The Sex Surrogate(4)By: Jessica Gadziala
I took a deep breath, signing the end of the last page, putting all the pages into the folder, sealing it, then handing it to the receptionist.
I went back to my chair with my heart slamming in my chest, my hands getting clammy.
I was saved from my misery a short five minutes later.
“Miss. Davis,” the receptionist called, making me jump, then spring to my feet. She smiled sweetly, moving toward me with an extended arm, but kept her distance. “Dr. Hunter would like you to wait in his office, get comfortable for a moment, while he looks over your paperwork,” she explained, leading my toward a door down at the far end of the large waiting room, “then he will be in to see you.”
She opened the door, standing outside of it, making it obvious she was not going to go in. “Thank you,” I said, stepping past the threshold a few steps.
The door clicked quietly behind me, the sound slamming somewhere in my mind, screaming out:
This is it. There's no going back now.
His office was in complete contrast to the waiting room. Whereas the waiting room was crisp and clean, almost feminine, his office was all man. The wall straight across from the door had windows covered in heavy drapery, a brown leather couch situated in front of it. To the left was a floor to ceiling bookshelf with a dark wood executive desk in front of it. Books spilled from the shelves, heavy tombs of, I imagined, psychological origins. Or sexual origins, I thought with a strange hysterical little laugh. To the left was a small, intimate seating area. There was another brown couch, this time in a soft suede material, with two end tables with lamps, and an arm chair across from it, on an angle. Dr. Hudson's four degrees and certificates were displayed above the couch.
The walls were a deep green color, the floors the same dark wood as the waiting room. There were a few framed pictures, one on either side of the door. One, a black and white of a man and woman, half in shadow, with the edges of their heads turning into birds. The other, another black and white, the same man and woman, still half in shadow, embracing.
I turned away from them, walking into the room which was nothing what I had been expecting. I guess, maybe, a part of me had been expecting, well, a bed. I shook my head, making my way over to the suede couch, situated slightly into a small alcove. I sat, placing my hands out on the cushions beside me. To ground myself, to stop my hands from being clammy.
There was a clock above the door and I sat there watching it, time tick tick ticking away. Still no sign of the good doctor. Music started to come through some hidden speakers, the song slow and bluesy. Calming. The heat clicked on, warm and comforting.
I was almost, just barely at the point where I didn't think I was about to vomit all over his perfect office, when the door slowly opened.
And in he came.
So, yeah, he wasn't middle aged. No hangover of a waistline. No moobs. No meat hands or elephant ears. No. This was, in a way, almost worse.
He was a freaking monument to male perfection.
His hair was black, longish but pushed back from his face. Strong dark brows over startling blue eyes. A sharp jaw with the slightest trace of a dark beard. His body was large. Tall, wide of shoulder, solid in the center. Looking impossibly fit underneath his open black suit jacket and white button up, the first two buttons undone, casual yet professional.
He was gorgeous.
And I was going to be having sex with him.
“Miss. Davis,” he said, looking up from the paperwork in his hands, almost like an afterthought.
His eyes on me felt like an invasion. Like he saw it all. Because, I reminded myself, he knew it all. Scribbled carefully on those pages in his hands.
His brows were drawn together in confusion, like he was trying to figure something out.