Recovery (Doctor Dom Volume 5) (A BDSM & Medical Play Novella) (14 page)

“Some hurts take longer to get over,” he said. “We are more or less okay. But I’ve never leaned on them, and they’ve never leaned on me. There’s probably always going to be a distance between us. As I get older, I wish things could be different, but wanting something is different from doing the hard work necessary to achieve it.”

He was right, and in fairness, the work
to mend the relationship couldn’t just come from Patrick either. “They are insanely rich,” I commented. “You mentioned once that you had a funny attitude about money.” I was openly probing. As time went on, Patrick was increasingly open about most things, and his relationship with his parents was the only thing he was slightly reticent about. I had to admit I was curious.

“Can you blame me?” he asked. “My father used money as a way to try to ensure good behaviour from me, and when I told him to fuck off, I went my own way and did my own thing. We got past it
. And while I have a solid understanding and appreciation for the good things money can do, I also know it isn’t the only thing. There’s a lot more to life than money. I backpacked through China and India when I was dirt poor, and I was okay. I survived.” He took a deep breath and looked at me. “I’ve seen money used to control people, and I want no part of that. At the end of the day, you can’t let yourself be dictated by money. You have to remember who you are, with or without it. And honestly, I don’t think my parents really know who they are anymore.”

“
I thought you were embarrassed by me,” I confessed. “I thought that’s why you were avoiding taking me to meet your parents.”

He
gave me a sidelong look. “I just didn’t want you to think that their world was mine. And besides,” he added, “I don’t have the same relationship with my parents as you do with yours. It isn’t as important to me that you get along with them. That’s really all it is.”

Sometimes, that’s really all it
was. Things were sometimes no more complicated than they appeared.

“
Silly kitten,” he added fondly. “You do like to jump to conclusions.”

Lisa:

There are markers for a relationship. Three dates. One month. Three months. Six months.

At the one month mark
, my mom had been in hospital. At the three month mark, Liam had happened and we were getting over it. But it was now six months, and I wanted to do something to mark it. It might not have been a big deal to Patrick – he had, after all, been married for eight years.

But with Nick,
on our six-month anniversary, we had had a huge fight. I’d done something that had displeased him. I couldn’t remember what – it had been trivial and petty, but he was insistent that I adhere to his rules.

At the six month mark with Nick, I’d b
een afraid for myself. Everything was so different with Patrick. He was every bit as dominant as Nick was in bed. Probably more so. But I knew he respected me. He valued my opinions, and he leaned on me for comfort, and I leaned on him. It wasn’t that we couldn’t live without each other – because we could. Perhaps that was why I loved him so much. Because I didn’t lose my sense of self around him.

I ha
d told him I wanted to hang out, and he had offered to cook dinner. I jumped at the offer – Patrick was a far, far better cook than I would ever be.

“Hey,” I called out as I let myself in.

“I’m in the kitchen,” he said, and I made my way there.

He was stirring something on the stove, but he stopped what he was doing when I entered, and came over and kissed me. Long and lingeringly.

“Can dinner keep?” I asked hopefully when he pulled away. That had been one heck of a kiss, and I wanted more. Much, much more.

He laughed. “Happy six months, Lisa,” he smiled.

“You kept track?” I asked him. I was a little surprised. He hadn’t mentioned it, or indicated in any way that he knew why I’d wanted to hang out with him tonight.

He chuckled. “You’ve dropped a few hints,” he said. “But I did remember.”

“Am I being silly?” I asked ruefully. Okay. I was in my mid-thirties. Celebrating six-month anniversaries seemed a bit juvenile.

“Only a little,” he said, smiling. I pouted slightly, and his fingers reached out and traced the curve of my lips. “I think it’s adorable,” he added. “I actually love that you wanted to celebrate the six-month mark.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, and answered my question with his own question. “Why did you want to celebrate?” he asked me.

