Cary was just about to jerk off again when the electronic door chime squawked the first few bars of “Another One Bites the Dust.”
He rushed out to the reception area. “Hello. Welcome to Drewel’s Dentistry!” He hoped he didn’t sound too anxious. And that his residual hard-on wasn’t tenting his racy black dental smock.
That the visitor was tall and handsome, with a muscular build and chiseled cheekbones, did little to dampen Cary’s arousal.
“I . . . I thaw your brothure.” The man held out Cary’s carefully crafted (but badly printed) flyer:
Drewel’s Family Dental Clinic
~ Vampires Our Specialty ~
“You do vampireth?”
“Absolutely.” Cary grinned. He’d included the vampire reference to show he was the dentist with a sense of humor. And also to attract the Twilight age group, which was ripe for expensive orthodontia.
“Hurths.” The man pointed to his upper lip, red and swollen on either side of his sexy little cupid’s bow.
“I can help you with your dental breakdown, Mr. . . .”
“Tharpe. Pierthe Tharpe.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sharpe. May I call you Pierce?”
“Thure.” Pierce held out his hand.
“Call me Cary, then.” Cary grasped the outstretched hand, surprised at how cold and shaky Pierce felt. This guy was in bad shape. He looked like death—if death were really cute, that is.
Withdrawing his hand, Pierce shoved it deep into his jeans pocket, maybe to hide the trembling. “I haven’t eaten in dayths. Hurths too much.”
“Okay then. You’re in luck. I was about to close, but I can squeeze you in. Let’s get you in the chair right away.” He led Pierce through the pristine reception area, which, he hoped, would one day have an actual receptionist. “Climb aboard.” He gestured at the shiny new-and-not-yet-paid-for dental chair.
Pierce clambered into the chair and lay back. Cary took a moment to look at him—professionally, of course. He’d been so excited at getting his first actual patient he hadn’t really checked Pierce out.
Sprawled in a chair was a good look for the guy. He had a terrific body, nicely showcased by a tight black T-shirt and faded jeans. His lips were reddish and swollen and brought to mind other things that made a guy’s lips red and swollen—but in a good way rather than an inflamed-gums way. Short dark hair contrasted nicely with blue eyes that were a little bloodshot. And staring back at Cary.
Cary smiled, aiming for more reassuring and less predatory. His unusually high sex drive had gotten him in trouble before.
Thank God this guy can’t read minds.
To deflate his straining erection, he conjured up an image of what Shark Lending’s “rep,” Gill Hammerhead, would do to him if he didn’t make a payment soon. Gill had threatened both foreclosure and bodily harm. Cary wasn’t a big fan of either. His hard-on melted away.
Fastening the little bib behind his patient’s neck, he ordered, “Open, please.”
He leaned in to begin the exam. “Holy crap!” he said, fumbling the explorer. The man doesn’t have eyeteeth; he has stalactites!
Recovering himself, Cary tapped one of the giant incisors. Caps. They had to be caps, stuck on for a joke or a movie role or a really weird lifestyle. He rocked one experimentally between latex-covered thumb and forefinger—the one set of dental instruments Gill Hammerhead couldn’t repossess.
. . . He hoped.