She was on my mind for my entire shift.

It’s strange how a single, simple memory of a hot naked blonde waiting for her clothes to finish drying got me through twelve grueling hours of work…but it did.

It got me through the emergency appendectomy that we caught just in time.

Through the careful extraction of three quarters that a sobbing four-year-old decided to stash up his nose.

Through the five minutes I spent wrestling a loaded pistol from the hands of a Wall Street fat cat who had put all his money on the wrong company, and through the hour I spent talking him down afterward before they could find a bed for him in the psych ward.

It even got me through the awkward explanations of a man who accidentally sat on a 12-inch vibrating dildo, accidentally getting it stuck up his ass.

Poor fucker vibrated the entire way to the ER, too.

So, yeah. I thought of Sabrina’s tits for twelve hours straight.

Even I can admit that it wasn’t healthy, but even I can’t deny that it helped me get through the day, either.

By the time I get home, all I want to do is start knocking on doors. The Bradford is a tall building with a lot of apartments to cover, but I figure if I do a few every night, eventually I’ll either find her or come to regret it.

But even if I did find her…I don’t know what the fuck I would even say.

Hey, Sabrina, congrats on your pregnancy. I knocked on every door of this building because I’m in love with your cunt. Wanna leave your husband for me and hop on my dick?

Not fucking likely.

Instead, I slump down on my couch and consider my options.

She still has my lab coat.

And she’s got my apartment number.

It’s something. And I’m grasping at straws here—so something actually means a lot.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I hear the knock on my door.

She’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt with some obscure rock band’s name on it. I recognize them from the laundry I folded last night.

So I can’t help but wonder which La Perla she’s wearing beneath them. Red? Pink? Black?

God, I hope it’s black.

“Hey,” she says, biting her lower lip. “So, I just wanted to tell you that, like…so I know how it probably looks, but I’m super not pregnant.”

That should have hit me hard. After all, whatever little sliver of hope I might have had with this woman just got a lot fucking bigger.

But as soon as she says it, something else gets a lot fucking bigger, too.

And here’s the thing about erections: sometimes they can make a man say things that maybe he shouldn’t. Things that he maybe might come to regret.

So when Sabrina tells me she’s not pregnant, I pull the biggest dick move ever and I ask her…

“Would you like to be?”

I’m fucking kicking myself before the words are even done coming out of my mouth. But I’m straight off a twelve-hour shift. The sun is coming up, my cock is hard, and the woman of my dreams is standing on my doorstep, telling me the best news I’ve heard all fucking night.

To my surprise, she doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, she narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.

“How serious are you about that?”

My cock twitches.

“Very,” I say. Without thinking. Again.

But either Sabrina is some kind of karmic gift from a gracious god, or she’s not thinking either, because her next move is one that makes my dick throb and my heart skip a beat.

“Get your fucking clothes off, then,” she says.

She puts her hands on my chest and kicks the door shut behind her.

We spend the next few moments in a frenzy. She tears my shirt off of me, sending buttons flying all over my hardwood floors. I get her jeans undone and her shirt off over her head.

God help me.

The La Perlas are black.

At some point in our desperate scramble toward nudity, her lips meet mine.

It’s fucking fireworks.

No. It’s beyond fireworks.

It’s Disneyland, New Year’s Eve as the clock strikes midnight on the cusp of a new millennium. Mickey Mouse has just announced the end of world hunger, and Donald Duck has just brokered world peace.

“I need you,” she gasps against my lips.

Before she can ask me again, I’m on my knees. My lips move against her body, giving her a different kind of kiss altogether, and her little black La Perlas have been tossed with reckless abandon across my living room floor.

“Fuck!” she moans as I slip my tongue against her clit.

Not only is she wet—she’s fucking sweet.

Like honey. Like ambrosia. Like a fine fucking wine that ought to be savored…

But I can’t stop myself for long enough to slow down and enjoy the taste.

I need more of her.

Now.

I hook her calves over my shoulders and lift her against my mouth. The hours that I’ve managed to squeeze in at the gym pay off as I carry her to my bed like that: riding my face and smearing her juices all over my lips.

“You’re fucking ovulating,” I tell her, breathing heavy as I toss her into my bed. “You’re in heat—I can taste it.”

“Fucking good then,” she snarls, crawling across the mattress to me. “Put your baby in me!”

She’s on all fours, clawing at my belt in an instant. She wants my cock so bad, her fingers have forgotten how belts work. That only makes me harder. I have to push her back on the bed and watch her pout while I unbuckle it myself.

The button, though. And the zipper.

Those, she figures out for herself.

Her mouth on my cock feels desperate. Hungry. She laps my pre-cum up with an animalistic eagerness that makes me want to shoot my cum down her throat until she’s gagging on it.

Instead, I grab a fistful of bleach blonde hair and pull her lips away. My cock exits her mouth with a satisfying POP!

“That’s not gonna get you pregnant,” I growl with need.

She grins up at me, eyes hooded with that same need.

“No?” she asks, faux-innocent. “Then by all means, doctor—show me how it’s done.”