The Wild Woman’s Guide to Valentine’s Day

A Private Practice Check-In Featuring Ellie and Tyler

You like Valentine’s Day as much as the next guy, Tyler Longfoot told himself as he accepted $69.99 worth of long-stemmed red roses from the florist manning the register at Bluelick Blooms. Which was to say, not at all.

He didn’t have any deep-seated prejudice against Hallmark cards, chocolate hearts, bubbly wine, and overpriced flowers. In fact, he set all those items carefully on the passenger seat of his pickup before starting the engine and pulling into the light stream of traffic along Main Street. But he disliked an entire commercial sector telling him when and how to showcase his romantic side. Just as he disliked turning something as spontaneous and uncomplicated as sex between two consenting adults into a premeditated ordeal involving special clothes, accessories, and elaborate planning. If he wanted that kind of inconvenience in his life, he’d take up skiing, for Christ’s sake.

But Ellie—his lips lifted into a grin just thinking of her—his Ellie was a by-the-book kind of woman. Literally. The kind of woman who had turned to a little masterpiece known as The Wild Woman’s Guide to Sex and cornered him into serving as her study-buddy when she’d gotten it into her head that she needed to boost her bedroom competency. She’d been mistaken about lacking natural talent in that department, but he hadn’t minded proving her wrong…by the book. His grin stretched into a smile. No, he hadn’t minded one bit.

Still, when a man hitched his heart to a Type A, goal-oriented, studious planner, he made his peace with the occasional nod to convention. Knowing Ellie, and boy did he, tonight would involve a few more supposedly mandatory V-Day customs he didn’t enthusiastically embrace. Dinner at one of the fancier restaurants in the vicinity, which also meant a drive because Bluelick proper didn’t boast five-star dining of the candlelight and white tablecloth variety. Probably the kind of place where he’d have to wear a jacket and—he winced at the thought—a tie. Jesus. He donned a tie when somebody got married or died. Wearing one as a prelude to seduction? That flat-out sucked. How was a man supposed to feel romantic with a damn noose around his neck?

Of course, he wouldn’t be the only one in this equation putting effort into the evening. That brought his smile back. Ellie had no doubt picked out a pretty dress and maybe a pair of those high heels that made him want to brace her against the nearest wall and fuck her standing up. She’d probably bought some enticing and theme appropriate scraps of silk and lace to wear under the pretty dress. A man could hope.

He steered the pickup down the long drive to their house and caught glimpses of the old Victorian labor of love through a stark lattice of winter bare oak branches. His mind, however, stayed happily stuck on scraps of silk and lace. Considering all the personal and sensitive places those scraps got up into, they were probably more uncomfortable than a jacket and tie. He should count himself lucky when it came to tonight’s expected dress code. But he knew from experience Ellie could wear the hell out of those little scraps. Sometimes comfort was overrated.

He pulled to the end of the drive, surprised to see her compact, silver Mini parked in front of the separate two car garage he’d built while renovating the house. Usually, he beat her home by hours. As a contractor, his day started before dawn but ended by four or five at the latest. As the town’s doctor, her office opened at nine, and, barring emergencies, the last appointment walked out around six. She must have closed the office early. Surprise, surprise. Fine by him. They could embark on the seduction phase of their Valentine festivities first, and if he did that right, the dinner plans might slide off the agenda altogether. Slipping out of tangled sheets to fetch champagne and chocolate sounded better than a suit and tie dinner. Way better.

Fading February sun warmed his shoulders as he carried his obligatory Valentine’s Day tokens of affection to the side door and let himself in. The kitchen stood quiet and empty. The whole downstairs echoed with quiet, actually. He slipped the champagne into the bottle holder in the fridge, dropped the heart-shaped box of chocolates and the card on the longest expanse of the white marble counters he’d re-sealed last month. Roses in hand, he went to the stairs in search of his bride. As he’d refinished and hand-polished every mahogany post, riser and inch of the gracefully curved rail, he knew exactly where to step to avoid the telltale squeaks. Maybe someday little feet would pound up and down those stairs with abandon, and little butts would polish the rail when rowdy rule-breakers risked that long, irresistible slide. His smile flashed. They were working on it. He, for one, thoroughly enjoyed the efforts, but he knew Ellie harbored some small concern over their lack of immediate success. According to her thoroughly researched schedule, they ought to have a grainy ultrasound on the fridge by now.

