Today was supposed to be your perfect day. It certainly started out promising with your boyfriend coming over on his first day off in months and bringing you breakfast in bed. Granted it was 7:30 in the morning but you cut him some slack because he usually has to be at the hospital at six to round on all his patients so you figured that getting up at seven to make you breakfast was sleeping in for him. And it wasn’t exactly waking you up with sex but hey you aren’t complaining. Being the girlfriend of a surgical intern is rough. His hours are all over the place and he’s constantly on call, but it’s worth it. Oh is it ever worth it.

 

You were kind of hoping you could get to the sex after breakfast but he had other plans. Sometimes he does this thing where he makes you wait. You guys go about your business with each other, go to the movies, get something to eat, watch TV and just…wait. Wait until one of you can’t take it any more and just starts ripping the others clothes off. This person is usually you because he is a patient man. You chock it up to all those 18 hour surgeries. Some days he makes you wait for it, and it looked like today was turning into one of those days.

 

So after breakfast he takes you to the museum, then buys you lunch and you are heading back to his place, fully ready to end the waiting game, when his cell phone rings. You tell him to ignore it but he can’t. He’s a doctor. Even his days off aren’t really his.

 

“Timberlake,” he says by way of greeting. “Nah man it’s my day off. I’m with my girl.”

 

You smile as he whips into his parking space but the smile fades when you see his eyes widen and his jaw drop. You know that look.

 

“Are you fucking serious?!” he exclaims. “That’s only been performed…what…twice…ever! Yeah I’ll be there.”

 

Your head whips to face him as he flips his phone shut.

 

“Justin!” you say as you watch him get out of the car.

 

“I gotta get my stuff,” he mutters, not even listening to you and you sigh, following him up the stairs to his apartment.

 

It’s messy in here, but it’s so incredibly him. Weight sets and basketballs sit next to surgical dummies and suturing equipment, Sports Illustrated mixed with copies of the Southern Medical Journal. Scented candles sitting next to long empty Budweiser cans. You can hear him rooting around in the bedroom and finally he comes out, tying a doo-rag over his curls and reaching for his bag on the couch.

 

“Justin,” you groan as he packs various things into his backpack.

 

“Baby it’s an auto-transplantation!” he exclaims and you look at him blankly. “They are going to completely remove the left and right atria, then reconstruct them with animal tissue!” His rushing around plus all the medical talk is starting to make you dizzy. “They have to completely remove the heart and then put it back in!”

 

“Well that sounds really great but Justin…” You trail and realize he’s not listening. He’s muttering things while flipping through old textbooks. “You know I’m not feeling too well.”

 

He stops his flipping and looks up at you, his brows knitting. “Your head?” he asks, grabbing a mini flashlight and walking toward you.

 

You rarely ever do this. When you were first together you were sick and he left you to go to work even though you asked him not to. Three hours later you were in the emergency room after you wrecked your car trying to get to the store to buy more cough drops. You had a wicked bad concussion and were out cold for two days. Ever since he’s dropped everything if you even so much as mentioned you have a cough and you’ve hardly ever taken advantage of it. But you are sick of being blown off for other people’s hearts. Its time he takes care of yours.

 

He’s holding your eye open and flashing the light in it, watching your pupils respond, with a serious, determined look on his face. You don’t even realize your smiling until he sighs irritatedly at you and puts his light in his pocket.

 

“You aren’t sick,” he says, grabbing his bag and walking to the door.

 

“But I am Justin,” you say following him and watching him jog down the stairs. “I feel bad. I do!”

 

“Sure babe,” he says condescendingly as he drops his bag in the front seat and slides in behind the wheel.

 

“Fine!” you exclaim, watching him begin to back out. “If I drop dead from lack of care, at least you won’t have to worry about malpractice, because I will die alone and in pain.” With that you stomp back into the apartment and slam the door.

 

Okay so that was a little dramatic, but dammit you’re horny and he didn’t even give you the opportunity to rip his clothes off. You plop dejectedly onto the couch. He’ll be gone for hours, watching some person be taken apart and put back together again and you’ll be here alone, watching medical shows on TV so you can at least have an inkling of what he’s talking about when he does make time for you.

 

You jump a little when the front door opens and he walks inside, dropping his keys on the table and sighs as he asks you:

 

“What seems to be the trouble?”

 

You grin. You may get your chance to rip his clothes off after all.

 

“Well I’m a little out of breath,” you say and he nods, reaching for his stethoscope as he sits on the coffee table in front of you. “and my mouth is dry.”

 

He hums in thought, taking his hands and rubbing your neck just below your jawbone near your ears. “Well your glands aren’t swollen,” he says after a moment.

 

“And my heart’s racing,” you say as he puts the stethoscope in his ears and presses it over your heart.

 

“It’s not beating too fast,” he says and you shake your head unbuttoning your blouse a little.

 

“You’ll get a better reading this way,” you say as you take his hand and press the stethoscope directly on your skin over your heart.

 

“It’s not racing Gemma,” he says pulling away and beginning to stand. “You are a picture of health.”

