Whatever I expected when I bought my apartment at the Bradford…

Running into Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus bopping around in the laundry room wasn’t it.

Sabrina. Her name is Sabrina. Sabrina with the long blonde hair and the perky tits and the ass like it was sculpted by God himself…

I just keep seeing her as Venus in my head, is all.

It’s not that I’m not accustomed to beautiful women. Before med school, I could have a different woman in my bed every night of the fucking week. But since I started working the night shift…

I wouldn’t say that I don’t see many beautiful women anymore.

Just that when I do, they’re usually trauma victims being rushed through the ER and straight into surgery. Car accidents, mystery tumors, domestic violence injuries…when I see beautiful women, it’s usually on the worst days of their lives.

These days, when I’m inside someone, it’s because they’re laid out on my operating table instead of in my bed.

As it turns out, it’s hard to see a woman as a potential dinner date once you’ve pumped her stomach and picked pieces of her front windshield out of her major organs.

So, dating—dating isn’t much of a reality for me anymore. It doesn’t bother me much, except for when it does.

I’ve always wanted to be a father. But as far as my career is concerned, that’s a dream that was destined to be dead on arrival.

I need to let it go…even though that’s fucking hard sometimes.

Especially after seeing Aphrodite incarnate naked in the laundry room last night.

I probably spooked the hell out of her, walking in on her like that. I’m still kicking myself for not being smoother—or more charming—or for not getting her fucking number, for that matter.

On one hand, it’s funny how alike we are—apparently, we both work hard enough that when we do laundry, we wash everything we own all at once.

On the other, the second I laid eyes on her gorgeous tits and her waspish waist, that long blonde hair and those broad, curvaceous hips…

I popped an erection so intense it nearly ripped through my best slacks. I fucking know she noticed it, too.

As for the smell of wet cunt on her when she came over to shake my hand…

For my own sake, I’m telling myself I imagined that.

I feel like I ought to apologize, even though it was just one hell of an erotic coincidence. But as it turns out, Hallmark doesn’t sell cards that say, Sorry for accidentally seeing your tits.

I gave her my lab coat, which seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.

And now I’m folding her laundry, which I’m hoping makes up for the rest.

I used to be such a fucking playboy in my youth. I think that’s why I enrolled in med school in the first place, truth be told. I fancied myself Doctor Playboy, thank you very much.

Figured that I would have sexy nurses and adoring patients swooning over me left and right while I played the hero and saved a shitload of lives.

It’s funny how shit changes as you get older. Wiser. Less fucking cocky and more in tune with the responsibilities of the life your younger, dumber self chose for you.

I wouldn’t change it for the world, of course…

Even though I’ll always regret never becoming a dad.

It’s a reality that hits me twice as hard as I finish folding the last of Laundry Room Aphrodite’s La Perlas…

And unearth what has to be a pair of maternity pants.

Christ. Either Dryer Sheet Venus is one yummy mummy…or some lucky bastard has knocked her up already.

Of course, her body doesn’t look like she’s ever had a kid, and it’s not like she’s started to show.

But it would explain why her tits were so full and big and fucking brilliant.

And why her skin had that insane fucking glow.

The rest of her clothes are the furthest thing from maternity-wear, so I’m willing to entertain the idea that these could belong to a friend…

But a woman like that is probably spoken for already, and if her boyfriend or husband or whoever the fuck has knocked her up, I can’t even blame the guy.

If she were mine, I’d put a baby in her the minute she even entertained the idea.

Which is a pretty fucked up thing to think about a woman I only just met an hour ago.

I guess there’s just no denying it, though. The heart wants what the heart wants—and my heart wants to be a dad, even though in my head I know it’s a complete no-go.

And what my dick wants…

I fold the maternity pants up and place them in her laundry basket.

What my dick wants is irrelevant right now. I ought to thank her husband or boyfriend or whoever the fuck for the privilege of seeing her like that at all.

And then I ought to stay the fuck away from her—because if I let myself fantasize any harder about this Botticelli hottie, I won’t have any other choice but to steal her away from the poor schmuck.

Still, there’s no denying it…she’s going to be a hot mom.

And she’ll be needing a maternity doctor.

I figure that’s the final step of my apology. I pull out my prescription pad and scrawl her a quick note:

Sabrina—

Sorry for the laundry mishap earlier. If you need recommendations for a good doctor, feel free to drop by.

—Rainier, Apt. 21A

If I knew where to take the laundry, I’d bring it to her doorstep…but maybe that’s for the best.

Because then I wouldn’t just be tempted to talk to her again.

Then, I’d want to steal her away in the fucking night.

Her husband or boyfriend or whoever the fuck probably doesn’t deserve her anyway.

Christ.

I grab my own basket of clean clothes and head back up to my place.

But while the clothes might be clean…there are nothing but dirty thoughts about that gorgeous blonde goddess in my mind.