The Blush Factor (The Hawthornes of New York 2)

Dear Diary,

When I look at Dr. Hawthorne’s lips, I can only think about one thing – my pussy.

There is no way a man like him isn’t a master of oral sex.

I imagine he savors every second of it and knows exactly what he’s doing. I can almost feel the tip of his tongue gliding over my smooth skin.

He’d circle his tongue over my clit before he sucked it between his lips. Then he’d push a finger into me, noticing how incredibly tight I am. It would drive him mad with desire until he was devouring me at a feverish pitch.

I’d scream, he’d eat me harder, and when I came against his mouth, he’d do it all over again and again until I was too exhausted to move.

Alas, it’s just another virgin dream. For now.

-F.U.

For now.

Those two words have rattled around in my brain all day. As I was performing surgery on a golden retriever, I struggled to focus on anything but those two short fucking words that hold promise.

Faith Upton believes there’s hope that every fantasy in her diary will become reality one day. From what I read, every single one of those fantasies involves me.

She takes another drink of water from the glass in her hand as her gaze flits over my face.

If she knew that I’d read about how she wants me to drive my cock into her pussy, or finger her until she rides my hand to a mind-numbing climax, she’d tear out of this restaurant, pack up her belongings, and move.

I know that because she’s young. She’s so fucking young and inexperienced and goddamn beautiful.

I may not have known her name until last night, but I knew she existed. I’ve known that since the day months ago when I walked into the lobby of our building to the sight of her waiting for the elevator.

Her hip was cocked in that ‘hurry the hell up’ way it often is when she’s anxious to get to her apartment. I admired her ass because, yes, it is that spectacular whether covered in jeans or short white shorts as it was that day.

She had blue hair at the time. Locks of waves the color of the summer sky cascaded down her back.

I wanted nothing more than to fist it and take her from behind, but once I stepped onto the elevator with her and caught sight of her face, I realized she was likely nineteen or twenty years old.

That’s always been a hard pass for me because I prefer to fuck women I have something in common with. A stimulating conversation before we make it to bed only adds to the experience for me.

I’m not interested in hearing about college drama or which social media app is the ‘absolute best one.’ I had that conversation with a young woman I met in a bar. She confessed she’d snuck in with a fake ID, so before she got my name out of me, I was out the door.

Faith Upton may not be as young as that woman, but she’s only twenty one. I know that based on the diary entry from her birthday. One martini with her friend, no party, and the rest of the night spent in her bed with her hand on her cunt while she thought about me.

I draw in a deep breath to try and chase away my erection.

Mere seconds have passed since I cracked the comment about edging up Tommy or Timmy or whatever the fuck the guy’s name was who tried to impress her by inviting her to a lunch she paid for.

Yet, Faith hasn’t said a word.

I’ve, once again, caught the sweet pink-haired beauty by surprise. I’d ask her if the cat has her tongue, but I can’t go there.

I can’t think about her tongue because it’s pierced, a fact detailed in her diary in relation to how she’d suck my cock.

I down what’s left of the now tepid tap water in my glass. I’d order a beer, but I’m on call. I’m always on fucking call.

As if the answering service can read my mind, my phone rings.

Faith’s perfectly arched brows draw up. “You should answer that.”

I nod before reaching to pick up the phone. “Dr. Hawthorne.”

The woman on the other end of the call greets me the same way she always does, “Hello there, Dr. Handsome, I mean, Hawthorne.”

I keep my eyes locked on Faith’s as I respond. “Good evening. What have you got for me?”

It’s a loaded question, which she answered once and only once with a series of numbers. It took me a few seconds to realize it was her phone number. I ignored it in favor of repeating my initial question about what pet emergency warranted a call from them.

“A dog is en route to the clinic,” she pauses. “The poor thing was hit by a car.”