Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series (18 page)

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I am yours,” I pant. The blood rushes in my ears, my pussy throbs, my ass aches for completion. But through all that noise it suddenly becomes clear what I need to say.

“Because I have faith in you,” I say.

He turns the plug on, and slips a finger inside my pussy.

“Come.” He commands.

I do, instantaneously. No gentle swirl upwards till I can fall gracefully over the edge, no slow, powerful gathering of force in my pelvis, just explosive, destructive release, buckling my knees, and collapsing me on top of his arm. The muscles in my groin and legs continue to spasm, but the pressure still builds everywhere else. I still feel full, when I should have been emptied. It’s like my body is waiting for the right orgasm, the right way.

He seems to know that I’m not done, that we’re not done. Like it’s part of a plan. Mercifully, he turns the plug off, giving me time to recover. He easily lifts me up and slings me over his shoulder, and I melt into him as much as possible. His arm across my thighs, my torso draping down his back, the butt plug a constant reminder of the power he wields over me. I don’t know how long we’re like this, exactly, but it’s a pleasant experience while I try to come back from orgasm.

He takes me. . . somewhere. I try to lift my head, to peek out from the underside of my miraculously-intact blindfold, but I find I don’t even have the strength to do that. That orgasm on command took more out of me than I thought.

I do hear the creak of a door. I hear it close behind us. I feel Cedric go up two flights of stairs with care, never jostling me, and some distant part of me is smug about what kind of shape he’s in.

Finally, he kneels until my heeled feet touch the ground. I feel a softness on the back of my legs. He never quite lets go, but gently lowers me down, taking care with the butt plug still inside me, onto an impossibly soft bed.

His
bed. I don’t know how I know, but I know.

Gently he removes my heels. The blindfold remains blinding. I remember his words: it stays on until he decides to take it off. Instead I try to make sense of where he’s brought me with my remaining senses: the softness of the comforter, the warmth of the air, the subtle scent in the air. It smells like him, a little bit. Woodsy and spicy, somehow. I breathe deep.

A hand caresses my face, my neck, my breast, and comes to rest on my chest. He pauses there for a second, and I realize he is feeling for my fluttering heartbeat. Somehow, this levels me. As far as I go with him, he can always push me further. I am truly naked now, except for the blindfold and the plug that pushes deeper into my ass, and he slowly pushes me backwards onto the soft bed.

The blindfold stays on.

His touch begins at one tender ankle, one finger exploring the jutting bones and creases of skin, moving down the top of my foot to my toes and back again, rubbing gently at a sensitive tendon I didn’t even know was there. His hand spreads out as he slides it up my shin and then back again, paying special attention to the curve of my calf. He uses both hands as he gets to my knee, lifting it slightly, taking the opportunity to stroke the tingling skin at the back of it. He slips one hand under my thigh, and I feel the weight of him on the bed, moving towards me, between my slightly spread legs. The butt of his shoulder nestles into the back of my thigh as his hands caress the tender skin, and I shudder, no longer able to contain it.

He has made a practice of finding new ways to make me feel exposed, turned it almost into a discipline. But now, as I am totally his, in this place, under his eyes. . . it’s something different.

He seems fascinated by the soft skin on the underside of my leg. I feel his lips once, twice, three times; he kisses me lightly, reverently, up my inner thigh, till he gets to the joining of my legs.

He kisses me once there, too.

And then it’s light kisses and caresses, his breath coming hot and steady on my skin, up my sensitive stomach, roiling beneath him, to my shuddering breast, containing my rapidly beating heart. I am afraid that if I move, he’ll stop, and the spell will be broken.

I have never felt so loved.