At the top of the stairs, he turned right, and walked into the master bedroom. Here an oriental rug in light blue and gray tones muffled his footsteps as he crossed to the big, four-poster bed they’d splurged on as a wedding present to each other. He tossed the roses onto the mattress and took a moment to admire the drama of the velvety red petals against the cloud blue comforter. Romantic, if he did say so himself.

Light poured from the open door to the master bath, along with the faintly fragrant steam of a recent shower. He wandered over, pulse kicking up at the thought of catching her warm, wet and fresh from the shower. He could muster up a surprise or two as well. If she never got around to putting on the pretty dress and heels, he’d have no need for the jacket and tie. Their evening might not go by the book, but he felt confident that after showing her the joys of spontaneously blowing off her carefully laid plans, she wouldn’t mind at all.

His pulse kicked up again when he stepped into the doorway of the white tiled bathroom to find her leaning close to the big mirror over the sinks, frowning as she worked some device through a front section of her shoulder-length, chestnut hair. She hadn’t made it into the pretty dress and heels, yet, but the scraps of silk and lace strategically decorating her slender body looked good. Damn good. So good he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and enjoyed the view. Tiny and racy red, with a demure little white bow between her perfect, upswept breasts and another decorating the back of her thong. He imagined bending her over the bathroom counter, sinking his teeth into that little bow guarding the base of her spine, and tearing the lacy scrap right off her delectable ass.

Could be he imagined it too well, or too loudly, because she put the curling iron or curl straightener or whatever the hell it was down and turned his way. Her instant smile lifted his heart as effectively as the rest of her in the lacy bits lifted his dick. Apparently, she picked up on the lust coming off him, because her big, brown eyes went wide, her cheeks went pink, and she lifted a hand, palm up, in a ‘Just hold on, there,’ gesture. “Oh, no. Don’t even think about it. We have reservations…”

He offered her a smile. “I’ll be quick.” To underscore that promise, he unbuttoned his plaid flannel shirt in mere seconds and shrugged out of it, then bent to untie his battered brown work boots and yank them off. When he straightened, she held a sleeveless red dress in front of her, ready to step into it. “Reservations at The Catch. We need to be out the door in twenty minutes. I’m serious,” she added when he simply pulled his thermal shirt over his head. “It’s one of your favorites, and those reservations were hard to score for tonight, so cooperate.” She slipped the dress on and reached around to wrestled with the zipper.

But her eyes lingered on his bare chest, then trailed down his abs, then widened again when she caught the action going on behind his button fly. “Real quick,” he repeated, and cocked a brow as he undid the top button of his jeans. “Quick, but thorough.”

The rasp of her dress zipper gave him an answer he didn’t want to hear, so he popped the next button. She raised her brow at him, mimicking his expression, and slipped her foot into a shiny black heel—the kind that had a little opening to give a peek at her red-painted toenails. His hard-on surged, which made popping the next button a critical but delicate matter. He managed it, then looked at her. “Your move, Sparky.”

She slipped the other shoe on. Damn her. She knew what the heels did to him. On the other hand, he knew what his cock did to her. They didn’t call him Footlong Longfoot on account of his shoe size. On top of that, he had a physical job, the side benefit being it kept him strong and toned. She had a well-established weakness for all the definition building houses had built on him. Game on. He undid the last button, parted his fly to display the proud ridge she was so fond of behind the flimsy protection of white boxer briefs. Her lips parted on an audible inhale. Stubborn to the bone, she patted the counter until she found a silver, heart-shaped earring. Without taking her eyes off him, she put it on.

Their at-odds sexual power struggle nearly made him laugh—a common outcome, and one of the reasons he simply couldn’t live without her—but he aimed to win this particular standoff. They’d both win, he vowed, but he’d score the point. He dragged his jeans down and kicked them off. Those big brown eyes turned molten as her hot gaze licked over him. His underwear simply wasn’t up to the task of containing him when he was in this condition. He tugged them off while she defiantly slipped her other earring into place. Some might say she retained the upper hand, considering he stood there stark naked save for the gold band around the ring finger of his left hand while she was fully clothed, but he knew he had her when her gaze dropped to where he held himself in the holster of his fist. Her cheeks turned a Valentine’s Day appropriate shade of deep pink, and her breath came in short, shallow gusts.

“H-how quick could you be?”

He flashed her what he knew from experience qualified as a panty-melting grin and sauntered into the narrow room, taking up position behind her. When their eyes met in the mirror, he ran his hands down her sides, playing them along her subtle, sensitive curves. “Tell you what, Sparky. You give me a shout when my time’s up.” When he reached her hips, he jerked her back, nestling his cock against her sweet ass. God bless the heels.

