Chapter 12 Damian
DAMIAN
I see Perry on a date.
Snow Valley’s best restaurant is not large. It prides itself on exclusivity, which in a town this size means everyone notices everyone else immediately.
She’s seated near the window. Not alone. The man across from her is well-dressed. Tailored. Polished. The type who looks comfortable in rooms like this. Nearer to her age than I am.
Wesley Tisdale. The jerk. He’s the one of the dullest Tisdales, so I’m not terribly worried about her going on a date with him. He’s not the type to be aggressive with a woman, and he’s also not her type of guy.
I think.
But really, what do I know about Perry?
She laughs at something he says. It looks polite. Stiff.
But it is laughter. Which seals it. She’s not invested in me. Not if she’s dating other guys or exploring her options.
And why wouldn’t she? She’s young. Intelligent. Attractive. She has every right to date men her own age. Men without…complications.
I am, objectively, an absurd choice. Her former physician. Her ex-boyfriend’s father. Twenty-one years her senior.
I should have anticipated this, but the disappointment is sharp.
My reaction is irrational. I know this. We have not established exclusivity. We have not negotiated terms. All we’ve really done is speak on the phone.
And yet, it stings.
She leans back in her chair. He speaks at length. She nods.
I recognize the look in her eyes. She’s not captivated. She’s enduring. That should reassure me, but it doesn’t. The fact is, she’s seeing other people. Maybe I should too.
It’s fine. I do not compete. That’s not the point of dating for me. This is not a loss. It’s a lesson.
Don’t get so attached so damn fast.
I walk home instead of calling for the car. Snow Valley’s main street is quiet at this hour—lamplight stretching thin across the sidewalks, storefronts dark except for the faint glow of security lights.
I replay the image of her across that table. She looked composed. Controlled. Not dazzled, but present.
I reach my house and let myself inside, shrugging off my coat, setting my phone on the kitchen counter. The quiet here is different from the quiet outside. It presses rather than clears, so I pour a glass of water and lean against the counter.
I am too old for this. The thought surfaces plainly and unwelcome.
But it’s true. I am too old for uncertainty and guessing games. Too old to be unsettled by a woman nearly half my social circle’s age.
She deserves someone uncomplicated. Someone without a son her age. Someone without history woven into her own. It is entirely reasonable that she would choose that. Good for her.
But just in case I’m wrong about everything I just tried to tell myself, I exhale slowly and pick up my phone.
No messages.
I consider texting her. I do not. If she’s interested, she will reach out. If she’s not, then this resolves itself. I set the phone down.
Five minutes later, it lights up.
Perry: You left early.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary. That is…unexpected.
I reply: I didn’t want to interrupt.
Three dots appear almost immediately. You wouldn’t have interrupted anything.
I consider my response. You seemed occupied.
There’s a longer pause this time. It was barely a date.
He looked invested.
He’s invested in Tuscany. Not me.
I allow myself the smallest exhale. I assumed it was serious.
It wasn’t. Did you actually see us?
There is no advantage in lying. Yes.
Perry: Oh.
I wasn’t spying.
Perry: That’s exactly what a spy would say.
Despite myself, I smile. I was taking a walk.
Perry: And accidentally noticed me on a date.
Correct.
There’s a bit of a pause. Are you mad?
Mad? No. That is not the word I would use.
Perry: Disappointed?
I adjusted expectations.
Three dots. That’s so clinical.
I snort. I am a doctor, you know.
You thought I wasn’t into you.
How do I say this without sounding pathetic? I thought you were exploring your options.
Perry: I was bored out of my mind.
He seemed appropriate.
Perry: He was. There’s a beat, and then, When he tried to kiss me at my door, I turned him down flat.
The image forms uninvited. My jaw tightens. Why?
Perry: Because I keep thinking about you.
The stiffness I’ve maintained all evening fractures. Completely. I stare at her last message longer than I should. There are many ways to respond to that. Most of them are unwise. Finally, I type: That’s dangerous.