“I’m really happy in this relationship,” I told him. “I thought that needed celebration.” He grinned at me, looking pleased at my words. “
Okay, I got you a present,” I added sheepishly.

His eyes lit up.
“A present, really?” I handed him the carefully wrapped box. “I hope you aren’t one of those people who won’t read anything except a paper book,” I added as he unwrapped my gift, revealing the Kindle Paperwhite I got him.

He pulled me in
towards him and kissed me. “I’m not,” he assured me. “Thank you. This is very thoughtful.”

“Turn it on,” I
said. I sounded a bit gleeful. I’d looked at his bookshelf, and loaded all his favorite books onto it.

“Wow,” he said
, looking at the screen filled with all the books he loved. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“
Happy six months,” I said.

He looked up.
“The best six months of my life,” he said seriously.

“Even the Liam bit?”
I asked.

He made a face. “I could have done without Liam Henderson in my life at all,” he said. “The day he was here
?” he shuddered. “I was so afraid I’d lose you. I was doing a damn good job losing you anyway through my fears, but that day, I realized that wasn’t the only way I could lose you.”

“
Do you want to see your present?” he asked me, banishing the grim memories with visible effort. “It isn’t as thoughtful though.”

“You spoil me,” I said, opening the large square box he handed me, and pulling
out a black silk and lace slip and short kimono. Agent Provocateur’s finest, and it was lovely.

He laughed. “Every time I
buy you lingerie, I feel a little guilty, because it’s so much more a present for me than you,” he quipped. “Try it on.”

“After dinner,” I replied. “Else we’ll never eat.”

“I thought you wanted to delay dinner,” he responded. “Okay, let’s eat.”

He plated the food, and we sat at his kitchen table, and dug in
, comfortable in our shared silence.

“I really love the work you did here,” Patrick said, his voice filled with pleasure. He was looking around at his kitchen with complete satisfaction, and my heart thr
illed at the look in his eyes. I’d probably done the best work of my career for him. Every single piece had been chosen with thought and care. The room managed to look warm and welcoming, but at the same time, airy and uncluttered. It was a difficult balancing act, and I’d succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.

Patrick had expressed his admiration
many times for the entire house, but if there was a room that was his favourite, it was the kitchen. The room was east-facing, and the sun streamed in in the mornings. Several days, I’d woken up to see him seated at the kitchen table, reading a book, a look of utter contentment on his face, sipping a cup of coffee, enjoying the serenity of the morning before the day got underway.

It filled me with great joy that I was able to make this happen for him. He’d done so much for me. Been there for me in so many ways. Every single day, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. How fortunate that we’d found each other, and we’d been able to work through every single problem thrown at us.

Automatically, I crossed my fingers and my toes at that thought, as if to ward off any misfortune.

“Penny for your thoughts, baby,” Patrick teased me, and I smiled at him.

“You really like this room,” I replied.

He nodded. “I like to cook,” he said. “And this space is both beautiful and functional.” He kissed my lips briefly. “Kind of like you.”

I laughed aloud, though I couldn’t disguise the pleasure that ran through me at his compliment. “I’m functional? You make me sound like a horse or something.”

He winked at me. “A horse? Secret pony girl fantasies?”

“Hmm, let me think about that,” I teased him. Then I shook my head. “No, not really. Why, do you want to see me in full pony-girl gear?”

His eyes darkened briefly, and then he smiled back at me. “Maybe,” he said. “Not if you aren’t interested though.
It’d be a fun change, no?”

I dragged my mind out of the pony girl fantasy it had plummeted in, and back to our earlier conversation. “I’m glad you like the space,” I said neutrally. He laughed at my avoidance of the topic, and he squeezed my hand. “I don’t want to brag, but I love this room,” I continued.

“How much?” he asked me. “Enough to move in?”

I looked at him. “Are you asking me?” It wasn’t a question entirely out of the blue. We were adults. We had talked about marriage, and we had established that we had similar expectations about our relationship. But this was a step forward. A large step.

