Page 4 of Doctor Daddy Dilemma

“Ms. Martinez, follow me to my office please.” Mr. James’s snappy, tart voice made me bristle just as my computer screen flashed to life. The cursor blinked in the passcode box waiting for me to type it in, but duty called.

I shoved my purse in my bottom desk drawer and stood. Mr. James was already gone, moving at such a fast clip I’d have to jog to catch up, but it wasn’t ladylike, and I wasn’t about to give him more fuel to the fire of his misogynistic paradigm. I walked at a casual but quick pace, heading directly to his office, and by the time I got there he was already seated behind his giant desk with hands folded on top of a bunch of papers stacked in front of him. The desk dwarfed him, making him seem smaller than he was.

“You needed me?” I asked, hovering by the doorway. The large picture window behind him overlooking the bay and the sun falling lower in the sky was so bright it made him appear as a ghostly silhouette. It made his office feel like an ironic horror-comedy film where the bad guy is supposed to be intimidating, but you can’t help but laugh at him and feel sorry for how foolish he actually is.

“Sit,” he barked, and I pushed the door shut before stutter stepping toward the chairs. My butt was barely on the seat when he started in. “Did you get the interview lined up? What did Hartman have to say?”

If I’d learned anything from Mr. James, it was that he didn’t mess around or mince words. He wanted results and he wanted them yesterday, and if I didn’t produce them he’d find someone who would.

“Uh, well it was sort of humiliating, but I got it done. He’s having his secretary call me with details.” So it was a tiny lie. I didn’t know if he’d call or email me, or who it would be, but he told me to watch for it, so I was.

“Good, good… The best women in this business have to show a little tit now and then to get the job done. No harm done there.” He spoke absently as he turned to his computer screen and started typing. I felt my cheeks burn for the third time today but this time it was anger warming them. This man was such a jerk. I wasn’t even surprised that he was single, having been divorced twice already. I would be leaving him too—soon if I could. I hated working here. “Things are changing here fast.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, careful not to let any of my animosity or frustration pepper my tone. This creep didn’t even deserve the satisfaction of knowing he’d frustrated me, though Amy would hear about it later.

“I mean, we lost Amber. She quit this afternoon when you were in Miami.” He kept typing without a trace of emotion on his face. It was probably normal for a boss to lose employees and have to move on with their life, but the turnover rate of female employees at the Register, and more specifically in this department, was probably higher than any other place in the US. He must have a lot of experience keeping a straight face.

“And?” I prompted, not quite sure what he was getting at. Amber, alongside me and Amy, wrote personal interest pieces and local news. Losing her wasn’t the worst thing; it would just mean more stories for me and Amy to cover while we waited for her slot to be filled.

“And—it means you have to step up your game.” He stopped typing to look me squarely in the eyes as he spoke. “It means you’re turning that interview into a four-part series. I want the first one done in one month, and we’ll run them every month or so until it’s done. And you’ll get a list of some of the more pressing things to do this week. Now get out of my office.”

Knowing I had zero footing to stand on with him, I got up, walked out, and parked my butt back in my chair to finish my day. I didn’t appreciate being handled, but I had to keep the job, at least until I had a story big enough to get my name out there. And this one with Dr. Hartman may just do it. Not because of my name, but because his name would draw attention. I just had to present him in a way no one else had, and then hope other newspapers and magazines took notice.

I finished my day, having almost forgotten about Dr. Hartman and drove home. I was tense, frustratingly so. After Mr. James sent me a list of seven stories Amber was working on, three of them due this weekend with no research attached or previous work written, I needed a drink.

So, I slipped into my nightgown, poured myself a glass of wine, and sat on the couch to relax a bit before bed. It was late. I’d spent far too long on that dang computer and my eyes were tired. I flipped on the television and found a show, getting engrossed right away. While on my second glass of wine, the show flipped to commercials, featuring a ninety-second spot for Dr. Hartman’s premiere plastic surgery practice in Miami.

