I am not a modest man.

I feel that’s a point important to remember as I walk through the long, ramrod straight hallways of St. Murray Hospital, thumbing through my phone with one hand, clutching a black coffee cup in the other, and whistling a tune that gets a stark, disapproving look from Nurse Bradshaw as I pass by her station. I flash her a grin and she scoffs in irritation, one of our dear and consistent morning rituals.

She doesn’t like me. She’s not the only one, but she’s in the clear minority. I think her distaste for me has something to do with one of the new prenatal ward nurses I slept with a couple of months past, but I haven’t stopped to ask. Her ire keeps me awake in the mornings, many of which come too early for my personal liking.

Who thought it was okay to make doctors show up at 8:00 a.m. to see patients? Surely, someone, somewhere, would have realized that an awake doctor is a happy doctor and a happy doctor equals happy patients. My petitions to be excused from morning appointments have so far been ignored, but my assistant, Nurse Rosen – or Ginny, as I call her – has told me that she will dutifully keep filing them in as long as I keep signing them out.

I yawn into my coffee cup as I round the corner, the door to my office and reception area coming into view. It’s a few minutes past eight and I can assume my first appointment of the day is waiting for me already. Not to brag – who am I kidding, I’m definitely bragging – but the waiting list to see me extends out up to a year at this point. I’m just that good. There aren’t a whole lot of gynecologists in this country who could claim to know the female reproductive system quite as well as I do and it isn’t a secret I’ve worked hard to keep.

Like I said, I am not a modest man.

Still, that doesn’t change the fact that last night ended about two hours ago and for all my bravado, I feel the aches and pains of an unslept night. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had more to show for it, but other than a long-forgotten taste of a particularly sweet pussy on my tongue, I came out of the night somewhat perplexed.

I’ve never had a woman run from me and what last night’s girl, Melissa, did, definitely classified as running. It’s something I’m looking forward to not dwelling on, though, and my morning is set up to allow me plenty of opportunity for that.

“Is she here?” I query Ginny as she meets me the moment I step in, slipping a file into the crook of my elbow.

The reception area is all pastels and tasteful images of the female body that the hospital board has repeatedly commented on not being tasteful enough. No one’s shown up to demand the removal of them, though. I bring in too much money and national interest for that. If I stay, the fine representations of the female form stay as well.

“She is,” Ginny tells me. “And good morning, Kane.”

“That’s the smile I know and love,” I say, beaming a grin back at her as she shuffles behind her desk, blushing. “I’ve got a feeling about this one!”

Ginny doesn’t reply, but I bet she’s stifling a roll of her eyes. I’ve been excited for this appointment for weeks now, ever since I saw it on the books and had it moved up six months. A case of CVS comes around once a decade and I haven’t seen one yet. I’d be rubbing my palms together in anticipation if I had the hands to spare.

I shoulder my way into the room, curious to lay sight upon my medical mystery, but end up almost dropping everything I’m holding instead.

In place of my medical mystery, I find the feminine mystery that chose ‘stuff’ over my glorious presence last night. She has her hair pinned back in a modest braid and her kooky glasses fit her face better now that there aren’t a hundred LED lights blaring rainbow colors on her, but it’s definitely her. Removed from her slinky little dress and now in a sensible blouse and an A-line dress, my minx from last night regards me with the ashen face of a woman confused.

We gawk at one another for a good few seconds before I regain my faculties.

“Hold this,” I tell her, shoving my coffee cup in her hands.

She almost drops it, catching a hold just in time as I flip open the file. There, in black ink, confirming my fear, is the name Melissa Marie Malone. My first instinct is to ask her whether her dad is a big Marvel fan because that is some serious alliteration going on in her name, but I bite my tongue and snatch my coffee back.

My disappointment of the lack of cool medical journal-worthy medicine is curiously overshadowed by the excitement at seeing her again.

“So you’re my medical mystery,” I tell her, conjuring up my best smile and plopping the rest of my armful of stuff on the desk.

My office is big, a combination of workspace and examination room. It’s crisp and clean, decorated only with my diplomas and plaques and a couple of the college football trophies I’m too something – vain? – to throw out.

“So you’re my doctor,” she says stiffly.

I see the way her eyes travel across me as I take a seat opposite of her and I can bet she’s remembering the way I looked shirtless last night. I can’t blame her for it, if she thinks I’m picturing her as anything other than naked right now, she’s got another thing coming.

