Two Months Later
"About time! How was your day?"
A freshly-showered Doctor Angelos tightly embraced the man holding a large bag of Thai takeout on her front porch. He rested his chin atop her damp head, inhaling the scent of her cherry almond shampoo and grinning contentedly.
His day actually hadn't been so bad. Incidentally, it marked exactly two months since he'd convinced his captain to shelve that elusive Walter case--at least, until they found more compelling intelligence.
His colleagues were somewhat confused at first. Detective Berman was one of their best men, and he'd gotten off to such a strong start. In fact, cases like that, he usually wrapped up within weeks, sometimes days if he was on a roll. But the leads fizzled out, as they sometimes did. The victim left no next of kin to beat down their doors or pester them with phone calls. There were more pressing cases.
And the woman whom he'd once considered a primary suspect had given him very strong and very compelling evidence to the contrary. Talking to her for so long made him realize that letting the Walter case fall by the wayside and grow cold was actually quite logical, really, even inevitable. There were facts to consider. There was the fact that Doctor Angelos hadn't had any traceable contact with James Walter for months; the detective had checked on that. The fact that his newest manuscript had been rejected by several publishing companies. The fact that he'd already had a well-documented history of suicidal episodes, ideations, even attempts long before he became her patient.
The fact that every time the case's leading investigator thought about the doctor's potential involvement, he was overwhelmed with that familiar, intoxicating warmth, and his sharp thoughts would blunt; his mind's eye would illuminate with her bright, dancing gaze, her melodic voice, her soft touch, and at some point something would snap out of his daydream, minutes of his life lost to the sands of time simply sitting there blissfully blank and empty, a shrine to her loveliness incarnate.
Not the worst deal in the world.
"Fantastic now that I'm here, Madam. And you?" he said.
"Better already," she replied, retrieving the fragrant dinner from his grasp and setting it on the coffee table for later. Doffing his coat and boots, he followed her into the living room; when she turned around to face him, he surprised her with a tender kiss.
"Hungry?" he whispered into her lips.
"Starved," she breathed back, taking his hand and leading him into her candlelit bedroom. Their pad see ew and spring rolls could wait.
The doctor was very pleased with how far her subject had come. Though the battles had been tricky, she was, dare she say, winning the war. Thanks to her expertise, she'd gotten his number early on. The detective was one whose intense focus allowed him to slip into trances with ease, even on his own, but whose mind worked too hard and too well to fully disengage for long periods. She would work on him for an entire weekend, use her entire arsenal to get him utterly blank and blithering, then send him to work Monday morning as normal.
But by the following weekend, that mind of his would march right through her door again, picking up pieces, putting them together, and asking her what on earth he was to make of the result.
So it was necessary for her to vigorously shake away the connections he'd drawn over the course of the week like an Etch-a-Sketch. And though it
was
work, the doctor took pride and joy in tearing down his walls every time, each new wall of his built just a little bit shorter, a little bit weaker. Each time, he fell deeper, quicker, and before long she'd find herself once again delighting in the expressions of quizzical frustration on his face trying to make the cacophony of cognitive dissonance make sense in that pretty little head of his.
Then, to her delight, the Walter case was finally shelved, and so went with it the whole investigatory charade. Yet still every Friday night, like clockwork, Detective Berman found himself on her front porch, ringing her doorbell, his mind quieter and more forgetful each time, his gut for some reason aching from an entire week of vague, lusty hunger. And still each time she would open the door, and each time she would rain kisses upon his brow, each smooch vacating another thought from his head. By Sunday evening, he was left slinking up what he presumed to be his driveway in a tranquil daze, blithely hoping he was at the right house this time.
Tonight, that case hadn't even occurred to him. He wasn't at her house to ask her questions. There were none left to ask. He was at her house because he wanted to be, because he was told to be, and good boys did as they were told.
And it felt so good to do as he was told.
Doctor Angelos carefully removed Detective Berman's glasses and gazed into his warm brown eyes, so much more naked and intense without their barrier. At long last, she'd successfully worn him down, and all in good time, too--she was about to burst just looking at him.
Before he could blink, he felt the firm clasp of a heavy black leather collar around his neck, his eyes unfocusing and limbs loosening. Tranquil daze, indeed. He'd awoken with it encircled around his neck a couple of weeks ago, and did think it somewhat strange at first. But now he longed to hear its satisfying snap, its snug embrace silencing his thoughts and worries, comfort enveloping him.
"Be a good boy and kneel for me."
Wordlessly, he dropped to his knees for her on the plush carpet of her bedroom floor. She approached him and stood with her legs stanced apart, the short hem of her white lace nightie at that angle leaving little to his imagination.
"Good boy," she cooed, wrapping her arms around his head. He shivered. How he adored hearing those words from her mouth. Automatically, his hands found her pale, supple, rounded thighs and squeezed them. He kissed them with starved abandon, tightening his grip and burying his face between them.
His eyes closed as he laid his head against her soft stomach, his hands climbing up her thighs towards her bottom, squeezing her large, firm glutes. God, she had a fantastic rear. He trailed ravenous kisses down to her groin, continuing to lay kisses on her neatly-trimmed lips until his kisses turned more and more lax, his tongue joining the fray, his desire to taste her insatiable as he felt her grow wetter and wetter while he worked. Gently, he began sucking her clitoris, prompting a firm, uncoordinated hand in his hair, pressing his head against her pelvis. The doctor arched her back against the wall and sighed, shivering at his sudden increase in speed and intensity, her skin breaking into goosebumps.
The doctor had discovered weeks ago that as a man so out of practice with any sort of sexual encounter, the poor detective had little clue with regard to navigating this specific type of pleasure. But that was alright; he was a fast learner, especially in this state. And with a little time and careful instruction, the award for most improved most certainly went to the man lapping at her with haste, his senses overwhelmed with her juices. Her head lolled heavily against the wall, and though she tried, really tried to stay silent, her own lips betrayed her, soft moans escaping them, growing more feral; more desperate. She felt his throaty growls underneath her as he worked, driving her over the edge, the sensation building, building, and then seizing her, pounding, boiling over, gripping her entire being as she felt a slick of warm fluid run down her legs.
Quivering, her knees buckled, sending her to the floor and into his sturdy, waiting arms. In his embrace, her heavy, erratic breathing began to calm. They parted and locked eyes, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. She exhaled and tousled his hair.
