My name is Payton Davis and I have been a very happily married woman for over a decade now. That may sound boring and cliché to some, but first impressions can be, and often are, quite deceiving. As my tenth anniversary recently approached, I knew that my husband Luke would be treating me like a princess; he always does. A typical anniversary for me has come to include receiving a sweet, simple, yet well-chosen card and a handsome bouquet of my favorite, deep lavender colored roses from Luke, and going to an intimate dinner for two at our favorite, out of the way bistro.
I revel in these sweet touches, I really do. However, the climax of an anniversary for me is always a surprise gift that Luke has spent days and months to find for me. Actually, this is usually just the first of many climaxes I experience in celebration of our wedding vows each year, but more on that in a bit.
Some years my special gift is a piece of jewelry, but never something mundane. Luke's taste in jewelry always pleases and surprises me, with some of the most charming and unusual jeweled pieces and trinkets one can imagine. Other anniversary gifts from Luke have included exquisitely exotic perfumes and even articles of fine clothing, something most men would avoid buying due to a mixture of equal parts disinterest and outright fear. Despite being very much a man's man, I often joke that my husband must have been an elegant woman with a bold taste for the finer things in his/her prior life. In any case, he always manages to find a unique anniversary gift to make me feel beautiful, desired and deeply loved. If you haven't noticed by now, I am quite spoiled by my husband and I make no apologies for it.
This year, Luke's first gift to me was his performing all of my weekly cleaning chores, on the night before our anniversary, while I worked a difficult evening shift as a nurse. My husband knows that cooking and cleaning are among my biggest sexual turn-offs. One may question his actual level of altruism in vacuuming and dusting the entire first floor and scrubbing the upstairs bathrooms by hand. However, if he had an ulterior motive, then his level of effectiveness was beyond question.
I arrived home tired and stressed to the max. Luke greeted me with a soft, meaningful kiss and a cold glass of Pinot-Grigio, as I was gently led up to our sparkling clean master bath. The entire house was spotless and the kids were safely tucked in their beds. The delightfully quiet scene was disturbed only when I found our whirlpool tub humming softly as it bubbled up with warm, lilac scented water. The only light in the room emanated from a dozen candles of various shapes and sizes. I quickly peeled off my scrubs, bra and panties, and slipped into the luxurious bath that had been drawn for me. Luke asked me what I would like to wear to bed. Even before I spoke the words, my thankful, yet lustful look told him that a large, soft towel was all that I would need when my bath was finished.
As I lay basking in the warm, amber glow of the candles, the hardships of my day began to slip away. The pain-pill popping old lady in Room 303, who kept nagging me for narcotic pain medications hours before she could have them again, safely faded from my memory. The sight and sounds of the horrid family of the elderly gentleman in Room 311, who crassly and loudly argued over their shares of his estate, while he lay there silent, but alert and quietly praying that his own death would arrive most swiftly, became more distant in my mind. Images of the haughty and obnoxious attending physicians I dealt with, and my occasionally petty and disagreeable co-workers, also seemed to dissolve into the soothing, fragrant water that swirled and eddied around my body.
One pleasant thought that did remain with me was the witty banter, and give and take flirting I had exchanged that night with our shift's overworked, but hot as hell resident physician, Dr. Tyson. Although he was about five years younger than I, he paid scant attention to the newly graduated nurses who were constantly trying to use their perky little tits and tiny asses to snag the best looking resident in the hospital.
My patients always receive the best care possible, not only because I am a damn good nurse, but also because they are assured that Dr. Tyson will check in on them more frequently than the other patients in our ward. Not coincidentally, this extra attention from Dr. Tyson usually occurred when I happened to be in my patients' rooms, giving treatments or doing assessments. I am equally impressed by Dr. Tyson's medical knowledge, intelligence and bedside manner. A large part of our flirting stems from a mutual respect for our respective abilities, along with the sharply sarcastic sense of humor we share.
I found myself thinking back to Room 309, where I had assisted Dr. Tyson, or Greg as he insists I call him when the other nurses are not around. That evening he worked on re-applying a complicated dressing that a purposely un-cooperative patient had earlier ruined. After giving the problem patient a stern, but appropriate rebuke for his actions in pulling the dressing off, Greg removed his lab coat and went to work. At six feet four inches tall and what looked to be a well-sculpted two hundred and twenty-five pounds, Greg gave off the impression that all he did was study, practice medicine and work out to maintain that incredible body.
He looked up at me with his deep-set, dark brown eyes and movie star good looks and asked me to come over and lend him a hand, literally. The dressing was complicated and difficult to place near the patient's knee, where a sharp metal spoke had pierced his leg in a motorcycle accident. Greg needed to have me hold one portion of the dressing in place while he carefully applied the remainder of the bandages in two other places. While I could have done this by taking one side of the dressing or the other, he gestured to me to hold the center portion. The fact that he then had to put his powerful arms around me to reach the rest of the dressing in this position appeared to contribute heavily to his thinking.
