Page 52 of Clinically Awkward

“We just…”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

He got up and disposed of the condom, then came back to bed and pulled me against his chest. His cock was already getting hard again. Holding me close, he whispered, “Five minutes and then I’m going to eat your pussy until you fill my mouth with cream.”

I gulped, slowly nodding as my vision blurred. “Yeah, sure. That sounds perfect.”

Quinton chuckled because five minutes later, he did exactly as he had promised.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Quinton

I was whistling.

Actually whistling. Like some kind of Disney prince who accidentally tripped over true love’s kiss and found it also cured his chronic commitment issues. The tune was unrecognizable—somewhere between “Don’t Stop Believin’” and the theme from The Office—but I couldn’t stop. My feet felt lighter. The sun looked brighter. Even the New Haven traffic, which normally siphoned the will to live from lesser mortals, couldn’t touch my inexplicably stellar mood.

I pushed through the clinic doors at 9:47 AM, still whistling, and walked right into what sounded like the opening bell of a verbal cage match.

“—absolutely not ordering you another box of those ridiculous business cards,” Winnie snapped from behind the reception desk, arms crossed, glare set to maximum incinerate. She looked at Fitz with the kind of murderous intent usually reserved for war criminals and people who didn’t use turn signals.

Fitz, naturally, looked delighted by her rage. Winnie and Fitz had been at this for years—her exasperation was practically a clinic tradition. Their bickering was as much a part of the morning routine as bad coffee and lost charts.

“They’re not ridiculous,” he said, leaning against the desk with that infuriating British charm that worked on approximately 87% of the female population. “They’re memorable.”

“They say ‘Dr. Fitzpatrick Lovejoy: OBGYN and Part-Time Magician.’”

“I do card tricks!”

“You do bar tricks. There’s a difference.”

“The women love it.”

“The women tolerate it because you’re their doctor and they’re contractually obligated to be polite.”

I should’ve kept walking. Should’ve just beelined for my office, grabbed my tablet, and started my day like a responsible medical professional. Instead, I stood there, watching them spar, trying not to think about the fact that approximately six hours ago, I’d had Vivian Darcy naked in my bed.

Multiple times. In multiple positions. With multiple—Stop.

Focus.

Winnie was now holding what appeared to be a stapler, her grip suggesting she was tempted to staple his mouth shut.

“I’m not ordering them,” she said flatly. “End of discussion.”

“But—”

“End. Of. Discussion.”

That was when Fitz spotted me. His entire face lit up like I was his salvation, his escape route, his get-out-of-Winnie’s-wrath-free card. “Quinton!” he called out, abandoning Winnie mid-argument and bounding toward me with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for lottery winners and people who just discovered their ex got fat. “Mate, you look positively radiant this morning. Did you get laid?”

I choked on air.

“What? No. I—what?”