Dr. Good: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Read online

  Contents

  Dr. Good

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  Collaborations

  About the Author

  Dr. Good

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 247

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2021 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  Dr. Good

  When my aunt passes and leaves me enough money to pursue my dreams, I decide to take control of my life. I’ve always wanted a family and with no man of my own becoming a single mother while I work on my writing career sound like the best plan.

  But the moment I lay eyes on Dr. Miller Marshall, my plans take a wholly different turn. I want him to be the father to my children.

  I know this could never happen. Miller is a six and a half foot silver-haired giant, his features sculpted to magazine-level perfection, his body rippling with alpha muscle.

  I’m curvy and shy, an inexperienced virgin who’s more comfortable in the world of books than I am in reality. This forty-five year old predator would never be interested in a twenty-one year old know-nothing like me.

  I don’t even think he likes me.

  I’m so shocked when he claims me one night, in the most primal possessive way a man can. He tells me I belong to him: only him. Forever.

  This jealous protective doctor won’t take no for an answer, dominating me and making me his. But I’m scared I can’t live up to his expectations, and the past won’t stop chasing me.

  Will Dr. Good turn out to be Dr. Bad, and can we survive long enough to find out if this flaming passion is the real deal?

  *Dr. Good is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  Chapter One

  Macie

  I sit in the waiting room of the fertility clinic with my hands in my lap, wringing them together as anxiety surges through me and threatens to make me leap to my feet and make for the exit. It’s a wonderful day outside – the sun gleaming brightly, birds tweeting – but in here it seems closed off and musty.

  But that’s probably my nervousness coloring my perceptions, making things seem far worse than they are.

  I have to remind myself I’m the one who chose this clinic, who chose the renowned Dr. Miller Marshall to help me pursue my dreams of becoming a mother. I know it’s not the most conventional route, seeking artificial pregnancy at twenty-one when I haven’t even got a boyfriend, but I’ve wanted a family ever since I was a girl and I lost mine.

  My aunt Jackie took me in after my family died, but she was busy with her script-writing career, spending her time in various Bohemian getaways around America and sometimes in Europe. She was always loving and kind… when she was there. She simply wasn’t there that often.

  I let out a shaky breath, glancing at the poster on the wall of the cute-as-heck baby, his eyes half-open and a heart-melting smile on his face. I have to force myself to breathe slowly when my eye strays to the poster on the left, capturing Dr. Miller Marshall in all his rugged handsome silver-fox glory.

  He’s forty-five – I did some internet digging – and around six and a half feet tall, with intense dark blue eyes and silver hair cut short. His mouth twitches into a smirk in the photo, and even without the aid of video, I can imagine the way his muscular body must be pulsating under that doctor’s coat.

  I swallow as I study the source of my nerves.

  Not the prospect of becoming a single mother at twenty-one.

  This is what I want, what I’ve dreamed of for more years than I can believe, bringing life into this world and flooding a home with happiness. And when Aunt Jackie passed she left me enough money to make my dream come true.

  So what if it’s not the done thing? So what if it’s not normal?

  Even at twenty-one, I’m sick and tired of waiting for Mr. Right to come along, because it’s like they always turn out to be Mr. Wrong in the end, from the bullying douchebags in high school to Derrick, the freak who made me his obsession, the freak who made me never want to get intimate with a man.

  It’s not what I’m going to do that floods me with nerves.

  It’s the interview Dr. Marshall requires of all his prospective patients before he agrees to help them pursue their dreams of becoming parents, especially in the voluntary single mother cases. His website states that he will not help anyone unless he has spoken with them first and he refuses to budge on this matter.

  I know this because I spent a lot of time on his website last night, staring at his various photos.

  The best was from a charity event he did at a local gym, leading a fitness class that was free to all.

  There was one photo where he stood at the front of the class, his T-shirt soaked with sweat, the fabric hugging his body tightly to show the outline of his bulging muscles.

  I couldn’t help myself as I stared at it, heart hammering in my chest, making every part of me tingle.

  I lay back and slid my hand down my body, palming my sex, imagining his hands smoothing up and down my hips and then over my breasts, squeezing onto my nipples as he gazed at me with those unflinching predator’s eyes.

  It’s craziness, of course.