His fingers laced in mine, and he nodded. “Every time you have to leave, I hate it,” he said. “Our schedules are so crazy, and it seems so complicated to coordinate calendars… Life would be so much simpler if we lived together.” He paused, took a deep breath and laughed slightly shakily. “That’s the most unromantic way of asking, isn’t it?” he asked me ruefully. “I’m saying this all wrong. I love you. I want to wake up every morning next to you. I want to watch you stagger downstairs every single day, with your eyes half-closed, reaching for coffee. I want to hear you laugh at something on TV in the evening. I want to hear you cheer futilely for the Bills. I want to spend as much time with you as I possibly can.”

“I want that too,” I said softly.
I wanted it so much that it ached. And honestly, when I decorated his space, I had done it hoping we’d eventually move in together. Hoping he’d ask.

“Is that a yes?” he asked me.

“I’ll have to sell my condo,” I said thoughtfully. “Or rent it out, I guess.” I could feel myself smile, a wide happy smile that had been threatening to break out since the start of this conversation, and could not be contained any longer. “That’s a yes,” I said, throwing my arms around him and pulling him close. I leaned my head on his chest, breathing in the pure, clean smell of him, and his arms tightened around me.

The past was the past. But my present was amazing, and the future was bright and filled with promise. I couldn’t wait.
“So, Patrick,” I teased him. “Do you want to help me pack all my stuff?”

He kissed me thoroughly, and it was a while before he answered my question. “Not even a little bit, Lisa,” he said. “That’s what movers are for. I have better things to do with my time.” He nibbled at my earlobe, and I moaned and moved closer to him.

“Like making love to me?” I asked him.

“Very, very thoroughly,” he promised.

I reached forward and moved the plate in front of Patrick out of the way. Then I stood up and stretched my hand out in invitation. “That sounds like it would take a lot of time,” I said. “Shall we get started now?”

He laughed at me, his eyes warm. “Ah, Lisa,” he said. “
So fucking perfect. Let’s get started now indeed.”

Exactly a year after that first day…

Lisa:

Yes, I knew I was supposed to be perfectly honest with my
Dom all the time. And I was. I was so much better at asking for what I wanted.

But still, telling your Dom that you wanted him to stick his fist up your pussy? That thought had filled me with deep embarrassment, and each time I tried to summon up the courage to tell him, I lost my nerve.

I should have remembered that Patrick was the most observant person I had ever known. And I should have never used his laptop when I was too lazy to go upstairs to find mine.

“Lisa,” Patrick glanced at me as we entered our house. We’d been out eating dinner at our favorite pub, the one that served only curry. It has become our place; we ate there at least once a week, and the bar staff knew us by name. On the one-year anniversary
of the day I’d gone home with the stranger at the vodka bar, we couldn’t think of a better place to have dinner than the bar we’d had our first real date at.

I raised an eyebrow at
his tone.

“I looked at my browser history the other day,” he said. His lips twitched as he struggled to keep his amusement under control. “Anything you want to tell me?”

Ah, crap. Caught.
Though I wasn’t sure how much of that had been accidental. After all, I did know how to clear my browser history, if I wanted to keep my online searches strictly private.

I blushed. “Umm,” I started, my fingers curling around
a strand of my hair, and my toes crossing automatically. Patrick wouldn’t think I was weird, would he? “I’ve been watching fisting porn on the Internet,” I confessed.

He laughed openly at me. “Yes, I’m quite aware of that,” he said dryly. “Keep talking.”

Ah well. In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, it’d be a heck of a memory of our one-year anniversary. “Please, Dr. Anderson,” I asked him. “Will you fist me?”

He smiled, a slow and sexy smile that had the power to set my insides fluttering, even after a year. “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

He sent me up to
our bedroom, and he stopped at the examination room to grab some lube. “I’m nervous,” I said, when he entered the bedroom.

“Why?” he
asked me with a raised eyebrow.