I remember her body all too well and it takes Herculean effort to keep from glancing at her gorgeous tits, hidden away under that boring blouse. I focus on her face instead, committing it to memory. High cheekbones but not too noticeable, a thick lower lip that makes her mouth pucker a little, a light smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks that she’s tried to hide with make-up. A delicate nose and wide eyes. It’s too easy to imagine what she’d look like, getting better acquainted with what she ran from yesterday.

Her expression twists a little and finally, she crooks a smile as well.

“Wait… You’re Dr. Big?”

“That’s me,” I nod. I could recite the conversation we’re about to have from heart without hearing another word from her.

“As in… Kane Big? Big Kane?”

She’s seconds from slapping a hand over her mouth to keep from giggling. I grin wide, leaning back in my seat, filling the leather chair with my bulk.

“What can I say, my daddy knew what I was all about even when I was born.”

For what it’s worth, he didn’t. Kane’s the name of my great grandfather. I like to say I just grew into it.

“Now, I’ve got to say, Melissa, I know I’m good but few women have come back for seconds this fast. Regretting your decision last night?” I ask, opening up her file again casually in a bid to stop drinking her in with my eyes.

I’m not supposed to be teasing her, but the moment the initial shock wore off, my cock twitched in interest. I’m not used to being turned down and even if I were, she’s a gorgeous woman, in her own weird, unorthodox way. I think it’s a natural reaction, albeit one I shouldn’t be having. Though the dress last night did her far more justice than the granny attire she has on now.

She blanches at my question and sputters something about having no idea who I was at the time. She’s red as a radish now and I think it suits her. Reminds me of the way she flushed when she came and that inevitably brings the taste of her pussy back on my tongue.

Which leads me back to why she’s actually here.

“Right,” I say, frowning as I mentally scroll over her medical history. “You’re here because you claim you have CVS.”

I deadpan the words, a reflection of what I think of that diagnosis as I look back at her.

“I do have CVS,” she says defiantly, picking up on my doubt and flicking a brown lock of slightly curly hair behind her ear that has escaped the braid.

“You think you have Closed Vagina Syndrome,” I ask, cocking my brow at her. “I know I shouldn’t be saying this under the circumstances, but I’ve seen plenty of pussy, and there’s nothing wrong with yours.”

The irony of telling her last night to take care of her kitty is blatantly obvious to me now.

Her nostrils flare a little and it’s the cutest thing.

“I’ve been to plenty of doctors, plenty of specialists, and they all agree that there’s something wrong,” she starts, while I’m mentally filing away the names of the dumbasses who told her she has an incredibly rare and painful disease that in 95% of the cases requires surgical intervention to allow for normal quality of life. “And you… you… well…”

“I what?” I pry her on. “I got too close of a look and now I’m somehow misinformed? I’m one of the leading specialists in the country on female reproductive surgery and I don’t know what I saw?”

I’m being a bit harsh, but I like the way she gets angry. Her gray and green flecked eyes widen in irritation. She looks good when she’s pissed off, far better than when she’s running away from me.

“You were drunk! And I was drunk, and I don’t know what you were doing there anyway and-… Oh whatever. I’ll just go. Obviously you’re not as good as everyone said you are!”

She’s up and out of the chair in a heartbeat. I have to bring out my best doctor voice to get her to stop with her hand on the doorknob.

“Melissa, stop,” I say, and she does.

I won’t go into the fact that I didn’t have a single drink last night and I know exactly what I saw and felt, that being a tight, lush, promising pussy I would have loved to play with. I also don’t grip my chest at the obvious slight of telling me I’m not as good as I am, how dare she? Instead, I stand up and motion toward the examination area behind the curtain, which separates it from the rest of the office.

“So show me, then,” I tell her, ignoring the realization that Little Kane is looking forward to this far too much. “I am as good as they told you. You’ve gotten a first-row seat. I know my pussy, in more ways than one. If you think I’m wrong, I’ll indulge you, get up in the chair. I dare you.”

It’s the last bit that gets those nostrils flaring again.

“Fine,” she practically hisses, marching behind the modesty curtain to slip out of her panties. “I’ll show you.”

I grin.

“Sure. Show Dr. Big where it hurts.”

If I’m right, which I almost always am, I know exactly what she needs. She doesn’t need a doctor. She needs a man.