Her eyelids fluttered. Her color rose. She licked her lips before murmuring, “Oh…kay. Okay. We can probably spare seven minutes.”

Not five minutes, not ten. Seven precise minutes. She killed him. She really did. “Seven minutes. Got it.” With that, he dropped to his knees, and whisked the flowy skirt of her dress over his head.

“Tyler!”

“Seven uninterrupted minutes,” he stipulated from beneath the red tent, and kissed one unprotected ass cheek.

“Tyler…”

He kissed the other cheek.

“Oh, God.” Her thighs parted.

He sank his teeth in and gave her a Valentine’s hickey only the two of them would know about while she gasped and squirmed. “I like these,” he murmured against the cheek he’d yet to mark and plucked the back of the thong. “Think I can ruin them in under seven minutes?”

Her reply couldn’t be repeated in polite company, but he gave her a matching hickey and then eased a finger between her thighs to see just how damp he’d gotten them. “Yeah, I think these are done.” He indulged in his original instinct and took that little white bow between his teeth.

“I special ordered those. They match the bra—aah!”

He tore them off with a jerk of his chin and let them fall to the floor between the shiny heels she’d planted about a foot apart. “How much time do I have?”

It took her a few seconds to catch her breath and answer. “Five…maybe five minutes. Hurry.”

Still under the cover of her skirt, he turned her, pushed her back against the cabinet. The toes of her shoes scraped against the white, penny tile as he parted her legs wide. “Don’t rush me.” That’s all the warning he gave her before launching into Chapter 3 of her Wild Women’s guide. A reverse Chapter 3, technically, which she wasn’t expecting, judging by her gasps, but he kept at it through writhing attempts to close her legs, open her legs, clasp his head and ride his mouth, or draw away and beg for mercy. But somewhere inside of five minutes she slung a leg over his shoulder, grabbed a fistful of his hair through her skirt, and came on a breathless sob while he tongue-whipped that slick little bead that made her forget all about time, and plans, and reservations at The Catch. Before she caught her breath, he turned her again, made sure she was reasonably steady on her trembling legs, gave that fine ass one final bite, and then came out from under her skirt and stood behind her.

Their eyes locked in the mirror. Her face was now dewy and flushed, and all the more beautiful for the glow. Because he had her dazed and loose, he nudged her forward so the hands she’d braced on the counter supported her weight. Then he swept her hair aside and found the zipper pull just below the nape of her neck. One fast downward draw, a slide of cotton and the dress pooled around her legs, held in place by the shoulder straps caught at her wrists. He lifted one hand, slid the strap free, then did the same to the other. The dress became a red puddle around those sexy black heels.

“The time…” she whimpered as he bent her forward another degree and ran his teeth along her earlobe. Her back fit perfectly against his chest.

“Hold that thought.” Positioning her slightly farther over the counter, he nudged his cock between her thighs. They quivered. She inhaled. He flattened his palm against her fluttering stomach and pushed in…just a little. Her back arched, her hips lifted, her chin tipped toward the ceiling and her eyelids drooped. “Hold what?”

***

God, she loved him. Yes, she loved his lethally charming grin, his beautifully chiseled body, his strong, capable hands. Head to toe, the man was a feast for the eyes. But she also loved things about him that weren’t so visible—his patience, his ethics, his bone-deep decency and ready sense of humor, all wrapped in a confidence he’d built on his own. Maybe she loved those qualities all the more because neither of them had enjoyed the kind of upbringing noted for nurturing a child into a patient, ethical, decent and confident adult. But here he was, despite the rocky start and hell-raising years, and he was all hers.

Well, not all hers, she realized, and pushed her hips back to try to solve that dilemma. He was deliberately withholding one of the physical aspects of him that she loved the most—his big, extremely talented cock. Instead of sliding smoothly and deeply into her clenching, trembling, extremely receptive body, he lingered there, barely penetrating, letting her stretch and shiver with anticipation. “Tyler?” she panted and sought his hooded green eyes in the mirror. Did he think she wasn’t ready? Oh, lord. She was ready.

“We’re not quite right yet,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning her ear in a way that made her shiver all the more.

“It feels right,” she insisted, and leaned over a little more to position her body as a full invitation.

“Uh-uh. Not yet.” His gaze lowered and his big hands skimmed up her torso to cup her breasts. She pushed into his touch, couldn’t help herself. “I like this,” he said, moving his lips against the curve of her neck, moving his hands so his hard palms stroked her lace-covered nipples.