“What if it hurts?”

He rolled his eyes at me, and I bit back a grin at his expression of exasperation. “Do we ever do something that we don’t enjoy in the bedroom?” he asked me. I shook my head. One year in, and our sex life was still smoking hot. I had to pinch myself sometimes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

“No, we don’t,” I
replied.

“Then, get naked,” he instructed, “and get a pillow under your ass.” I obeyed, and cooperativ
ely spread my legs for him.

“Well, hello there, Ms. KitKat,” he said
, getting on the bed, and addressing my pussy. I promptly dissolved into giggles.

“Did you just call my pussy Ms. KitKat?” I asked,
sniggering.

He grinned up at me. “She needs a name,” he said
cheerfully, and I giggled again.

“Do I get a say in naming her?” I
snickered. “Ms. KitKat, indeed.”

He frowned
, though his eyes were laughing. “I happen to think that’s a very good name, Lisa,” he said, pushing two fingers into my pussy, and resting his thumb right on my clitoris.

My giggles stopped instantly, and I bit my lip at the sensation that radiated from my pussy through the rest of my body.
So good.
Patrick pulled his fingers out, and pushed back in, and this time, I felt a slight discomfort.

“How many fingers?” I asked, and he chuckled.

“Just three, sweetie,” he said. “Relax.” His mouth lowered on my clitoris, and I exhaled in pleasure. Oh, Patrick’s tongue on my pussy always felt so good. I closed my eyes, and desire fluttered through my body.

“You like that, baby?” he asked, strumming his tongue on my clitoris. I bit my lip as
I reacted to his touch, and I writhed as arousal flooded through every inch of my body.

“Again,” I breathed, and he cooperatively repeated the movement. I ran my fingers through his hair, and gripped him tight. “Don’t you go anywhere,” I threatened, and he chuckled.

“I should tie you up,” he said, amusement etched in his voice. He raised his head and looked at me. “Hold the bars of the headboard,” he ordered. “Don’t let go.”

I obeyed with a smile, then wailed as his teeth gently nipped on my clitoris. I ground my hips into his mouth and pleaded for him to do that again.

His fingers had been pumping in and out of me while I was being distracted by his mouth. He pulled them out and smiled at me. “You are doing great, baby,” he said, squirting a generous amount of lube into my pussy, and an equal amount of lube on his right hand. “I’m going to slide four fingers in, until the second set of knuckles, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. I was slightly nervous, but mostly, I felt loved and cherished by Patrick.

His hand entered me steadily, and I hissed as a sharp, burning pain filled me. “Relax,” Patrick’s calm voice soothed. “Just breathe.”

I obeyed, letting my head fall back and taking a deep breath in and out. He held his hand still as I relaxed, and then, he moved his hand out of my pussy, and trickled on more lube on his knuckles. “I’m still just at four fingers, Lisa,” he said easily, as I felt his fingers enter me once again.

This time, there was less pain. I felt full, and yet I wanted more. “Go deeper,” I gasped, as he pushed into me. I parted my legs even further. “Ah Patrick. That feels so good, don’t stop...”

“I’m not planning on stopping,” he assured me. “This is such a beautiful sight, baby,” he said. “I’m trying
so fucking hard not to blow my load in my pants.”

I bit my lip and stifled a moan. The idea of Patrick, who was always calm and self-possessed, losing control to such an extent was a huge turn-on.

“More,” I begged as he rotated his fingers in my pussy, coming in contact with every inch of my vaginal walls. “Please. All of it.”

He lifted his head to look at me. “Say it,” he ordered. “Don’t beat around the bush.”

My embarrassment had left me as soon as he had pushed his fingers into my dripping pussy. I smiled at him and winked. “Fist me, Dr. Anderson,” I grinned and he laughed out aloud, and bent to kiss my clitoris.

