“Are you the doctor?” the man asked, and his voice was so incredibly deep and delicious that Dover was unexpectedly disappointed.
Damn, no way was this guy gay. He probably had a wife and five sons, passing on those astonishingly good genes to the next generation already. Dover almost sighed. Yeah, a man built like this one would never want for female company.
Well, time to smarten up and be the doctor. He cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height of 5 feet 7 inches.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Dover Smith,” he said in what he hoped was a professional tone. Well, a husky but professional tone, he amended privately, since he did still have a raging erection.
He stepped forward and carefully took hold of the bloody cloth, steeling himself to conceal his reaction to touching the man’s hand. If his eyes alone could give such a jolt, Dover could hardly imagine what sensations touching him would deliver. He suppressed a full body shiver at the thought.
“That’s a nasty cut,” Dover said conversationally, pressing the man’s hand with its cloth back against the wound. “But it’s not deep and the bleeding is slow. I can probably do this with about three stitches and a few small butterflies.”
He moved to the counter to prepare a tray for the sutures and local anesthetic.
“Butterflies?” the man asked, clearly puzzled.
Dover smiled, feeling comfortable with the familiar explanation. “It’s a type of bandage that uses tension to hold a wound closed so that it can heal properly to minimize scarring. The bandage itself is shaped like a butterfly.”
He held one up, and then flapped it to make it fly in a silly motion, like he did with the younger patients who came into his emergency room. That silly maneuver never failed to make the young ones smile, no matter their injuries.
The man grinned involuntarily, and Dover quickly looked away. It wouldn’t do to drool all over his patient. Although, looking and sounding as good as he did, the poor guy was probably slobbered on by shameless needy women and lustful men almost as a matter of routine.
“Why don’t you tell me your name, and what happened to bring you into my ER?” Dover suggested, fighting for a calm tone.
His patient needed the distraction and he needed some background noise to drown out his inappropriately pounding heart.
“I am Marco Colletti, the football, sorry, soccer coach and counselor at the Youth Outreach Center,” the man said, holding out his big hand to shake—with the bloody cloth in it.
Dover took the cloth and grasped Marco’s hand, shaking it only once, very firmly. When Marco didn’t pull his hand away immediately, Dover grabbed for his control and pulled away first. He knew the motion was awkward, but he covered it up by pulling on his gloves, reaching for his tray with the wicked curved needle and sutures.
He prepared Marco’s wound and quickly administered the local anesthetic, rubbing gently in a circular motion with his thumb to ease the needle sting.
“You must be European,” Dover said, trying not to sound interested. “I notice you refer to our soccer as football.”
“Yes,” Marco replied, “I was born in Milano, that is Milan, Italy, but we emigrated when I was six, and I was raised mostly in New York City. But you’re right. In an Italian family it’s always called football, or simply The Game. Never soccer. My mother still cooks a mountain of food for every World Cup final game and makes the sign of the cross if anyone ever refers to it by the name of soccer. She is a true Italian mama.”
Marco laughed warmly, strong white teeth flashing, and his open enjoyment of his mother’s antics gave Dover a good feeling. Marco was obviously close to his mother.
There was an awkward silence, when Dover suddenly realized that he had stared too long and too appreciatively at Marco’s mouth so he cleared his throat and started stitching. He worked quickly and efficiently, wanting nothing more than to be out of here before he said something totally improper like “Have you ever thought of kissing another man?” or “May I please suck your monster cock?” He was trying very hard not to be obvious, but his eyes kept straying to the impressive bulge in Marco’s bicycle shorts. Was it… growing even larger?
Marco’s voice was hesitant now, and when Dover pulled back slightly after tying off the final stitch, Marco didn’t meet his eyes right away.
Oh shit, Dover thought. He noticed me looking at his astonishing cock. He made his voice firm and thoroughly professional when he replied.
“Yes, Marco, what is it?”
Marco paused almost imperceptibly, then asked hurriedly, “Doctor, I’m sorry—are you gay?”
Marco looked up just at that moment, and intercepted the lustful gaze. He seemed startled for a moment and Dover’s heart sank into his shoes, wondering if Marco would even acknowledge him, or if he would pretend that he didn’t see and just walk on.
But Marco swiftly smiled that blazing sunny smile and strode down the corridor in his direction. He didn’t slow down and when he was no more than six inches away from Dover, he reached out. A blatantly physical man, he didn’t bother with mere words. He offered his greeting with his entire body.
Marco pulled the smaller man against his wide chest, captured Dover’s lips under his, and proceeded to give him the kiss of a lifetime. Wrapping one muscular arm around Dover’s back, he used the other hand to grip Dover’s curls, holding his head in place for the aggressive plundering of his mouth.
Dover went under in a whirlpool of wicked pleasure, thoughts suspended, and feelings leaping to the forefront. He was aware only of sensation, the firm brush of Marco’s tongue on his, the feel of Marco’s strong hand in his hair, Marco’s thick, hard cock thrusting insistently against his belly. The throbbing of his own straining penis protested the restriction of his perfectly creased trousers. He was writhing, rocking, rubbing his cock and taut balls against Marco’s solid thigh, and the fire racing up his spine was extreme.
Dover tried to pull back. “God, you have to stop. I’m gonna come,” Dover gasped, his words caught in Marco’s voracious mouth.
Marco pushed him unexpectedly, catching him off balance as he almost fell backward through an open doorway with Marco still pressed firmly to the front of his body. He stumbled a bit, but was immediately whirled around in the same position and pressed against the back of the closing door. Marco turned the lock with a loud click and then dropped to his knees on the rough carpet.
Dover gasped harshly as his zipper was lowered and a dark strong hand pulled out his hard, weeping cock. He felt Marco’s hot breath puff against his skin but before he could muster up the will to do anything, Marco groaned and squeezed and then swallowed him whole.
The afternoon sun was shining straight into his eyes through the bank of windows at the other end of the room as Marco took over his world. The intense heat of Marco’s mouth enveloping his straining flesh and the spangled sun blindness only added to the surreal quality of the moment.
“Ah… Marco—” He was incoherent, wanting to beg for more, for something, but lacking the wits or the breath to speak. “Marco… God…”
Marco licked and sucked and pulled with his strong mouth, driving the sinfully delicious bliss to a higher level than Dover had ever experienced. The hard hands roved, one pinching and tugging sharply on Dover’s nipples, the other massaging his aching balls while a hungry tongue laved back and forth, back and forth over the sensitive tip of his penis.
“Come,” Marco said urgently. “Come for me.”
When Marco dropped his head again and engulfed him to the root, Dover gave a strangled shout and bucked, erupting like a geyser, every muscle in his body clenched, hot seed blasting up from his balls and flooding into Marco’s throat.
Marco moaned long and loud at the onslaught, but stayed with him, consuming every drop of semen Dover could offer, clutching Dover’s spasming buttocks to hold him close so he could not escape.
God, he never wanted to escape. Never.