Work Text:
The first time you see her, John’s late to his shift. He hasn’t been in the surgery in some three weeks, but one of the other doctors is out on family vacation so you’ve called him in. You see him from the window of your office, stepping out of a black saloon car. He pauses and says something through the door then closes it and turns. As he steps away, the window rolls down and a hand reaches out, holding a file. He hesitantly takes the file and you can just see the profile of a young woman, dark curls, pert nose, and full lips, framed by the window. John walks into the surgery but you find yourself watching the car as it drives away.
The second time, you’re surprised to see her standing in front of a car (probably the same one, sleek, black, and anonymous) outside of the back surgery door as you step out for a sandwich on your lunch break. Her thumbs tap away on a Blackberry but she looks up at your step and cocks a smile, half wry and half inviting, as if you share a private joke. You’re beyond disconcerted when she invites you to join her in the car, but she briefly explains that it’s regarding John, and no he’s not in trouble, but you can be of assistance. Even though the briefly promising – and certainly exciting – flirtation you had with John fizzled out (and ok, you suspect it had to do with a certain someone whose name always seemed to crop up when you were together even when the man himself didn’t show up – which was rare), you still feel kindly towards him and figure with that madman for a flatmate (and more) he could use all the help he could get. So you drive with the woman, who introduces herself as Anthea, to a quietly elegant office where a man in a suit proposes to keep the surgery well-funded – very well-funded – if John’s salary and position are maintained no matter how often he dashes out to join Sherlock or falls asleep during a shift. It’s an easy decision to make, as John’s a very good doctor when present and awake and the money more than makes up for his lapses so you leave the building with a cheque in hand.
On the way back, eyes still on her mobile, she apologizes, “So sorry to pay you so little attention, but emergencies do have a way of cropping up just when I’d rather they didn’t. This issue with the Korean elections – but you don’t need to know about that.” She smiles again, that private-club smile which makes you instantly like her, then looks up briefly. There’s something in her eyes that makes you catch your breath, like she knows everything about you (and she does seem to) but still wants to know more, but it’s gone in an instant. She drops you back at the surgery with a few minutes left to spare of your lunch break and presses a carry-out box into your hand, saying she hopes to see you again soon. The carry-out is your favorite curry from a Thai place across London, miraculously hot and incredibly satisfying. You decide not to ask how.
The third time, it’s the end of the day and you’re up to your eyes in paperwork. You hear a knock at your office door and there she is, Blackberry still in hand. She taps out a few last words then slides the mobile into a pocket, fixing you with a curious glance, appraising and amused. She apologizes for interrupting, explaining her presence with a cheque held out in one hand. You can’t help but feel it’s pretence, knowing it could have easily been posted. She steps just a little closer than necessary when handing it to you, leaning slightly over the corner of your desk. Her perfume, delicately floral with a hint of citrus, floats in the air and her fingers brush yours as the cheque changes hands. You stammer out thanks and she leans over, close enough to you that her hair brushes your cheek, lips close to your ear as she murmurs that it’s absolutely no problem at all. She lingers for a moment. You only realize you’re holding your breath when she pulls back, licking her lips, the soft, wet noise almost lost behind the thrumming of blood in your ears. On her way out, she turns at the door – that damn smile again – and her goodbye is full of promise.
The fourth time, you’ve been waiting for her but you still feel you may be in over your head. The surgery’s been closed for hours; you’re the last one there, ostensibly busy with paperwork again, but you know it’s the last of the month and a cheque is due. You’ve almost given up on her but find yourself passing through exam rooms, straightening perfectly neat instruments and wiping down spotless surfaces. You don’t notice her in the door until she clears her throat. The Blackberry’s away this time and she’s wearing a figure-hugging wrap dress, a bold print that is startlingly vivid in comparison to her usual smartly tailored suits. Holding the canisters of cotton wool you’ve been needlessly rearranging, your hands still as she crosses the room in three strides. She slides the cheque onto the counter, her body leaning into yours until your hips just touch but no further. She’s not pushing, she’s giving you a chance to back away, put space between your bodies and keep this tension at bay. You consider for a split second then press your lips against hers, one hand hesitantly fluttering around her waist until she pulls you to her firmly. You grasp her hip, sliding your tongue along her mouth. She parts her lips and you dip your tongue in, feeling heat and the sharp edge of teeth.