He withdrew his hand, and squirted more lube into my pussy, and coated his hand generously as well. Four fingers went back inside, and then, I felt a burning as my muscles stretched to accommodate his hand. “I’m curling my thumb into my palm so it fits easier,” he said, and the play-by-play commentary sent further lust cascading through my body.

I just grunted and keened. Everything hurt, but I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted to lean into the pain, embrace this feeling of complete fullness. My moans sounded like that of a wounded animal, but Patrick didn’t flinch away. He just pushed, steadily, his other hand on my mound to hold me steady until finally, my vagina yielded and his fist was in me.

“Are you in?” I asked for confirmation.

“Fuck yes,” he replied. He rarely sounded possessive, but I heard it at that moment in his tone.
I own you.
I didn’t blame him. His hand was in my vagina. At that moment, he did own me.

“I’m going to start moving,” he said. “Relax. Lie back. Enjoy.”

I giggled. “You make it sound like I’m getting a massage,” I said.

He laughed. “An internal one?” he suggested. “Now, do as I tell you, please?”

I smiled at him and inclined my head back. My moans filled the room as he started to move his hand inside my vagina, and a wonderful flood of sensation absolutely overtook me. “Patrick,” I groaned.

“Touch yourself,” he said. “Make yourself come.”

I was happy to obey. He moved and twisted his hand, and I arched and moaned, and my fingers strummed faster and faster on my clitoris, moving in tight circles until I twisted and flailed and shouted as I came.

He pulled out gently as I slowly recovered, and I flinched as sharp pain found me as he pulled out. He came to
lie next to me, and I whimpered and snuggled. “Give me a second,” I whispered, “and I’ll take care of you.”

He shook his head. “Rest, baby,” he said. His lips twitched. “I can take care of myself from time to time,” he quipped.

My eyes gleamed. “Will you do it in front of me?”

He laughed. “Whatever my baby wants,” he said dryly. He shed his clothes, and lay on his back next to me, and his hands stroked his dick. I lay on my side facing him and watched his face, savouring the expression in his eyes as he got closer and closer to orgasm. It didn’t take long; he growled
a muttered curse and spurted all over his stomach.

He moved his arm, and I lay with my head on his shoulder, completely and utterly sated. “That was lovely,” I muttered finally. “Ms. KitKat sends her thanks.”

He chuckled. “I knew you’d come around on that name,” he replied, getting up to get a washcloth.

***

“Lisa?” Patrick’s voice woke me from the nap I’d fallen into when he was in the bathroom. He’d got back in bed, and he lay next to me, and I curved automatically into him.

“Mmm,” I groaned. I was exhausted from
the sex, and I didn’t want to make conversation. “I thought you didn’t do pillow talk,” I complained, snuggling deeper into his body. He was spooning me, and I just wanted to be allowed to sleep.

He laughed. “Baby,” he said. He moved his arm away from my waist for a second, then deposited something on the sheets in front of me. “Look.”

There was a slight tension in his tone. I opened one sleepy eye and saw a ring in front of me.

“Will you marry me?” he asked, his hand tightening around my waist once again.

“Patrick,” I accused, coming further awake and trying not to laugh at the timing of his proposal. “Did you ask me today so that you’d only have to remember one date for our anniversary?”

He chuckled, a sweetly sheepish sound. “
Guilty as charged. I did warn you I’m not a romantic,” he said.

I stretched my hand out, and picked up the ring. “Aren’t you going to
place it on my finger?” I asked him, struggling to contain the smile that was breaking out across my face.

“Am I to take it that you are accepting my proposal then?” he asked me dryly, his fingers sliding the ring on my ring finger.

I turned towards him, and kissed his neck. “Of course I am,” I said. “Was it really in doubt?”

He laughed at me. “No,” he admitted. “It wasn’t.
Is the ring okay? We can change it up if you want.”

“The ring is perfect,” I told him. “Now, Patrick, I’m going to bed.”

He smiled, and pulled me into his body as I closed my eyes and let sleep overtake me. “Sweet dreams, love,” he said.