DARLING DOC
Naughty Forties, 1
Raven McAllan
Copyright © 2018
Chapter One
What planet am I on? Taking the tram, which goes past the rugby stadium, when there’s an international on.
Stupid. Mega stupid.
Honestly, I deserved everything I got.
An hour before kick-off, there I was, squashed in with what seemed like three token women, and a million blokes, either in kilts or wearing the All Blacks strip. Half the bloody carriage was doing the Haka—no mean feat when we were like sardines in a can—and the other half was singing “oh ye cannae shove yer grannie af a bus”, or in some cases “tram”.
Okay maybe not everything. Definitely not the offer to share a bottle of Buckie—Buckfast tonic wine—notorious for getting you off your trolley in three swigs, or the chance to run away with a wee old bloke about eighty with three teeth, two of which were black, and a severe case of halitosis. Luckily, he got shoved to one side, and the last I saw of him he was carried away on a tide of blue and white.
If it wasn’t bad enough, we were all sweating—neat whisky in half the bodies I reckoned. Then when the tram lurched to a halt, the doors opened, and half a dozen more blokes crowded in.
Somebody pressed into me, and as the pole thing you hang onto unless you want to end up on the floor, and probably show your knickers was about an inch from my boobs, there was no way I could have given whoever it was any more room.
Then holy hell, I wished I had.
Something was pressed into the crack of my ass.
Yeah… A long, hard, cock-shaped something.
Definitely not everything.
Oh shite. I had no idea what I could do. Talk about stuck between a rock (or is that cock?) and a hard place, and I wasn’t sure which was which.
“Hell, I’m so bloody sorry.”
Oh my blooming God. That voice was panty-dropping, salivating hotness. All of a sudden, I couldn’t give a toss what was pressed up against me.
“It’s a water bottle, honestly,” the same sex on legs voice said. “I’ll show you when we get to Murrayfield. If I tried now I would be had up for sexual harassment.”
“Ah, it’s fine.” Sheesh, I sounded like a breathless twelve year old. Time to grow up. “Don’t worry. If it was anything else it wouldn’t be in its original shape now, busy carriage or not.”
He laughed. “Oh, feisty lady.”
I stiffened. Blokes usually said that in a detrimental manner. He sounded impressed.
“Nuh-oh, don’t hit me. That was a compliment.”
How did he read my mind?
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Shit, talk about frosty voice, but honestly, what was he like? And I didn’t mean hot. After all, I still hadn’t seen his face. “I’m not so uncouth.”
“That’s good then,” he said with a lilt to his voice that just got to me deep down inside. The tram slowed. “And here we are. Are you coming to the match?”
The doors opened, and people began to push past me to get out. The pressure from behind disappeared as I held in to the pole in front of me and gradually found space to breathe.
A water bottle waved in front of my eyes, and then a male body appeared.
Dressed in a kilt that actually suited his shape.
And oh my, what a shape. Hot as Hades. Mid-forties, I guessed, with long black hair in a plait and smoky grey eyes. I’m a sucker for both of those. Add in that smooth as chocolate velvet voice and, God almighty, an earring. Now if he had a secret tattoo, I’d be butter.
“Right then, this is to show you I was telling the truth.” He dropped the bottle in my hands, sketched a wave, and got off the tram just as the doors began to close. I watched him walk away. Yeah, his rear was as hot as his front.
And I had no idea who he was.
Damn it to hell.
The carriage now held a dozen people, and we all grabbed a seat. There were a lot of heartfelt sighs heard.
I looked at the water bottle. Unopened and one of those designer ones.
Now if this was one of those scorching romances I’ll own up to reading, he would have written his phone number on it.
As it was a tram in Edinburgh, and the rugby took precedence over everything, he hadn’t.
But even so, now I knew the bloke I would have shagged there and then, drank designer water and wore a kilt.
I wondered if he was a true Scotsman?
****
And that was my Saturday. Sunday was, as ever, playing catch up. I know a lot of people complained about the fact their GP’s—that’s General Practitioners or village doctors to those who refused to use the newfangled jargon and I didn’t blame them—didn’t work during the evenings or weekends any more. I came to the GP system too late to know what the “God, I’m on call tonight” was like, but I am ever thankful. Life is full on as it is without being called out because Mrs. X or Y has a problem I’d seen in surgery on Friday morning. Okay, yes, that is an exaggeration, but boy, believe me I do appreciate my weekends and evenings.
Not just to go to yoga, or get half rat-arsed in the pub, (quiz night and we are a tad competitive) but also because I like just to chill. To go to the supermarket and not trust someone else to pick my veg or fruit. Dance until two AM (though those days are few and far between and always have been.) Just to be, and not worry. With the on-call rota you had no chance.
Because even if you weren’t on call there was the chance someone would call a sickie and you had to cover.
Whatever the general public said, this way was better, even when you do get asked, “I wonder what you reckon about a or b? Not as a consultation, honestly, I know you’re off duty, but … but just asking because I wondered…”
At least, now most of the time, now we were awake, alert, and all with it. Not hung over, pissed as in mad, or just wanting to stop in bed for hot as Hades sex.
By the way, I can’t remember what that is like, but I can wish. As for a wee bitty hint of kink? Ha, the last time anything along those sadly missed lines happened was when I tried to stop myself coming as I read a nipple hardening, panty dampening book by one of my favorite authors. One Doris O’Connor. It didn’t work, and well, spanking yourself because you disobeyed yourself isn’t quite the same as your Sir doing it.
