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Of course, if the good doctor sucked in bed, our arrangement would be over very quickly. However, I had a feeling that he was more seductive and erotic than I could imagine. I would have to remember to eat properly because I would probably need my energy. He never did tell me how many times a week this arrangement would be for.
I arrived at the clinic just after nine, and there were a few people in line already. When I reached the front, the receptionist handed me paperwork to fill out. Once I was finished, she told me to take a seat, and they would call me. Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the exam room, and a nurse was drawing my blood.
“You can call for your test results by Friday. They should be in by then, but sometimes they take a little longer.”
“Okay, thank you.”
On the way home, I stop for a large coffee at one of the shops around NYU. I need it with all that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. I also want to know if I’m making the right decision, but who can I talk to? My sisters would have a fit if I told them I had an “arrangement” for sex, which is saying a lot because my sister, Emma, has had her messes with men.
Of course, I can’t tell any of my coworkers. Chase would have an absolute conniption even if I kept didn’t name who I was with. And besides, if he ever found out, I don’t doubt it would be explosive. I’m just going to have to keep this one to myself and deal with it. I am intrigued by Chase. He’s unlike any man I’ve ever been with, especially in such a short time.
I’m in a cab when my phone chirps with an incoming text. I glance at it, and I’m very surprised to see that it’s from Chase. I never gave him my number, but maybe he got it from my work file… that I was certain was confidential.
C: Are you planning to get your test today?
M: I’ll have you know that I already went, and I’m on my way home now.
C: Good girl. I was hoping you would take care of it early.
God, he was so bossy. I mean, I’m not in the office right now, so why should I listen to him? The way he texts me makes me feel like our sex is just a transaction to him.
M: I’m on top of it.
C: That’s where I want to be as soon as you get your results.
Fuck! My belly clenches at the mental image of him on top of me. Damn him! Just when I wasn’t thinking about sex and my desire was low, it’s like he knew. Now I’m becoming heated, and it’s not from the late warm April weather.
M: Can you please stop talking about that until it’s time?
C: Am I getting you hot, Miss Stanford?
Bastard. To spite him, I don’t want to admit he’s getting to me, but should I deny it all? I would love it, but I’m sure he knows better.
M: Stop it. You know you are. I don’t like to be teased.
I impatiently wait for him to return my text, but I receive nothing back. Good. I need some time to calm down even though I’m sure my panties are once again, unpreventably wet. I shift in my seat and squeeze my legs together, trying to stop the pulsing between them. If it doesn’t stop, I’m going to have to take care of myself again.
As I get closer to my apartment, I begin to calm. The fresh air once I step out of the car help settle me. The elevator ride is cool, and I can relax once I get upstairs and change my sure to be soaked panties.
Going through my drawers, I realize I have no more underwear because I haven’t done laundry in weeks. I guess that’s going to be my activity of the day. Once I pull on a pair of yoga pants, sans panties, and gather three big bags of laundry, I head downstairs. At this time, on a sunny Saturday, the washroom was usually almost empty. I’ve meant to get a stackable washer/dryer combo in my apartment, so I can do laundry at my leisure but haven’t gotten around to it yet.
Once I pile everything into two big washers, I sit on a nearby bench and play with my phone. The only other people around are a short Hispanic woman I know from the second floor and some young guy that always wears bicycle shorts. Forty-five minutes later, I’m feeding four dryers with coins to get everything dry.
The room is starting to heat up, and I can feel a bead of sweat on my lip. The stackable is becoming a strong consideration because I hate sitting here, slowly boiling. The heat was also why I waited so long to do laundry in the first place. Soon, I’ve drained my battery by playing several games of solitaire, and now my phone is almost dead, so I power it down.
The buzzer goes off for two of my dryers, and I hop up, preparing to begin folding the clothes while they’re hot. The guy in bicycle shorts is not to subtly watching me from the corner of his eye, so I decide to shove my panties and bras in one of my bags. Some of the lingerie is quite sexy, and I feel weird about him ogling my underwear.
I finish folding just at the other two dryers go off. Standing by the machines has caused my hair to stick to my neck. As sweat pools along my back, I shove anything that I don’t have to worry about wrinkling into the last bag and sling everything else over my arm. It’s a chore to lug it to the elevator, but I do it. When I get inside my apartment, I drop everything on the couch.
The first thing I want to do is charge my phone. When I plug it in, there are several voicemails, but before I can check them, a call comes in from the same number that texted me earlier, Chase.
The second I hit the accept call button, he’s growling in my ear, “Miss Stanford, where have you been?”
“If you must know, I was doing laundry.”
“I’ve been calling you for the last hour.”
“What, why?”
