come to regret.
So when Sabrina tells me she’s not pregnant, I pull the biggest dick move ever and I ask her…
“Would you like to be?”
I’m fucking kicking myself before the words are even done coming out of my mouth. But I’m straight off a twelve-hour shift. The sun is coming up, my cock is hard, and the woman of my dreams is standing on my doorstep, telling me the best news I’ve heard all fucking night.