And I haven’t had a Sir for ages. Sometimes, life sucks, not a Dom.
Sadly, on this Monday, with Rho, the other doctor who ran our village surgery on holiday, I was covering all sessions for the day—our locum not being able to help until Tuesday—and now it was the eight until ten surgery, and I was not a happy bunny.
First off, it was bloody freezing. The heating in the surgery, having been on low to Baltic all weekend, wasn’t playing ball about cranking up. Which meant freezing nipples that seemed so hard they would able to push through paper. Add to that the practice manager was in a pissy mood about her boyfriend, a fireman who had gone on a “fundraiser” and sadly not got home “‘til six AM”. Sandie, with an ie—not to be confused with me, who is Sandy with a y—had clocked his balls with a baseball bat, and he was my first patient.
Somehow, I couldn’t be sympathetic with him, and my prescription of ice and abstinence with women unknown hadn’t gone down too well. At this rate I’d be in violation of my Hippocratic oath.
Anyhow, I got through my list of, luckily, minor ailments, and was about to shut down my computer and head to the local retirement home for a list of hemorrhoids and indigestion when Sandie rushed in.
“One more emergency, and oh my God, you will never guess who it is.”
That’s Sandie all over. I once said well, no not until I can see through walls, but she didn’t get it. And if you have to explain it sort of takes away any pleasure. So I just looked at her.
“Don’t you want to know?” she said all over excited. “I mean well…”
“Just tell me, eh? Than I can see whoever it is, hopefully deal with them, and then head to Mallens and deal with athlete’s foot—not that there are any athletes—cramp, gout, and whatever. So go on spill the beans.”
“Alistair McCrea.”
She looked at me as if she had handed me the Holy Grail, or at least a million dollars. Sadly, the name meant bugger all to me.
“Ah…”
“For goodness’ sake,” she burst out. “I do worry about you. He’s the star of that new TV series, Satan Station.”
Oops. That meant nothing to me.
Sandie realized it. “Lord, woman, I despair. Devils, angels good and bad … murder, mystery, sex … no?”
I shook my head.
“You don’t know what you’re missing. He’s hot stuff. And he’s here. To see you. Well,” she amended. “To see a doctor. That’s you,” she added helpfully. “Shall I show him in?”
Of all the asinine questions. “Well, as he wants a doctor, not a heap of drool, aka my practice manager, it might be a good idea.”
Seriously, this is what I put up with.
Sandie just looked at me, blinked twice, and then laughed. “Oh, I get you. Well, he is drool-worthy. And oh his voice, think rich, dark chocolate, and sex. Lots of sex. You get to talk to him, look at him and…” She sighed a noise worthy of any prima donna and flapped her hands about for all as if she was shooing something, or somebody, away. “You might get to see his body.” Then for goodness’ sake she put one hand approximately where her heart was. “Talk about a raised heartbeat. Mine, not his.”
“Examine him if need be, not shag him, Sandie,” I snapped. “Hippocratic oath and all that.”
“Yeah, okay.” She sounded and looked a bit crestfallen, and that made me uneasy, and a bit of a bitch. There wasn’t a malicious bone in her body, and I guess if someone you thought was sex on legs appeared in front of you without warning, you might be justified in thinking carnal thoughts. Especially with a ratfink cheating other half, who I’d just hit with the fear of God regarding to STDs. It would do the bugger good to sweat.
That however wasn’t Sandie’s fault, only her bad judgment in blokes was.
“Sorry.” I meant the apology. “Just show him in.”
She nodded and a few minutes later there was a knock on the door, and boy, was she right. He was drool-worthy. Very dissolve in a puddle drool-worthy.
And I’d seen him before.
With his water bottle wedged up my ass.
Give him his due, he looked as surprised as I was. Or did he? After all, hadn’t Sandie said he was an actor?
“You’re the doctor?”
I saw what my practice manager meant.
I nodded. How the hell could I treat him? Keep it professional. “Doctor Ebel. Pleased to meet you.”
He laughed. “I thought your receptionist said Doctor Able, and I was, ah how apt. But now? Look, no offence, but are you the only GP here?”
I nodded and, sod it, tensed up, pussy muscles and all. Was he another male chauvinist pig who didn’t want a woman checking out his bits except in a sexual capacity? It would be a pity, because somehow after his actions on the tram, he was the last person I would have said to be like that.
“Sure am, why?” Like I mentioned, the other doctor who manned—or wo-manned—the practice was on holiday, but that was nothing to do with what’s-his-face. “Don’t you think a woman can be a doctor?”
“What?” He appeared aghast. “Shit, I didn’t mean that. No, it’s just that I thought doctors can’t be over friendly with their patients.”
“That’s true.” I was somewhat puzzled over where this conversation might be going. And aware of the fact I needed to be going. Out on my home visits. “But we hardly know each other.”
“Apart from my water bottle getting all up close and whatever with you, I guess at the moment you’re right.”
“At the moment?” God, he wasn’t going to whip his water bottle out again and wave it at me, was he?
“Yeah, because now I’ve met you, I’d sure like to get to know you better.” He grinned, and I saw once more why allegedly so many women swooned, drooled, and, according to Sandie, sent him their knickers. “So would my…” He winked. “Water bottle.”
Damn the man, now I’d never be able to go into the local shop for a bottle of spring water without thinking of cocks. And God help me if it was a sports bottle with a squirty top.
Shit, now I was getting all hot and bothered, because next to those bottles were what we around here called the “squirty cream ones”.