  I know he hasn’t got a wife – she would be mentioned online – but he probably has women throwing themselves at him all day every freaking day. He’s been on TV hundreds of times. He’s written bestselling books. He’s a celebrity as much as he’s a doctor, and if it wasn’t for Aunt Jackie’s inheritance I wouldn’t even be able to afford him.

  He’s more than twice my age.

  That doesn’t bother me. My insides shiver at the sight of his silver hair, at the experience in his eyes, but I bet it would bother him.

  He’d probably laugh if a twenty-one year old inexperienced woman even deigned to offer herself to him, not that I’d even know how to go about doing that. I’ve never been very good with men, despite what De
rrick said, that freak, the twisted pedestal he’s put me on.

  I sigh and glance down at my interlocked hands, forcing myself not to look at the photo of Miller again. I can’t stand to look at him for too long, especially not when I’m out in public and the receptionist is just a few feet across from me, tapping away at her keyboard with her fake nails.

  Maybe she’ll be able to tell if the lust-filled light prompted by Miller’s photo starts to surge around me with too much flaring heat, with too much possessiveness, as though at any moment he’s going to step from the poster and charge across the room.

  I imagine him hauling me to my feet and bending me over the chair, smoothing his hands up my thighs and gripping onto them firmly.

  “Fuck,” I imagine him snarling. “You’re already soaked for me.”

  I repress a breathy sigh, biting my lip, trying to think of calm ocean waves and chairs and freaking matchsticks… anything so I don’t have to think about the way I touched myself again and again last night thinking about Miller Marshall.

  I guess this is the price I have to pay for wanting to be a writer. Not of scripts, like my aunt, but of novels.

  My imagination is far too vivid and real-like as if things dreamed up in my mind can spiral into reality at any moment and there’s nothing I can do about it. I forcefully remind myself that if I voiced my innermost thoughts – my throbbing need for Dr. Marshall and his rock hard muscles – he’d kick me out of his office, maybe laughing at me, maybe shouting.

  Whatever the case, it would be nothing good.

  The receptionist clears her throat, peering at me over the top of her desk. She’s a beautiful glamorous woman, with shiny teeth and perfect skin and a sleek figure, the sort of figure that makes me feel frumpy and inadequate.

  I bet she thinks I look like the biggest dork in the universe in my cargo pants and my hoodie, but, screw it… they’re comfy. Plus I got carried away writing this morning and almost missed the appointment, and these were the first clothes I grabbed.

  “The doctor will see you now, Miss Grahams,” she says.

  I nod, standing, willing my legs not to shake too much.

  Maybe I should have found a different clinic once I’d searched for Miller Marshall online. I should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to face him without having the most pathetic panic episode in the universe.

  I’ve never been any good at talking to men, especially not hulking behemoths with possessive eyes and iron-colored hair like Miller.

  What the heck am I saying?

  I’ve never even tried talking to a man like Dr. Miller Marshall before.

  I walk across the office, wishing I could stop my hands from worrying at each other, but I’m afraid if I let go of my tight-clasped hands I’ll do something silly like grab the poster from the wall and hold it against my chest, against my heart, like I’m his number one fan or something.

  There it goes again, my overactive imagination, throwing up nonsense.

  I shake my head, willing myself to focus on the moment.

  But then I reach the door and, before I can open it, Dr. Marshall pulls it wide open and stares at me.

  He’s even more enthralling in the flesh, with the light shimmering across his strong jaw, glittering silver with a faint shadow of facial hair. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing me his irrepressible forearms, and his eyes narrow as they move over me.

  Something inside of me sinks, a bitter voice whispering, You see. Of course, he wouldn’t want you.

  It’s worse than that, even. It’s like he’s angry that I’m here.

  I wonder if I’ve interrupted something, like a phone call with a lady, an important meeting, because right now he looks like he’d rather be doing anything than standing opposite me.

  “You must be Macie,” he says, his voice deep and husky, just like in the interviews I watched last night.

  “Um, yes,” I murmur, silently cursing myself.

  Why did I have to say um?

  “Okay.” He nods, stepping aside, waving me into his office. “After you.”

  Chapter Two

  Miller

  She stands there for a few moments longer, as though the curvy young thing is trying to entice me even more than she already has. My whole body pumps with hot fire just from looking at her, with confusing goddamn fire, because I’ve never felt anything like this before.

