Chapter 3 Theresa

• I can't even begin to describe how ashamed I feel after Doctor Storm leaves.
• Dad takes Amelia to school, and tries to coerce me to go too, but I tell him I need more rest. The truth is, I'm so disgusted with myself, and I need proper time to heal from the shame I feel. Doctor Storm rejected me. I stood right there, naked, pulsing, yet he wouldn't even touch me with a ten-foot pole.
• As much as I hate to admit it, it puts a lot of things into perspective. Nothing between us might work out, and I've spent all this time pinning for the wrong man. It made me mad as hell, and deeply sad. I want him so bad. I want him, I want him, I want him!
• Two days later which was a Saturday, Dad walks in that morning to announce that Doctor Storm would be joining us for dinner. "He declined, but I persuaded him anyway. Get dressed. We're going shopping."
• In truth, I've given up on Doctor Storm, and I'm much too comfortable, catching an hour more of sleep to care about him coming over for dinner. But Dad is giving me this suspicious look, and I didn't want him to sense that something was wrong.
• "I'll be down in an hour," I sulk.
• "You're not excited," he points out, his eyes crinkling. "Did something happen a few days back with Max?"
• "What?" I mock-gasped, giving him a death stare. "Dad, what are you implying here?"
• He raises his hands innocently. "I'm just..." he sighs and gestures to the door. "I'm sorry. I'll wait downstairs for you."
• "Good."
• When we get back from shopping, Dad forces me to help him out in the kitchen. We're just about to cut the chicken stripes when we hear Amelia squeal out excitedly. "Doctor Storm!"
• My stomach drops as Dad and I share a look. He beams, while I swallow painfully.
• He's here.
• ---------------------
• Dinner is a battle.
• I've never felt so awkward in my entire life, and what makes it worse is Dad asking me politely to sit next to Doctor Storm, so Amelia won't disturb him so much. Doctor Storm avoids my eyes for most of the time, until Dad asks me to pour him more wine.
• "More wine, Max? Theresa, please help him."
• I remove the cover from the wine bottle and pour until Doctor Storm says it's enough.
• "Thank you, Theresa," he says, meeting my eyes for the first time this evening.
• We have never been this formal. Never. And it's hard to tell if Dad notices the tension at all. He's so engrossed in telling Doctor Storm about his bank job and the crazy shenanigans that go on there. When he reveals how he caught his manager making out aggressively with a security man, how he wouldn't even blame her because she was almost forty and recently divorced and needed the rebound, I just about face plant in my casserole.
• Dr Storm pinches the bridge of his nose.
• "I, um. I got the marks back for that essay, Dad." Need a subject change, STAT. "The one about Ancient Rome?"
• "Oh, yeah? How'd you do, pumpkin?"
• "Good! Good, I..."
• I ramble on about my coursework, but my voice is fuzzy in my own ears, because every time Doctor Storm and I make eye contact accidentally, my whole body perks up and warmth pools low in my belly. My breaths come faster, my cheeks flush. And he knows. A faint smile plays around his mouth for the whole freaking dinner, the jerk.
• I love it, though.
• I do?
• I'm still salty about our last encounter but I can't keep being annoyed with him. I love this. Love him. And it's definitely me that he's been distracted by lately, not some other woman—I'm sure of it. The second I felt his hungry eyes on me, all that earlier anger evaporated like a fine mist.
• We've been on a collision course for a long time now.
• I hope he's ready.
• Because I'm not giving up on him that easily.
• By the time I tuck Amelia into bed and go back down to the den to watch a movie, I'm slick and aching beneath my shorts. Is this how I normally walk? What do I normally do with my arms? Ugh. I'm like an alien in a skinsuit, trying to get all my limbs to function.
• Lord, help me.
• "Hey, you know what I found in a drawer the other day?" Dad wanders to the bookshelves lining the den walls. This room is where he keeps all the mint-condition comics and first edition paperbacks that he loves, and that my mother used to shame him for before she left us. Good riddance.
• When he spins around and waves a battered old stethoscope, I choke back a groan. Not here. We can't play those games here.
• ...Can we?
• "Remember when you wanted to be a doctor, pumpkin? So you could work with Max all the time?"
• "Sure." I cross to my dad and pluck the stethoscope from his hand. There's a heavy silence behind us as Max sets up the movie. "I was a kid, though. As soon as I realized how crazy the Doc's job is, I changed my mind."
• "Smart girl," the man in question says quietly. I don't turn around to check his expression. I can't.
• Instead, I pop the stethoscope in my ears. "Think I still remember this, though. Picked up a few tricks of the trade. Come here, Dad."
• There's a steady woomf... woomf... woomf... through the cotton of my father's shirt. When he chortles, it echoes weirdly in my ears.
