Doctor Next Door

“Edgar,” I whined.

“You like that, baby?” he growled in my ear.

“Y-yes. Yes, I do.”

“Tell me what you want, Daliah. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

“I want–” I breathed. “Fuck me into the mattress. Have your way with me.”

Edgar smirked, but proceeded to meet my request. He held me close all night long, whispering sweet nothings in my ear and attending to my every need. Tangled in each other’s arms, we had everything we’d ever need. Each strong and sure thrust into me sent me further and further, threatening to have me spill over. The intensity within me started to build up, so overwhelming I didn’t know what to concentrate on. There was so much to enjoy, but so little time to do it in. I wanted to drown in the scent of Edgar’s aftershave. I wanted to drag my hands down every inch of hard muscle and skin. I wanted to memorize the taste of his tongue upon mine, along with the disastrously sexy voice repeating my name like a prayer. With a few more powerful snaps of his hips, we both came undone, shuddering against each other and holding on tight for purchase.

“Daliah,” he breathed my name into my hair. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Edgar.”

We spent the rest of the night kissing, unrushed and blissed out of our minds.

Epilogue

Edgar

It took us almost five months to find an apartment we both liked. Daliah was very specific about wanting her own art room. She was more than pleased when I went above and beyond and found a two-floor apartment where she could use an entire level as her studio. I was initially hesitant about moving in with her, but the months leading up to the move had proven to me that I cared more about Daliah than I cared about keeping the place neat and tidy. I found it charming, in all actuality, to find her mismatched mugs snuggled up next to my own in the cabinets. I adored the way she had secret sketchbooks tucked away in almost every corner of our home in case a spark of creativity struck. I loved how she took it upon herself to try and keep things organized, for my sake, stacking loose papers into piles and tucking her paints away in designated drawers.

I had to admit that I hadn’t seen very much of her in recent days. It had been insanely busy at the hospital lately, and my responsibilities as the Chief of Surgery were never ending. I had an entire department to look after, inclusive of my staff, its paperwork, and all the patients who came and went from the surgical wing. My body was always tired at the end of the day, but I was always excited to return home to a smiling Daliah –usually covered in colorful paints– and wake up to her beautiful face every morning. Things were going really well, both personally and professionally, and I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I felt so complete.

I took the evening off to surprise her, arriving a little after seven in the evening. Daliah didn’t hear me walk through the front door because she had on a pair of high-quality noise-cancelling headphones I’d purchased for her. It was a win-win scenario. She could listen to her bass-heavy music and zone out while she painted, and I wouldn’t have any excuse to complain about the volume. The only problem was that she was sometimes too engrossed in her tunes –much like now– and would continue on without a care or pay much attention to her surroundings.

Daliah was stood in front of a large canvas, painting with impressive control. She’d taken a step away from watercolors, and was now experimenting with oil paints and realism. The image she was working on now was inspired by the beaches along the coast of California. She was painting a wave of ocean water, using light brushstrokes to give the sense of sea foam. I smiled at her as she worked, utterly amazed by how real the water looked. I felt as though I could reach out and touch the ocean, feel the coolness on my skin.

She was busy with her latest series of works, commissioned by a rather wealthy art collector based out of downtown Sacramento. He’d apparently dropped by her first exhibit and fallen in love with one of her pieces, titled The Third, and had been obsessed with her art ever since. Daliah managed to sell almost every single painting over the course of the three-day exhibit, and had used the money to not only treat us to a lavish dinner in celebration, but also to buy herself brand new art supplies of what I assumed was the highest quality. Some of her paints had even been imported from countries like Italy and France, so I only assumed that they cost her an arm and a leg. I offered several times over to take care of all her project expenses, but Daliah insisted on doing things her own way. It was one of the many things I admired about her. She was hard working and independent. She made it very obvious that she had no need of my money, just me.