Just seeing him speak about the services he offered brought me right back to his office where he fondled my breasts in his “exam,” though I swear when I told him I was a reporter his hands stayed on my chest a few seconds too long. It made me flustered again just thinking about it, or maybe that was the wine and lack of dinner. Whatever the case, I felt jilted when the commercial was over, and my body ached for something to relieve the tension and stress I was under.

I tried to resist—to get back into the flow of the sitcom I was watching but my groin screamed at me. I couldn’t ignore it. I knew better than that. When I let it get to this point and the tension mounted, I got snappy with people, or at least short-tempered. The only way to fix this was to relieve the tension by giving my body what it wanted—an orgasm. If not, I’d end up with a wet dream, and I wouldn’t even enjoy that because I’d wake myself up.

So, setting the glass of wine aside, I headed for my bedroom and took out my toys, a vibrator and a vibrating bullet. I washed them and found that even as I was sterilizing them thoughts of Dr. Hartman were bombarding my mind. I dried them off, slipped into bed, and stretched out, putting a pillow under my head.

I turned on some soft music on my phone, then I started by teasing myself with the bullet. My clit throbbed with even the lightest of contact with the toy. I took it easy though, running it along my thighs first and then back up to my breasts, all the while imagining it was Dr. Hartman’s fingertips working their magic on me and not mine. In my mind he hovered over me, having blindfolded me for heightened stimulation, and said nasty things to me to make my body react to him.

By the time I finally had had enough foreplay and decided to slip the bullet inside me, I felt like a tautly wound rubber band about to snap at any moment. My pussy was so wet it was practically dripping onto the sheets beneath me. Sliding my vibrator into my channel while using the bullet to massage my clit, I pictured him standing over me, his rock-hard cock aimed at my waiting entrance. God, it had been so long since I’d had sex that just the thought of it was enough to make me moan out in my empty apartment.

I reached down to rub my clit faster as I pictured him sliding into me, nice and slow. He wouldn’t be able to resist taking his time. He’d want to savor every moment inside of me, filling me up while my pussy clenched around him and begged for more. My breathing came in short pants as I increased the speed of both vibrators, imagining Dr. Hartman thrusting into me, saying filthy things, telling me how he wanted to conquer me, have me screaming his name into the night as he found my G-spot and pounded away.

All too soon, my orgasm hit me hard and I cried out into the pillow, my body shuddering and contracting around the vibrator. Wave after wave of pleasure washed over me as I came undone. Tears sprang to my eyes at the intensity of it all. When I was done, I lay there, panting for breath.

Sated, I removed the vibrators and laid them on the nightstand before falling back on the bed. My heart was still pounding in my chest as I stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of embarrassment, even though I was alone. What in the world was wrong with me? Lusting after Dr. Hartman might have fixed an immediate need, but I only set myself up for more awkward moments when I met with him for the interview. I promised myself I’d pull it together and not let my fantasies get the better of me. I had to be professional, for both of our sakes.

But when my phone chimed and I looked at the nightstand where I’d plugged it in after getting home, I saw a message from an unknown number and knew it was him before I even read the message.

Unknown 9:13 PM: 1427 Walcrest Lane, Key Biscayne. Friday night at 6. DON’T BE LATE.

I grinned at the words “Don’t be late” and set my phone back down. I had the interview. Now I just had to get through it and keep myself in check. God, I hoped this story put me on the map.

4

LEX

Ms. Martinez was prompt; I’d give her that. Helen had only just walked out the door and climbed into her car when Charlotte arrived. They met each other in passing and there was no doubt in my mind that Ms. Martinez read too much into the visit. I had Victor get the door, and my suspicions were confirmed as she watched me descend the staircase and pull my polo on over my head. Her eyes pored over my bare chest for that brief second, though I may have moved more slowly than normal.

“You’re on time.”

“Are you surprised?” she asked, nodding at Victor as he left the two of us at the bottom of the stairs. Charlotte’s eyes swept out over my living room and she seemed mesmerized. It was a sight for anyone who’d never been here before—nine hundred square feet of cavernous delight. The ceiling rose to the height of the second-floor ceiling, an open staircase along the entire north wall, while the entire south wall was glass from floor to ceiling, displaying Biscayne Bay in all its glory. “Woah…” she muttered, but under her breath.