3. Cain
Cain
It’s by sheer determination and hours of training through fatigue and physical stress that I’m able to make it through the rest of my clinic after seeing Patrick again.
To pretend I’m unaffected would be irrational.
He’s aged, as we both have, but the mid-forties look damn good on him.
He’s taller than me, which I’ve always hated, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that, whereas most men who pass through my clinic do so thanks to years of poor eating habits and excessive alcohol consumption, Patrick’s toned frame suggests his heart troubles stem from some combination of genetics and stress instead.
I wonder what could possibly make a man so stressed that his heart is literally on the verge of exploding?
As I aim my remote at the black iron gate at the end of my driveway, a crow flies off the post as the gate begins to slide open, making me smile. They’re wretched birds, but I find that I don’t mind their company. Probably because they’re the only company I keep most days.
At the top of the driveway, one of the three garage bays opens, and I pull my old Jaguar inside. Grabbing my coat and work bag, I head inside the house, immediately tugging at my tie and popping the top three buttons on my shirt to let my skin breathe.
I go through the routine of placing my laptop on the bar in the kitchen, pouring a glass of red wine—always just one—and checking the fridge for whatever my chef prepared for dinner.
I allow myself several luxuries because I don’t have the burden of a family to care for, but Curtis is by far my best investment.
After seeing forty patients in a day, who all require surgery and are knocking on death’s door, the last thing I want to do when I get home is sauté garlic or grill something.
I pop the chicken cacciatore into the microwave as instructed and open my laptop to today’s schedule. Several notes remain unfinished after I fell behind, thanks to Patrick’s visit.
Oh, my sweet kitten.
I smile as the nickname crosses my mind. He tried to pretend he hated it, but he couldn’t hide how radiant he became every time the praise left my mouth.
I take a sip of wine and allow myself a short walk down memory lane. Just until the microwave goes off, I decide.
Images of a young Patrick on his knees enter my mind’s eye immediately, eyes shining with tears as he choked on my cock. I’m not a sadist by any means; I just loved the power that came from his desire to please me.
The next image fills my mind as if I’d clicked next on a slideshow. Patrick, chest down on the bed, knees spread wider than his ass cheeks as he held himself open and begged me to fuck him.
Yeah, we were explosive every time we were together. Like magnets wired to C4, ready to detonate every time we touched…and we touched often.
Patrick needed purpose…and I needed to be worshipped. So, I became his god, and he became my acolyte.
All too soon, the microwave is blaring at me, ending my mental stroll. I notice with amusement that at some point, my hand had found its way to my cock, which is now hard and aching for the job to be finished.
As I pull the dish out of the microwave, I briefly think about calling one of the men in my contacts. My list of trusted partners is very short, and down one more after yet another decided he wanted a relationship.
They always have to ruin a good thing.
Patrick was no different, I remind myself.
Frustrated that I’m still thinking about him, I ignore my cock completely and sit down to finish these wretched patient notes.
Twenty minutes later, I’m face-to-face with Patrick Miller once again as his patient profile pops open.
Deciding this will go much faster if I just do a thorough perusal of his chart—since I never made it past his name earlier—gleaning the information my greedy brain seems to be after, and then I’ll move the hell on.
But every line gets more interesting.
I stop reading and back up a few lines.
I’m not surprised that Patrick got married.
I am surprised that she’s deceased. Given that information, it’s also not surprising that he hasn’t been very sexually active, but two years?
The man’s practically a born-again virgin.
But the timeline from his wife’s death to his last partner also intrigues me in a way I wish it didn’t.
The thought enters unbidden into my mind before I can stop it.
I wonder if he’s found himself in need of purpose once again.