 

“But…” you exclaim and he sighs, facing you again, awaiting your excuse. “I have this ache.”

 

“An ache?” he asks as you lean toward him and take his hand.

 

“Yeah,” you say, as you open your legs and press his palm against your center. “Right here.”

 

His eyes widen slightly, feeling your heat through the thin cotton of your shorts. You know he can feel your want for him because you purposely forwent the underwear this morning. He stares at you for a moment before pulling his cell out of his pocket. Taking his eyes off you for only a moment to press a few buttons, he watches you as it dials.

 

“Hey…Can’t make it.” You beam at him as he runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth in that way that makes you quiver. “Nope, my girlfriend is sick. She needs taking care of.”

 

You shiver at that last part, pressing your hips harder into his hand as he argues with the person on the line for a moment before finally hanging up.

 

“Now,” he says leaning forward and placing both hands on your thighs. “You said it was an ache?”

 

“Yes,” you reply seriously, as his hands brush up your thighs.

 

“I think I need a closer look,” he replies, just as serious. “Would you mind taking these off?” he asks tugging on the hem of your shorts.

 

“If you think it will help,” you sigh, lifting your hips and shimmying out of your shorts.

 

He parts your legs and leans close, the heat from his gaze almost like a caress…almost. “Hmmm, I need to perform a thorough examination.”

 

“Whatever you think,” you sigh as he runs a finger up your slit.

 

You gasp when his long fingers part your folds, sliding in easily, his thumb pressing against your clit.

 

“Still ache?” he asks softly, his fingers working slowly in and out.

 

You moan an affirmation as his thumb presses harder into that small bundle of nerves, biting your lip as he reaches deep into you.

 

“Hmm, I think I need to perform a labrumutgenotomy.” You stare at him blankly. “More commonly known as a taste test.” He smirks when your jaw drops.

 

“You’re the doctor,” you concede, breathlessly as he dips his head, his curls brushing your thighs.

 

His tongue snakes around your clit and you sigh, your hands finding their way to his head, fingers twisting in the curls at the base of his neck. His fingers are still moving steady as he flattens his tongue and rolls it against your sensitive nub, eliciting a moan from your throat. His fingers curve inside you and you are so close to coming that you open your mouth to scream but he pulls back suddenly, leaving you panting and unsatisfied.

 

“Better now?” he asks, using his thumb and forefinger to wipe his mouth.

 

“No!” you exclaim rather forcefully and watch him grin at you. “It’s worse.”

 

His grin fades into mock seriousness. “Worse?” he questions, getting to his feet. “I’m afraid it’s serious,” he says as he kicks off his shoes.

 

“Serious?” you gasp.

 

“Yes,” he says, beginning to unbuckle his belt. “I think I’m going to have to go in.”

 

“Really!” you ask unable to keep the grin from your face, but clear your throat immediately and put on a solemn expression. “Really?”

 

“I’m afraid so,” he sighs, dropping his pants and his boxers to his ankles, kicking them off as he brings his shirt over his head.

 

You giggle as he climbs in top of you and he grins too, pressing against you intimately.

 

“Do I need to sign some sort of release?” you ask, as you feel him sliding the head against your slit, coating himself in your juices.

 

“Nah, I’ll give you one in a minute. No signature required.”

 

And with that he nudges himself inside, burying his face in your neck as he enters you slowly. Your arms encircle his neck, nails gripping his shoulders as he holds steady inside you and grits: “Better?”

 

“A little,” you sigh, as he pulls out and he asks:

 

“Now?”

 

“Worse,” you reply your brows furrowing.

 

“I think I’m getting the gist of this illness,” he smirks, plunging into you again and you giggle as he dips his head to suck on your neck.

 

His thrusts are steady and wanting, his breath panting against your collarbone. “Tell me what you feel?” he breathes against your skin. “I need to know. I’m your doctor.”

 

You moan at this and struggle to form a coherent thought. “Um…I feel…tension…”

 

“Tension?” he questions, and slams his hips into yours causing the couch to slide a little. “How bout now?”

 

You groan and manage to mutter, “Again,” and he obliges, slamming into you again and again, grunting from the force. Your legs, clamp around his waist, your hips rising, meeting h, thrust for bone crushing thrust.

 

Your vision goes black and for a moment you think you’ve passed out, until wave after uncontrollable wave of intense pleasure washes over you, causing you to cry out, to him, to God, to the entire fucking world. With one last thrust that sends the couch skidding into the side table, knocking over his model of the human brain, he comes, with a quiet “oh baby” whispered into your hair and a sweet exhalation of breath that heats your dampened skin.

 

After a moment of heavy breathing, he sighs “Well I believe the procedure was a success.” His lips press against your pulse point.

 

“Mmmm,” is your only response. Then, “Sorry about your auto-transy-whats-it,” you say, pulling a damp curl straight and watching it spring back into a spiral.

 

“Eh, you were sick,” he sighs. “And who knows, this could be serious.”

 

“Serious?” you ask.

 

“Mmmhmm,” he hums, his lips pressed against your throat. “I may need to go in again.”