Her hands on your hips, she gracefully maneuvers you away from the counter, then before you can react, grasps one wrist and flips you around. You’re trapped between her body and the exam table, your hips pressed against the padded edge, your ass grinding into her hips. One hand slides up your body, underneath your blouse, to grasp your breast. Her palm rubs against the lace of your bra, teasing the fabric across your nipple. With her other hand, she works your blouse up, pulling it over your head, then kissing down the side of your neck and along your shoulder. Wanting her hands on your skin, you reach back and unhook your bra, sliding it off your arms. She rolls your bared nipple between two fingers, running the fingernails of her other hand down your ribcage. You shiver and arch your back into the teasing ghosting of her fingertips. She strokes down your sternum, just this side of ticklish, then, with a motion so quick your breath stutters, she digs her nails into the soft flesh above your hipbone, twisting your nipple. You let out a gasp, all surprise and shaky pleasure, and feel her breath hot on your ear.
“Do you want this? Do you want me to bend you over here and take you, to fuck you until you’re screaming to come?” Her voice purrs in your ear and you feel your knees literally weaken. You choke out some noise of agreement and that’s all she needs. One hand on the back of your neck and she’s pushing you against the exam table, your breasts against the cold paper and your hips shoved against the padded edge. She flips your full skirt over your hips and pushes the crotch of your underwear aside, sliding her fingers into your cunt. You’re already absurdly fucking wet and you feel two, then three fingers inside, stretching, probing. She crowds close to you, her thigh against yours, soft silk on skin, the edge of her hip hard against your buttock.
Covering your body with hers, she runs her free hand up your bare torso and curls her fingers in your hair. You feel every movement of her body centered on the slow burn in your cunt, her fingers inside you curling and reaching, filling you and teasing every sensitive nerve in your core. Your muscles tense and strain, your cunt opening up, swallowing her hand, as your clit hardens. All your awareness is centered in those nerves, alive and yearning. She thumbs over your clit quickly and it’s the catalyst; you’re fucking back into her, feeling your cunt flutter around her fingers and your thighs quiver. As you come she yanks on your hair, just enough to smart, and the unexpected pain mingles with the pleasure coursing through your veins. You shout something obscene and vaguely unintelligible as the waves of orgasm crash down.
Your body is shaking and you’re thankful for the support of the exam table. You turn around and collapse onto the rolling stool nearby and notice Anthea straightening her dress and gathering her small briefcase.
“Are you…where…” you pause and try again. Really, what exactly about this woman flusters you so much? Besides the shameless seduction, that is. “Where do you think you’re going?”
You’re gratified to see her raise one eyebrow in – surprise? Amusement. “Just off out, if we’re done with tonight’s…business.”
“Who said anything about done?” You stand, trying very hard to keep your legs from shaking, and take her case back, setting it on the chair. “Up on the table, if you please. Trust me, I’m a doctor, I know what I’m doing,” you say with a bit of a sarcastic smirk. She raises that eyebrow again but complies, sitting almost delicately on the edge of the table. She watches as you untie and open her dress, then hook your hands into the waistband of her panties and shimmy them down as she raises her hips.
You prop her feet in the stirrups, kneel on the pull-out shelf at the table’s base and think you’ve never thought of an exam table as so damn handy. She’s spreading her knees, opening herself to you; while you mostly date men you’ve always loved this part of being with women. The hot slip-slide of a cunt on your lips, all soft flesh and coarse hair, and the sharp tangy taste of a woman’s come. You spread her lips and lick up through her wetness, flicking the tip of your tongue over her clit and feeling a satisfying jolt of her hips. Taking her clit between your lips, you suck gently, feeling its hardness and testing just how sensitive she already is. She wiggles slightly, as if to tell you to get with it already. You comply, tonguing her clit in earnest, drawing tight circles around its hardness. Her cunt opens to you, lips spreading as she becomes more aroused. One hand tangles in your hair and you smile against her as you feel her subtle guidance. You follow the grasp of her hand in your hair, feeling it tighten as you flick the tip of your tongue under the hood of her clit, jolting the tiny bundle of nerves. Her thigh quivers against your cheek, her hand twisting in your hair. It smarts but you continue, her clit hard against your stroking tongue. Her muscles tense, her wetness, thick and viscous, coats your mouth, and you tongue her harder until she comes with a sharp inhaled gasp, bucking against your mouth once.
You pull back and lazily wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. She props herself up and quirks a smile, then begins to straighten and re-tie her dress. With that cue, you stand up, hand her back her panties, and start re-assembling your own clothes. Once decent, you follow her toward the door, but she stops at the threshold. “Until next month, then? Unless…you’d like me to give you a ride home?” She grins and suddenly you’re in on the joke.