Lips close around my nipple, and his tongue darts out to tease it. His hands roam the length of me now, neck, breast, arms, hips. It’s as though he wants to be everywhere at once. Or it’s that I want him to be everywhere at once; I want my fill of him, all of him, everywhere. Every stroke, every touch, every graze of his fingertips raises the pitch, the intensity, of the sensation buzzing through my body. He’s playing me, tuning and timing each stimulus, like a conductor. The humming in my head, the throbbing in my groin, the frantic churn of my stomach, the tingle at my breasts, all of it rises in a chorus of need that I can no longer contain.

“Please,” I whisper.

I don’t have to ask again.

He parts my legs further and I bear the first of his weight, turning my face into the hand placed at my cheek.

He kisses me.

It starts out warm and gentle, more tender than titillating, but soon we are both overcome, and his tongue probes deeper, his lips hungrier. My hips rise to him, aching for his erection, and he throws one leg over his shoulder and then. . . .

Waits.

“Fuck!”

A chuckle. A shift of weight, a palm on the trembling triangle above my pussy. An arm by my head, a hand on the blindfold.

And the head of his cock, pressing against my hungry pussy.

I press my lips together and silently beg the universe.

“Claire,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. He pulls away the blindfold and waits for me to blink away the sudden light. I don’t even care to look around, even though I can tell the light is warm and low. I just look at his face. He seems more worried, more anxious than he should be, on top of me, and about to be inside of me. He brushes his fingers against my forehead; his eyes still a bright blue even in the dim, flickering light. There’s something so earnest about him, so unprotected, and yet still intensely dominant.

“I’m yours, too,” he says.

And he plunges into me with one long, strong stroke.

I arch into him and strain to maintain my focus, to see his face. I’ve waited to see his face during this moment for what feels like so long, longer than I’ve known him, even. His gaze is unflinching, his blue eyes steady.

He doesn’t turn away.

His cock, big and silky and throbbing an intense, heated color, pushes against my flesh, and reminds me of the butt plug still embedded in my ass. It reminds him, too. It’s only one, thin membrane of flesh that separates them, but I find I am too full of him, of the plug, to have room left for words.

I think I moan.

I lose track of how many times I come. He has precise control over everything, as he always does, and he brings me to the brink and back again with long, steady strokes, over and over, over and over. Many smaller orgasms do nothing to dissipate the pressure of what builds low in my belly, like dense clouds gathering on the horizon, and my last, semi-conscious thought before they burst is that I’m feeling exactly what he wants me to feel. That this oddly violent peace is what we are for each other, when we are at our very best.

And then he turns the plug on, and I lose all memory after that for a long time.

I had to turn down my acceptance to the Art Institute.

I still can’t. . . quite. . . process that fact. Every once in a while, as I’m checking and rechecking and triple checking all my packed boxes and moving preparations, I remember that I said “no” when they called me, and I have to sit down.

My family thinks I’m nuts. They’ve just been watching me pace and make lists and open and close boxes and then randomly stop, like someone’s told me shocking news. I’ve told them the facts – I have declined art school, I have gotten a job, I am moving – but they still don’t know what’s really happening.

Neither do I, in a way, but I’m dealing with it.

It turns out that Cedric had been strong-arming the bigwigs at the Art Institute in an attempt to gain me admission. That’s who Mr. Penrose was, a bigwig from the Art Institute, and why he was at Cedric’s townhouse the day I went to confront and apologize to Cedric. (To confologize him? Not something you do every day, in any event.) That’s why Gerald thought I was using Cedric, why Gerald came around when he realized I had no idea what was going on. And while I appreciated the impulse to help me achieve my dreams – and I get why this would have been important to him, given Julia’s accusations – I did
not
approve of his methods. Besides the ethics of it, or the lack thereof, I have my pride. If I’m going to succeed, it’s going to be because
I
succeeded.

I was actually kind of pissed off about this, but I was also happy that Cedric finally messed up. In an adorable way, obviously, but the important part was that he made a mistake. Somehow that made everything more real.

And it turns out that I am now kind of a local art star. My interview piece got people talking, enough so that I got a job at a gallery, and an unofficial apprenticeship. And so I’m doing it. I’m moving out of my parents’ sad house, and moving out of that sad life, and starting a new one.