• With the movie playing, we drift to our usual spots: Dad takes his armchair, a mug of decaf on the little table beside him and a blanket thrown across his lap, and Dr Storm and I sink onto the sofa. As always, Dad rambles on and on about his college days, and the number of girls who swooned over him, while Dr Storm listened attentively. We sit at opposite ends, with miles and miles of respectable wilderness between us. Soon Dad begins to doze off, and I tap him to go inside and sleep.
• He wishes us a good night and heads upstairs.
• Alone with Doctor Storm for the second time in a week. This time, there is radio silence.
• "Um," the words come out of his mouth slowly. "About last time, Theresa..."
• I don't want to hear a thing. "It's fine, Max. I'm..." the tears escape my eyes before I can help it, and through my peripheral vision, I can tell he's stunned. "I don\t know what came over me, and I sincerely apologize..."
• "No, no, no. It's fine." Strong hands grip my hips, and I muffle a squeak as he tips me into his lap. I can't believe this is happening. He wipes my eyes with his hand, eyes burning, and he's so big. He takes up half the sofa—and all the air in the room. "I was harsh, I realized. I've never had a woman want me...want me so badly. And you're so...young."
• "You think I don't know what I want, do you?"
• He shakes his head. "I know you're nineteen, and you're a legal adult who can decide things for herself, but Theresa...your father. He's my best friend."
• "I don't care," I exhale. "I want you."
• He sighs. "You're so stubborn. Want to play a game?"
• I shrug. "Was waiting for you to finally admit that the movie was boring anyway."
• He guffaws as the movie flares back at full volume. My breath catches as I squirm in his lap, and he tugs the blanket out from under me, then tosses it over both of us.
• The soft lighting of the den goes hazy. He's solid, surrounding me.
• Is this real? Fuck.
• Max's thighs are so solid, and his body is so warm. How many times have I pictured this? How many times have I wondered how he'd feel, how he'd smell?
• The other day upstairs, I couldn't get enough of his cologne. It haunts my dreams. Smells like chocolate, and roses, and a lavender dream.
• "The rules go like this...first, we establish a baseline." His words are like quiet music, soft, melodious against my temple, barely audible over the movie. But his voice is ragged; his chest heaves. The metal disc of the stethoscope is cool through my thin black t-shirt, and I arch automatically into the touch. "Good girl. That's it. Alright, your heart rate is a little elevated."
• No shit.
• Glass shatters in the movie. Bullets pop, and upstairs Dad and Amelia must be in Dreamland.
• Is this really happening? But yes—I can feel my heart racing faster, gathering speed the longer the doctor touches me.
• "Now, let's discuss your shorts." A big hand slips under the blanket and glides down my knees to my innermost thighs, a finger finding my pussy, and sinking in. He jerks my hips forward by an inch, and my gasp cuts through the air, my throat dry, breathing ragged. "You are a naughty, naughty girl. Did you wear this to torture me? Answer me."
• "Yes," I manage after two gulped breaths. "I wore it for you." With no panties. Never said I wouldn't play dirty.
• And though Dr Storm's expression is hard, his green eyes narrowed, he loves this too. I know he does. I know this man better than I know myself, and besides—there's a giant clue digging into my butt cheek.
• A boner.
• "You want me that bad, Theresa? You want me worked up, right? Feral, agitated, hopelessly turned on, huh?"
• My lips part as he shifts the stethoscope, listening to my heart pound as I answer. As if I'd lie right now. "Y-yes."
• "Say it. I want to hear every word."
• "I wore shorts to turn you on, Dr Storm. Every time." Excitement flourishes in my stomach, and I ride it like a tidal wave. "I wore it so you could..."
• He waits, bristling with impatience as I trail off. A muscle leaps in his jaw, and his whole sculpted body is tense beneath me. "So I could what, Theresa? So I could what?"
• The silence is so loud, the tension so thick, his eyes so intense, so needy to hear the words, I feel my toes curl.
• "So, you could put your hand up there, Dr Storm. So, you could touch me."
• The movie goes quiet, and we sit together in stunned silence, my dad snoring softly in his armchair. We did it; we finally crossed the line and admitted it out loud. There's no way of explaining those words away; no laughing this off as an innocent game.
• No pretending this never happened. No turning back.
• The quiet drags on, and the longer it lasts, the colder I go, shrinking into myself on his lap. Has he changed his mind already? Did I go too far? I'll die if he regrets this. If he rejects me again.
• But then Dr Storm inhales deeply through his nose, gripping my hip tightly beneath the blanket. The soundtrack blares again from the TV screen. His gaze roams over my face, my lips, my body, and his expression is so possessive that I can't breathe. Can't breathe.
• This is it. With his hands on me... his eyes on me... it's finally happening. At last.
• "Well, then," my father's best friend rasps, and the roughness of his voice makes my nipples press against my t-shirt. "Let's move to the next phase."