“A man’s sexual response is often tightly linked to visual stimulation. Lingerie appeals to the eye. It showcases stereotypically erogenous areas of the female anatomy, hyper-sexualizes them and conveys a message that the wearer is receptive to the attention.”

“Is that scientific, doctor-talk for cock-tease?”

She laughed, despite her rising urgency to feel him move. “Yes.”

He pumped his hips—one short, shallow thrust. “Please!” burst from her lips. Her body ached for more, but he stilled, save for his hands on her breasts, and lips by her ear. “Seems only fair that if you tease my cock, my cock’s gonna tease you back.”

“Oh, God.” What had she done? “I don’t think I can handle much more teasing.”

“I’ll tell you something, Ellie. That scientific doctor-talk of yours teases my cock as effectively as your gorgeous tits in some imported lace. How ‘bout we take it off?”

“Yes. Fine. Anything.” She nodded her head, then bit her lip as he slowly undid the clasp at her back, let the loosened lace scrub her nipples to agonizing sensitivity before drawing the bra down her arms.

“How’re we doing on time?” He fanned his fingertips over her stiff, stinging nipples as if they had all the time in the world.

“W-we have to hurry,” she managed, and tried to urge him along by pushing her backside into the cradle of his hips.

“Well, hold on now. Something’s still not quite right.”

To hold back a scream of frustration, she closed her eyes and bit her lip. Took a couple slow, deep breaths. “I think…I think if you’d just, please—” she added the please because he appreciated manners—"put it all the way in, that would make everything right.”

She hoped the suggestion would incite him to move his hands down to her hips, grip her there in a good, firm hold, and drive himself home with one decisive thrust. Not just hoped. Every cell in her being begged for it. His hands, unfortunately, had other ideas. Instead of moving down her abdomen, they slid up to her neck. He took her jaw in one, traced her lips with a fingertip. His other hand wandered to her ear. Fingers toyed with the new, silver heart earring dangling from her lobe. Then those nimble fingers carefully slid the post from the hole, leaving her earlobe naked and empty. For some reason the intimate but innocent gesture made the pressure building inside her coil almost painfully tight. Muscles in her calves, her thighs, and higher, trembled harder, especially when she remembered she had two ears—a fact she’d always known, but now realized meant she would have to stand there and submit to him removing the other earring.

“Perfect.” His voice rumbled like low, rolling thunder in her ear after he removed her other earring, sounding oddly satisfied despite having subjected them to what had to qualify as the most torturously un-satisfying minutes of their lives. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her in the mirror, still tracing a lazy finger around the perimeter of her lips, tormenting every last nerve ending she owned. “That’s perfect. You’re perfect.” His lips brushed her neck, her cheek, her temple. “And now you’re also as naked as me.”

The reverent way he looked at her, the way he called her perfect, melted those places inside her only he could reach, but her penchant for accuracy had her glancing down. She ran the toe of one shoe along his bare instep.

He laughed, though it sounded more like a groan, and knowing she wasn’t alone in the suffering helped her find the patience to endure his devilishly playful efforts to drive her out of her mind. “Need to keep the shoes, or Chapter 12 of that Wild Women’s Guide doesn’t work for us. The height difference,” he added, by way of explanation.

Chapter 12, standing doggystyle, was one of her favorites. The author experts called it raunchy, animalistic fun and gave it five stars on the drive-a-man-wild scale, but the truth, unspoken but fully acknowledged between them, was that she liked it. A lot. And she liked knowing he knew straightlaced Doctor Swann got off on a little animalistic raunch. She craned her neck to look at him. “I guess the shoes stay?”

“Uh-huh. Face front, Sparky. Time’s a-wasting.”

She barely had time to turn, spread her palms wide on the counter and meet his eyes in the mirror when—thank you, God—he thrust. He thrust hard enough, deep enough, to rock her onto her toes and push an explosion of gratitude from her lungs. Before she could catch her breath, he thrust again. Fully penetrated, she quivered from the power of it. The power of what it promised to release in her. As though he sensed the immediacy of her need, he reached around and pressed his palm to her sex, V’d his fingers around the place where their bodies joined, and buffeted her with a fast, relentless series of thrusts. His hard palm hit all the right places, his voice in her ear encouraged every awkward rock of her hips, and when he squeezed her breast and bit her unadorned earlobe, she came. The orgasm shot her high and fast, like a firecracker on the fourth of July, then burst into a thousand points of light and sent tingling, shimmering arcs of sensations through her.

