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Playing with Her Doctors
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Getting pregnant? A big deal. Getting pregnant by your handsome, hands-on personal physician? An even bigger deal. And don’t forget, he has a business partner who loves being in on the action as well.
I’ve put off seeing a doctor for a long time, so when I finally work up the nerve, I decide to go for the best. Doctors Ryder Stephenson and Ranger Stevens have a very exclusive practice on Park Avenue. They’re two incredibly gorgeous, rich as all hell plastic surgeons with a helluva magic touch.
Except, my consultation goes off the rails.
My physicians are completely irresistible, and the temperature in the exam room heats up until it’s near sizzling. We’re damn near breaking the law.
But you know what I really want?
… And the doctors are only too happy to oblige. They tell me to come back for another consultation … and another … and another … until soon, I’m a mommy-to-be.
Yeah, whoops. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
But now, I want it all, and the gorgeous, huge, growly physicians won’t stop until I’m mommy to a dozen of their children.
We’re off the reservation with crazy, over-the-top insta-love between two gorgeous doctors and a sassy curvy girl that will make you want to put on a flimsy hospital gown. There are no swords that cross because the story is all about her. Not responsible for thermometers that break. Reader beware.
As with all my books, this one is safe, with no cheating, and a HEA guaranteed.
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I look at myself critically in the mirror, turning this way and that. Hmm, not too bad. Ever since giving birth two years ago, things have pretty much gone back into place. Not totally back in place, mind you. Not like how movie stars always seem to be in pre-baby form within two months of delivery.
Overall though, I look okay. My tummy has a tiny bit of pooch, my ass is bigger than it used to be, and there are some silvery stretch marks here and there, but I like it. Frankly, being bigger is my style – the girls who have sticks for arms and legs have always freaked me out a little. Do they ever get blown over by a gust of wind? Or what if a friendly dog comes snuffling up? Do they get knocked over onto their behinds by the wag of a tail?
Then I frown because on my last date, Rob was complaining. Rob isn’t my boyfriend or anything. He’s a man that I met on DatingTime, an online dating service I signed up for. To be honest, he seemed like the only normal guy on the entire site. Everyone else was a hundred years old, and I even suspect that some of the men who contacted me were transgender. Nothing against transgender people, but if you’re a guy wearing obvious false lashes and lipstick, I’m not sure if I’m the right woman for you.
But anyways, Rob and I have been out a few times. It’s been okay. We do the usual things like meet up at coffee shops and have dinner together. Last night, he invited me over for dinner at his apartment, and I knew what to expect. There’s only one reason why a man cooks when he barely knows you, and in this case, I was prepared.
Before the date, I carefully showered and shaved myself in all the important places. I styled my hair, making sure my brown curls looked bouncy and full, and not like a rat’s nest. Plus, I even put some make-up on: coral lipstick and a matching blush highlighted my cheeks, with a smidge of liner and mascara to hopefully give my eyes that winsome Bambi look.
Everything went according to plan. The babysitter arrived on time to look after my son Danny, and I showed up at Rob’s doorstep with a bottle of wine in hand. He looked more dashing than normal. His brown hair was styled to the side, and he wore black jeans and a button-down. On our previous dates, he was usually dressed in a t-shirt, which I guess is okay since we always met in casual settings.
“How are you, darlin’?” he asked.
I smiled and stepped inside his apartment.
“Good, thanks. You?”
Rob said something in return and we moved further into the living room. I looked around. It was homey and comfortable. Here in New York City, most people don’t have a lot of space, and Rob’s apartment probably wasn’t more than eight hundred square feet. But he’d done it up nicely. His furniture looked relatively new, and there were some photographs on the wall. He’d also taken pains to put out some crackers and cheese on the sideboard, which I appreciated.
“Can I offer you some wine?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“No, not for me,” I said with a smile. “I’m still breastfeeding, if you can believe it. My son Danny is two, but he still likes his mother’s milk.”
Rob turned beet red, and even broke out in a sweat.
“Oh of course,” he stammered. “I forgot that your son is still breastfeeding. No worries, is water okay?” he asked, moving towards the kitchen.
“Perfect,” I called after him. “And if you have sparkling water, that would be absolutely delightful.”
I stared at my date a bit because under the harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen, he was definitely sweating a little. There was a shiny gleam on his chin and forehead, almost like he was a pimply teenager. But it’s okay. Some guys are just awkward even when they’re thirty-five, and Rob seemed to fall into that category.
“Here you go,” he said, coming back with a glass. “Hopefully Perrier works for you.”
I took a sip. Mmmm, the sparkling water was delicious, hitting the back of my throat and making my nose feel a little fuzzy.
“Perfect,” I said with a smile. Rob nodded happily, a little like a golden retriever eager to please, and gestured towards the small dining table positioned in a nook next to the kitchen.
“Take a seat, Bethany,” he said with a smile. “I’ll have the pasta out in a minute.”
As I walked over to the dining area, my date strolled over to the stove and lifted a pot to let out a warm waft of steam. Mmm, the simmering smell of tomato sauce made my stomach growl audibly, and I laughed.