His thumb slid between my thighs and rubbed over my clit. I tried to rise, but he held me there, so all I could do was rock over him.
My breath was harsh as I sought my pleasure. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” I chanted, worried he’d tease me again. Fortunately, he didn’t stop. I tilted my pelvis, his dick hitting that one exquisite spot, just as his thumb stroked over my clit. My orgasm roared through me reminding me how much better they were when they were given from someone else instead of alone by myself.
He growled against my chest, as my pussy convulsed in pleasure. Finally, I was done. I looked down on him, as I gulped in a breath. Why was he denying himself pleasure?
“What’s going on?” I asked. He wanted sex to help him forget someone under his care had died, and yet he wouldn’t let himself enjoy it.
He ignored my question as he also took in a couple of deep breaths, and then encouraged me to move over him again. He was hard as a rock and thicker and longer than I remembered. I rode him again, watching him as brought him up and up, only to have him stop me again when he was on the brink. His expression was pained. Was that what he was doing? Torturing himself? He was letting himself get to the edge of pleasure but not taking that final leap.
Was this how he liked sex now, or was he punishing himself?
I pressed my hands on his face. “What are you doing?”
His expression was lost and helpless. “This is wrong.”
“What the hell, Nick.” I started to pull away, feeling angry and humiliated.
“No. Not you, baby.” He held me to him, his hand moving to cup my cheek. “You’re not wrong. This is. It doesn’t seem right that I should be enjoying something so life affirming after what happened today.”
“Why? It seems like a good time to appreciate life after seeing how fleeting it can be.”
He closed his eyes. “I feel guilty.”
My heart broke for him.
“I don’t deserve this.”
This whole thing was wrong before it started, and clearly it had gone off the rails. “Then maybe I should go.” I started to move off of him again.
“Mia.” His hands held me to him. “Don’t go.”
“Then come.” I took his hands and held them so he couldn’t stop me as I started to ride. Out of the gate, I bounced up and down fast and furious, not giving him time to think. He’d wanted only to feel, so that was what I was trying to make happen. For him to stop thinking and just feel.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck …” he chanted. I could feel my own pleasure start to build again.
I pressed his hands on my breasts, and fortunately he didn’t fight his instinct. He pinched my nipples, sending white hot lava rushing to my core.
“Fuck I’m coming,” he growled as his body arched back and his hips jerked up.
I rode him harder, not wanting him to be able to stop himself. My pussy gripped him as it seized and pleasure shot through me.
He groaned again, and this time when his hands went to my hips, it was to help them rock over him and draw out his orgasm.
The minute he was done, I was off of him. “Don’t you ever use me to punish yourself again.”
1 Nick
Nick, One Week Earlier
Working in the emergency room of a small mountain hospital was a far cry from my residency in San Francisco. Here in Goldrush Lake, we rarely had gunshot or knife wounds, and the ones we had were nearly always hunting related, not an attempted murder. We had heart attacks, strokes, and car accidents, especially in winter during the ski season when out-of-towners who didn’t know how to drive on slick roads would pile into town. We had quite a few outdoor accidents, such as breaking a leg skiing, or falling on a hike. Each summer, we had more than a few near drownings from boaters and swimmers on the lake.
Did I ever lose a patient? In the four years I’d been here, there were a few times that I was unable to save a patient. Twice, it was a heart attack that was too severe for medicine to fix. Last winter, a skier fell and hit his head, but didn’t seek medical help. By the time the headache brought him to the emergency room, it was too late. Internal bleeding in the brain led to his death. Those stood out, but there were others.
All deaths were difficult, but the one that haunted me was a car accident just over a year ago. Although she wasn’t my patient, being that we were a small town, I’d known her and felt the loss deeply. In fact, I’d known her all my life, so it had been like losing a member of my family.
Today, I hadn’t had any life-threatening ailments so far in my shift. I diagnosed eczema in a toddler and I stitched up a construction worker’s hand.
“Joyce is here to see you again, Dr. Foster,” Peggy Shoals, one of the nurses on duty today said.
I rolled my eyes. Joyce was my age, thirty-three, and a pretty woman, who either suffered from hypochondria or was trying to get a date with me. Since having moved back home four years ago, she was fairly regular in the emergency room. I’d checked her for ticks at least twice before, along with various sprains, migraines, and, my favorite, concerns that her breast implant had broken.
I made my way to the area where Joyce was waiting for treatment.
“Dr. Foster.” Her blue eyes lit up and she sat up straighter, showing of her store-bought tits in a tank top.
“Ms. Maynard, what seems to be the trouble today?” I asked, going to the computer to see what had been entered in the electronic medical record, or EMR, we’d been