Before she could recover, before she could form a single thought, he pulled out, spun her around, hitched her up in a two-handed grip, and plunged into her from the front. A second rocket ignited. He crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing her cry of wonder, of thanks, as he fucked an epic finale from her. She moaned and panted while explosion after explosion blasted and rocked her. She landed in his arms, spent and trembly, chasing his lips while he groaned, “Jesus, I love you. I love you. I’ve never loved any damn thing the way I love you.” He clutched her so tight, she felt every shudder from the force of his release.

And yet, it was she still dragging in oxygen when he wrapped her legs around him, lifted her off the counter and strode into the bedroom. A double drag of precious air jostled out of her when he tossed her on the bed and came down with her. He grabbed something—she didn’t see what—shook it, and rose petals showered down around her. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Longfoot.”

She reached up through the rain of petals and ran her fingers through his mess of ink-black hair that needed a trim. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Longfoot.”

“I think we might have lost track of time.” He tried to look chagrined, and she wondered if he realized he failed miserably. He looked smug. “Want me to call the restaurant and tell them we’re not going to make our reservation?”

She really wanted to play the disappointed date, but she couldn’t. Her laugh gave her away. “Oh, Tyler, you really need to read the Wild Woman’s Guide sometime.” She stretched her arm, snagged the tomb off her nightstand tossed it to him. “There is no reservation.”

“What?” He caught the book, then rolled off her and scowled. “Christ’s sake, woman. Are you telling me I was fucking like a racehorse back there for no good reason?”

She smiled and stretched. “I can think of several good reasons, but a dinner reservation isn’t one of them. She tapped the book in his hand. “Chapter Seventeen—A Wild Woman’s Guide to Valentine’s Day, (a/k/a The Best Laid Plans).”

With one last scowl at her he flipped the book open and read.

As he did, guilt started to prick her conscience. “I admit it’s a tad manipulative, but I feel like the mild deception really added something. Intensity, along with an element of desperation and creativity I think we both enjoyed. Ultimately,” she tacked on when he aimed his scowl her way again.

“Let me get this straight. You made me think I was staring down a long evening in a suit and tie, at a loud, crowded restaurant, in order to incite me into stripping you out of your finery, bending you over the bathroom counter and going balls deep into a Chapter 12 to get out of it? Mercy, Ellie, you needn’t have gone to all that trouble. You could have just met me up here in the buff and let nature take its course.”

“But then you wouldn’t have enjoyed the secret thrill of wrecking my plans—the ones you didn’t much like anyway—and I wouldn’t have enjoyed the secret thrill of knowing I looked so good to you that you were willing to mess up my precious plans to get your hands on me.”

“Huh.” He placed the open book on his chest and ran his hand through her hair. “These so-called experts of yours might actually have the inside track on a thing or two.

“So, you’re not mad?”

“Mad because I’m spared the ordeal of a stiff dinner where I can’t feast on you due to public decency laws? No.” He shook his head and grinned. “I’m not mad. You played me, and as far as I’m concerned, you can play me all day, any day, if that’s your tune. ‘Course now we’ve got all this extra time on our hands.” He lifted the book off his chest and started flipping through it. “Maybe I should pick a chapter?”

She put the bouquet of roses on her nightstand and snuggled in beside him. “I green flagged all the chapters we haven’t done yet.”

“Hmm.” He flipped through. Stopped. Then pulled a tab off a page and flicked it away. “We’ve done this one.”

She lifted her head and looked at the page. “Chapter 13? Not really. I’d call it a half-assed attempt, at best.”

“Har. Har. Very funny.” He flipped a page, moving on. “Half-assed or not, Chapter 13 won’t get us pregnant.”

She held her tongue as he perused the next chapter, and the next. “I…uh…we don’t need a chapter that can get me pregnant.”

“We don’t?” he responded absently, considering the particulars of Chapter 18. Then he stopped. Turned toward her. “You don’t?”

She shook her head, unable to hold back her smile. “We’re already pregnant,” she managed through the sudden lump in her throat. “Mr. Longfoot,” she tossed the book out of his hands and placed them on her flat stomach, “we’re having a baby.”

His lucky-clover green eyes gleamed suspiciously bright. “We’re having a baby?”

“Uh-huh. According to the test I took this morning, we are. Next Valentine’s Day we’ll be neck deep in nap schedules and dirty diapers.”

“Holy hell, Ellie.” He turned toward her, cupped her head and rolled her under him for a long, heartfelt kiss. When he lifted his head and smiled down at her, her heart cartwheeled. “I hope they’ve got a book for that,” he said.

“They do.” She pulled his face down to hers. “They definitely do.”