  And even if I had – which I haven’t – I never thought it would happen this quickly, like a gunshot to the gut I can’t ignore.

  She’s a foot shorter than me, maybe a little more, with a body that was made to be grabbed and moved into all the perfect positions. Her hips are wide, built for bringing children into this world, meaning she’s come to the right damn place…

  Me, not the clinic.

  I’m the man who needs to fuck children into her perfect womb.

  I need to move my fingers through her shoulder-length chocolate colored hair, cascading down with quirks and waves here and there, as though she’s silently screaming at me to smooth my hand through her locks and claim her hard.

  It’s like she wants me to lean close and stare into her forest-green eyes, roaring at me that those are the eyes we’re going to pass onto our children.

  I don’t understand where this vicious fire is coming from, rising up inside of me so I can’t ignore it.

  I can’t even try to ignore it. It makes no damn sense.

  I gift other people with families. I don’t long for one of my own.

  I gave up on finding my perfect woman a long, long time ago.

  “Um,” she says again, and then she laughs in a cute-as-heck way.

  Shyness reverberates through her, touching her features, but I can see something else beneath it all, trying to work its way into her expression.

  “You’re sort of in the way.”

  I smirk at her, almost reaching out and curling my hand around her hip right here.

  Only the tap-tap-tap of my receptionist’s nails against the keyboard stops me, reminding me that I’m at work, that I can’t just come out and tell this potential patient I want to fuck her in a hundred savage ways, to drag her into my office and bend her over my desk, pull down those cargo pants which aren’t fooling anybody and paint her in shades of my lust.

  “Right,” I snarl, turn and stride into my office instead. I call behind me, “Please close the door behind you.”

  I’m aware my voice has become rough, borderline cold, but I can’t help it. It’s the fire moving through my body, setting every part of me ablaze, making it impossible to think when her scent trails after me.

  She smells young and fresh and ready to open those thick juicy thighs as soon as I tell her to, as soon as I roar at her that she’s mine and she always will be.

  Fuck, now I’m thinking about how she belongs to me.

  As I walk around my large desk toward my chair, my mind brims with unfair vignettes of other men trying to claim my woman, even if that shouldn’t make sense.

  I just met Macie.

  How can I be so sure she’s mine, and mine alone, and that I’d do anything to make sure no other man gets to touch her?

  I don’t know how I am, only that I am.

  I let out a husky breath as I drop into my chair, my gaze flitting over her as she moves across the room.

  She bites her lip and clasps her hands in front of her as she makes for the desk. I’m not even sure she knows she’s doing it, but it drives me near-feral.

  I grip the edge of the desk as she walks slowly, looking around wide-eyed at my qualifications and awards on the walls. I hang those to impress my wealthier clients, letting them know I’m their man, but right now I regret that goddamn decision.

  It’s making her eyes go fuck-me wide, the sort of wide they’ll go when she’s on her knees and she’s got my engorged manhood in her mouth, staring up at me as she bobs her head and lets out shivering moaning noises, muffled by my enflamed helm. It’s the wide they’ll go when she’s ben
t over and I’m smoothing my hands over her ass cheeks, sliding closer to her soaked hole every second.

  “Wow,” she says, finally taking her seat. “Impressive.”

  I plaster on my best here-to-help smile, even though smiling has never been my strong suit. I manage a smirk, and even that comes out with a tremor moving through me, difficult to maintain when my manhood is pressing urgently against my zipper.

  She’s a client, a patient, I try to remind myself.

  This is business.

  Making a move on her – mauling her like I want to, like I need to – would be very fucking bad for business.

  “Thank you, Macie. Do you mind if I call you Macie?”

  “Not at all, Dr. Marshall,” she murmurs.

  Her round cheeks are turning a sweet shade of red, the sort of red that makes me want to lean in and kiss her, getting closer to her mouth the same way I’d inch closer to her sex if I was between her legs, kissing until I taste the most intimate parts of her.

  I focus, pushing past the lust, trying to pretend this is any other patient meeting—pretending my seed isn’t trying to surge from my heavy balls up my shaft, roaring to be inside of her.

  “So, why are you here today?”

  “I want to be a single mother.”

  No, part of me roars, primal and possessive. That’s out of the fucking question because we’re having children together. And we’re going to raise them. Together.