Her reply is immediate: I know.
There’s no flirtatious cushion around it. Just acknowledgment.
Me: You’re certain you want to continue this conversation?
Perry: If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be texting you while my house is finally quiet.
My attention sharpens. The boys are asleep?
The message sits for a beat.
Perry: Yes.
Me: Then perhaps we should keep this quiet.
Perry: That was the plan.
Me: You said you keep thinking about me. In what context?
There’s a pause long enough that I feel it in my chest. In the context where you aren’t wearing scrubs.
My pulse responds before my brain does. That’s specific.
Perry: You started it.
Me: What are you imagining? Aside from my lack of scrubs.
Her reply takes longer this time. You. Me. A bed.
The clinical part of me stirs, trying to distract me from my prurient interests. You’re aware your body is still recovering.
Perry: I’m not doing anything reckless.
Me: Neither am I.
Perry: Prove it.
I don’t know where this is going, but I’m glad it is. I step into my bedroom, close the door, and sit at the edge of the bed. What would satisfy you?
A picture.
I consider the risk. Then decide I don’t care. I strip down to skin, then pose in the mirror and send my very first sext. It’s just my torso, but I work hard on it. I wonder whether this counts as an actual sext since it’s something I show off at the lake house.
Perry: Damn. Do you live at the gym?
She’s got me grinning like a fool already. Picture.
The response takes a little longer, but it’s worth it. Hers is a shot of her cleavage.
I take a beat before responding. I want to take this up a notch. If I were at your apartment, I’d ask for more than just cleavage.
What would you ask for?
A taste of you.
Her response is brief. What will you settle for tonight?
The sight of you. All of you.
Show me yours…
I take a quick breath and consider it. Sending a nude is a risk. But I trust her. More than I should.
I take the picture. It’s tasteful, as nudes go. I think. My thumb hovers over the send button, but I press it as soon as I get the courage. If I wait too long, I might back out.
Her response is a full nude, and I’m speechless. And hard. So fucking hard. The woman is a month from giving birth, and she’s still stunning. Her belly is soft, hips round, breasts full. She is the pinnacle of female beauty.
I want to bury myself in her.
But for now, I text: Do you know how hard you make me?
Probably as wet as you get me.
I reach for the lube out of instinct. Can’t help myself. My hand shuttles up and down my length with one hand, and I try to text with the other. It goes badly, so I switch to voice-to-text. “I’m thinking about you, Perry. Splayed out on my bed. Letting me taste you.” Send.
Perry: I’d dig my fingers through your hair, my heels against your back.
Fuck yes. “I’d roll us over and make you ride my face.”
Perry: And after I come, I’d climb down your body so I could ride your cock.
The image of her riding me is enough to get me close.
Watching her tits bounce as she rides…gripping her hips to pull her up and down…
feeling her come on me. My balls tighten and lift, and heat surges up and down my spine.
“I want to feel you on me. Tight and wet and shaking. I’ll make you come again on my cock. And again. And again.”
Perry: Are you close?
“Yes. You?”
Perry: Not ready for that yet. Recovery. But I want you to come. I want to know I helped get you there.
“Fuck.” I stroke harder still, thinking of Perry on me. Hearing her cry out as she comes. It hits hard enough to steal my breath, and I shoot onto a towel. When I can move again, I toss it in the basket and then stagger to collapse onto my bed. My hands shake when I text, You helped.
Smiley face. Then, When I’m recovered, I’d like to help IRL.
Just say the word, and I’m there. My breathing is unsteady in a way I haven’t felt in years. There’s something about this woman that just… I can’t explain it. I want her like I want my next meal.
Perry: That was a terrible idea.
Oh hell. Regret already? Was it?
Because all I can think about is what I can’t have yet, and it’s driving me crazy.
She’s got me grinning at my phone again. I look at the last image she sent before answering. Damn, she’s perfect. I have no regrets whatsoever, and I promise if you give me the chance, I’ll make it up to you.
Perry: It’s a date.