Page 17 of Dr. CEO (The Doctors)

She’s deep like this, impaled on my almost-too-hard cock. Her hair is wild and untamed, and I like the way I’ve been able to peel back her layers today, from waitress with a penchant for ponytails and show tunes to undone temptress who aches for me inside her.

I lift her slightly and we start to move together, her body so fluid and perfect. It’s like we’re wheels on a track that have been running for years. She curls her fingers around my neck and our foreheads meet.

“Kate.” My voice is guttural and rough. I bring her down onto me with more force now, needing to understand if this feels as good for her as it does for me.

“Just like that,” she breathes out. “Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.”

The speed is perfect, her skin is perfect, each vowel she moans into my mouth is entirely perfect.

It’s intense like this. Touching like this. Our breaths mixing as we give and take and push and pull, like we’re both trying to uncover buried treasure. We’re both working to the end goal: bliss.

Gold-plated, fucking bliss.

She tenses, and now I recognize her instinct to run—she’s close. So close. Her legs start to shake and I tighten my grip as her rhythm falters and her shoulders shift up.

Everything tightens, and a roll of thunder from deep inside me rumbles in warning.

You can’t stop me, it whispers.

This time she doesn’t try and twist away, and the thought of her submission to her orgasm, to her pleasure, to me—it’s all too much.

The thunder picks up pace and I’m fucking helpless. All I can hear is the thudding of my blood in my veins and I just want to be closer. I want longer, faster, more.

I take her mouth in mine in a wild, groaning kiss as our orgasms rip through us like a lightning strike.

SEVEN

Kate

Everything aches. Muscles I didn’t even know I had ache. But it’s a good ache. It’s the very personal brand of tattoo Americans called Vincent leave on your body. Thankfully I get to sit down for the next thirty minutes while I’m on break. I really shouldn’t. I should stay standing and not give the adrenaline a chance to seep away, but my legs are about to give out, so I collapse on a bench outside the tea shop kitchen. From here, the visitors to the gardens can’t see me, but I can see the sweeping lawns at the front of Crompton House, down to the trees on the other side of the driveway.

I pull out my phone and see I’ve got a text from Granny. It just reads “milk”. I smile and reply I’ll bring some back with me. She lives in the cottage right next door to mine and has been there for the last forty years, well before I occupied the second bedroom from the age of seven. And for the years since I moved into the cottage next door.

I stretch out and swear I hear myself creak. I wonder if Vincent is feeling as delicate as I am. Probably not. That man was pure steel. Or he certainly felt like it. I’ve never had sex like it before. It seems almost like the sex I’ve had before last night was amateur warm-ups for Vincent. Being with him was effortless and comfortable, but it was also the most I’ve felt for a long time.

Everything was just. . .more. His scent, the way his muscles moved under his skin, the way he seemed to understand my body like we’d known each other our entire lives. The way he seemed to be able to control my orgasm, the way he decided when I could feel. It was all more than I’ve ever experienced with a man. I doubt I ever will again. The thought is a dull ache behind my breastbone. I press my knuckle against my chest to try and release it, without success.

I never got around to asking Vincent what he was doing here. I don’t even know his last name. But I know every inch of that body of his. God, he was delicious.

Sandra pops her head out of the door. “Here. Someone just broke into the chocolate cake,” she says and shoves a plate of cake at me.

“I can’t eat cake. It’s practically breakfast time.”

“It’s gone ten thirty. By the look of you, you need some sugar.”

“I’m fine,” I say. But I take the plate and the fork anyway. Sugar might help. I haven’t told Sandra about Vincent. Of course I haven’t. Not because she’d judge me. She’d be thrilled. She, along with the rest of the staff on the estate, are always telling me I need to have fun, asking me if I’m dating—or “courting” as the older staff say. They don’t accept I can have fun without dating or husband shopping or even going to the cinema in Cambridge. I have plenty of fun at Crompton.

Case in point? Last night. No dating involved. Vincent and his magic penis will be long gone by now and it will be like he was never here.

Suits me fine.

I wouldn’t have hated it if he’d stayed an extra night, although probably best he didn’t—I checked—as my body might have seized up if there’d been a repeat performance.

I open the Crompton Instagram page and check the notifications first. A few of yesterday’s visitors tagged us in photos. There’s one of the magnolia outside the tea shop that must have been taken just as we opened because there’s a long shadow of the person taking the shot underneath the flowers.

My stomach lurches as I wonder for a second if Vincent posted it. I check the handle and it’s just a picture of a mountain. It wouldn’t be him, would it? He’s not the kind of man who takes pictures of pretty flowers and posts them on Instagram. He’s the kind of man who looks at you like you’re a slice of cake and kisses you right into summertime. I click on the profile anyway, even though I know it’s definitely not Vincent, just because, if it is, that’s something I’d like to see. What would a man like Vincent’s Instagram account look like?

But it’s not Vincent’s Instagram account. I scroll up and down the grid and figure out it’s probably the couple from Harrogate that came in just after Vincent’s cousin, Nathan, arrived. I repost the picture on our account, adding a tag for Crompton’s gardens.

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