I thought I’d be more scared. I’m not. I’m freaking thrilled. Except for one thing: Cedric.

I’m not quite sure where things stand. I know how I feel, and I know how he feels, and I know what I want. I mean, I have no reservations; I’m not saddled with the scars of past horrible relationships, and I’m ready to dive in. But I understand that things are not so simple for him. I am trying to give him as much space as he needs to figure out what he wants, what he can manage, and for the most part I think I’m handling it well, but every once in a while. . . .

I guess I just miss him. It’s only been about a week since I saw him, but I miss him. And sometimes I have to take a moment to quell the anxiety that rises within me when I think about the worst-case scenario, but I’m handling it.

It’s been good that I’ve had so much to do.

Except now it’s all done. Everything’s packed, ready for the movers to bring to my brand new crappy studio apartment, and I have nothing left to do. My mother hovers with a vaguely confused look on her face, and I realize that she’s just now figuring out that things are changing. She’s been carrying around this dishtowel all morning, aimlessly wiping off random surfaces, wringing it in her hands.

“You sure you don’t need anything?” she asks me.

I just hug her. I’m going to make sure things get better for them, too.

Our awkward hug is interrupted by the doorbell, which can mean only one thing – the movers. I don’t know why this feels like the official start, but it does.

The mover dude, huge and burly in his uniform, which is, hilariously, basically a man-sized onesie – I guess they call it a jumpsuit? – looks confused.

“Hi!” I say, trying to hide my excitement. “You’re right on time. I’ve piled all the boxes over here. . . .”

“Ma’am?”

I rein my babbling self in and look back at the poor guy. He’s still standing there, clutching a clipboard in his oversized paws, and he has the singularly distraught expression of a guy who’s been asked to deal with something unusual.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, ma’am.”

“Is it money? I paid upfront.”

“It’s not that. It’s...” He looks down at the clipboard again. “There’s been a change, but only subject to your approval? Sorry, I’ve just never seen that before. Maybe you could take a look at it?”

He hands off the clipboard with a palpable sense of relief, which makes me think I’ve just taken on some unknown responsibility. Which is kind of the point of all this, right? New life, new responsibilities, etc etc. Ok. I can deal with that.

The address is incorrect.

I open my mouth to speak, and then my brain finishes doing whatever it normally does, and I realize that it’s not so much the
wrong
address as a
different
address.

It’s Cedric’s address.

“Ma’am?”

I’ve been standing here with my mouth open. I manage to close it, and look at the moving guy, eyes narrowed. Is he in on it? What does this mean? He only blinks at me, and searches ineffectually for some pockets to hide his hands in.

“Hold this,” I say, and press the clipboard back into the surprised mover’s chest.

It’s a few steps to the front door, only a few more down the walk, to the street, and somehow they take forever. I can’t quite let myself believe that I’m about to see what I’m going to see, but I push forward, and there, out on the street, leaning against the door of his limo in his trademark crisp button-down and tailored slacks, is Cedric Durant.

I don’t know what to say. I want to say something romantic, and dramatic, and memorable. Instead I say this:

“You want me to
move in
with you?”

He reaches out and pulls me to him by the waist of my jeans. Just that gesture is enough to rouse my desire for him, my memories of the last time we saw each other. I have to bite back a sigh, but I can’t hide my blush.

“Subject to your approval,” he says, brushing my cheek.

His eyes, bright blue in this light, hold steady on mine. His hand circles around to the small of my back. I know he can see my nipples growing hard underneath my thin T-shirt, I know he can hear my breath quicken, I know he can feel my body melt into his of its own volition. Still, he waits for my approval.

Until tonight, when I’ll wait for his orders.

“Yes,” I say. And he kisses me.

The End

A
N
OTE
F
ROM
T
HE
A
UTHOR

A
big thank you
to all the fans of the
Doctor’s Orders
series!