6. Nick
6
NICK
T he couch welcomed me into its cocoon of comfort, though it'd never been much comfort to me before. I nursed my third beer while trying to surf stations and find something to watch. I was set to meet with Scarlett at the Christmas market tomorrow morning, and anyone in their right mind would've been excited. I was; I just had too much on my mind to check out and let myself relax.
Two more patients this week had come in for their initial consultation and upon learning who I was, they thanked me respectfully for my time but asked for a referral to a different doctor. The only new patient I'd gotten in weeks was Ethan Moore, and that one was a bit tricky. If I ended up dating his mother, I might have to recuse myself from treating him.
So despite the positive direction things might be taking with Scarlett, I was sullen and found myself flipping stations in a funk. When the news flashed across the screen, I decided to see what was happening in the world. The world news was finishing up and I caught the tail end of a report on what was happening in Eastern Europe before the set changed and I was staring at Marjorie Whitman, the woman who had helped destroy my career.
I glowered at the screen and took another long swig of beer as I watched her start talking about a state senator who was caught cheating on his wife. I turned the volume down and ignored what she was saying. It was drivel anyway, all lies made up to make her show more popular at the expense of some other poor chap who found himself in her crosshairs. It made me want to prove her wrong and show the network what sort of reporter she really was. She belonged in the tabloids, not a reputable station.
I couldn't even stand to look at her, so I flicked the channel again, and again. The numbers went by as I watched no more than five seconds of each show. Nothing appealed to me, not even the idea of ditching TV and reading a book or going to bed. I felt numb inside, hollowed out by life's lessons that were supposed to leave fertile soil in my heart, but all they did was leave me empty and angry.
My beer was empty, so I grabbed another and cracked it open. In my search for some way to distract myself and get my mind off things, I kept clicking through the stations. When the screen flashed with a beautiful brown-haired woman who wore a red apron and stood behind a bakery counter, I stopped.
She wasn't nearly as beautiful as Scarlett, but she reminded me of her. It was the first time all evening I'd even begun to feel relaxed, and it was more mesmerized than calm. I set the remote down and reached for my beer, deciding to leave the show running as my thoughts about Scarlett thickened.
She hadn't even shied away from my invitation to talk to her after the appointment earlier this week. While I was her son's doctor, I figured she'd be hesitant to socialize, but even after confessing how she'd purposefully ghosted me eight years ago due to the scandal, she was still interested in having coffee with me. I just hoped it wasn't pity. I hated pity.
I didn't want anyone to feel sorry for me and do something because they thought it would make me feel better or included. I was worth more than that. I deserved someone who would see the real me, beyond the lies spun by Fiona, her father, and that gossip reporter. If I even detected a hint of pity in the interaction I had with Scarlett tomorrow, I'd know it was time to really move on.
The show played out and I got a little interested in it. The female lead was a baker who owned her own bakery just like Scarlett, but the male love interest was the polar opposite of me. He was the town hero, adored and cherished, and in the end he turned out to be St. Nicholas in disguise. It irked me that sappy Christmas movies like that always painted the man as the romantic hero. I didn't know why I stayed tuned in other than the fact that I was going to have coffee with a baker.
When it was over I turned the TV off and grabbed my last beer out of the fridge. I walked to my room and stripped down to my boxers, then crawled into bed. The cold beer sat on my nightstand but I didn't open it. Instead, I lay down and covered up thinking about Scarlett and what she was doing. The woman on that show had a great smile, but not like Scarlett's, and she was a spindly thing, the type of woman Hollywood said was the ideal for beauty.
When I closed my eyes, however, it was Scarlett's thick curves that I pictured. I remembered the way her body felt against mine like it was yesterday. She took my breath away back then, and just remembering how free she was, how confident, made me start to swell.
I pictured her that night we met, how much she wanted me and how she kissed me just right. She did this thing with her tongue when she went down on me that drove me wild, and thinking about it had my dick throbbing. I tried to adjust it, tucking it under the waistband of my boxers. Then I thought about distracting myself again by drinking more. I chugged the whole beer and tossed the bottle, but when I lay back down I was still rock hard, and I wanted more alcohol.
I gripped myself hard and willed the erection to go away but it wouldn't. I was so horny and I knew if I didn't take care of this I'd just end up having wet dreams. So I touched a little, stroking myself through my boxers, until I finally caved in and decided to masturbate. I got a condom out of my bedside drawer and rolled it on, then folded the covers back and stroked myself harder.
I closed my eyes and imagined Scarlett in her tight green dress, the one she wore to Ben's party. The way it clung to her curves, the way her ass moved when she walked away from me.
I could practically feel her soft skin under my hands as I pictured myself pinning her against a wall, lifting that dress up and tugging her panties aside. Her moans in my ears as I thrust into her made me pump my hips faster then, my breathing coming harsher with every stroke. My cock was so fucking hard, throbbing with need; I gripped it harder and stroked faster, in time with the picture in my head.
Scarlett moaned louder in my mind, begging me to make her come. I growled in response, imagining I was inside her, making her feel so good. She arched her back, meeting my imaginary thrusts. The thought of her nails digging into my back as she came undone around me pushed more buttons. The pressure built in my groin, and I slowed myself down. I wanted to savor it and enjoy the sensation, not just beat off.
I remembered eating her, tasting her delicious folds for what must've been twenty minutes. She came all over my face, and I drank it all in. She was the best I ever had, and to this day as I sat here touching myself, it was still strong enough to mindfuck me.
I sped up my strokes again, imagining her scent, her taste, her moans in my ears as I made her come over and over. Her fingers gripped at my hair, digging into my scalp as I licked and sucked every part of her. I could taste her on my tongue, imagine her juices coating my chin as I came, white hot pleasure shooting through my body.
I gasped for air as I came, bucking up into my hand once, twice, and then collapsing back onto the bed. My heart pounded in my ears as I tried to catch my breath. I lay there panting for air, holding the full condom on my dick so it wouldn't leak. My body thrummed with a surge of relaxation and endorphins as I pulled off the condom and stared at it, spent but still aching for more. It was the biggest load I'd ever seen, proof that I didn't get laid enough.
I tied it shut, tossed it into the bin, and rolled over feeling slightly drunk. If Scarlett had me this worked up just thinking about her, how would my body react if we hit it off, and would I be able to console myself if we didn't? It was a good thing I had a little too much to drink. I knew I wouldn't sleep without it. I already wanted to touch myself again, and I had more than twelve hours to wait until I got to speak to her again.