Her Cocky Doctors (A MFM Menage Romance) (The Cocky Series Book 1) Read online

  Her Cocky Doctors (A MFM Menage Romance)

  The Cocky Series

  Tara Crescent

  Text copyright © 2017 Tara Crescent

  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 permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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

  Both Jim and Miranda went above and beyond getting this book ready. An author is only as strong as her weakest link: this time, it was me.

  Thanks for bailing me out.

  Contents

  Free Story Offer

  Her Cocky Doctors

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  A Preview of Dirty Therapy by Tara Crescent

  A Note from Tara

  About Tara Crescent

  Also by Tara Crescent

  Free Story Offer

  Get a free story when you subscribe to my mailing list!

  Boyfriend by the Hour

  This steamy, romantic story contains a dominant hero who’s pretending to be an escort, and a sassy heroine who’s given up on real relationships.

  Sadie:

  I can’t believe I have the hots for an escort.

  Cole Mitchell is ripped, bearded, sexy and dominant. When he moves next door to me, I find it impossible to resist sampling the wares.

  But Cole’s not a one-woman kind of guy, and I won’t share.

  Cole:

  She thinks I’m an escort. I’m not.

  I thought I’d do anything to sleep with Sadie. Then I realized I want more. I want Sadie. Forever.

  I’m not the escort she thinks I am.

  Now, I just have to make sure she never finds out.

  Her Cocky Doctors

  Happy Endings? I don’t think so.

  In the town of Goat, Oregon, the two cocky doctors who run the Clinic of Love don’t just provide medical care.

  Nope. These doctors are notorious for their bedside manner, if you know what I mean. Women come in desperate for a good time, and leave extra-satisfied.

  Not me.

  I’m a reporter. Doctors like Declan Wilde and Blake Thorpe give the entire medical profession a bad name, and I’m determined to expose them.

  Even if having a threesome is prominently featured on my Sex Bucket List.

  Even if their washboard abs cause my girl-bits to spontaneously combust.

  Even if I really want to make a special appointment with them, and I would love a 'happy ending' of my own.

  This story is going to get written. I will destroy these cocky doctors.

  Prologue

  Declan:

  She’s naked under the thin hospital gown, lying on her back, her feet dangling next to the stirrups at the end of the examination table.

  Christmas came early this year.

  She’s beautiful, and she’s ours. I want her soft pouty pink lips wrapped around my cock. I want to hear her moan my name, her large brown eyes hazy with need. I want to feel her muscles tremble as we make her come, over and over again.

  I exchange a glance with Blake as the two of us move inside the room. When she hears us, her breathing quickens, but she stays where she is.

  “Ms. Davey,” I greet her, my gaze drawn to her round breasts. I can see the outline of her nipples under the thin robe, firm and erect, and my cock hardens in response. “What brings you in today?”

  Her cheeks are pink and flushed. “I’d like the special service, Doctor,” she whispers. “Will you make me feel good?”

  Make me feel good. That’s the code phrase. Lana Davey isn’t here for a routine examination. She’s here for the extra service this clinic offers. She’s here for a ‘happy ending’.

  I’m delighted to oblige.

  Blake moves to the foot of the bed. Before she has time to answer, he nudges her knees apart and positions her legs into the supports, spreading her wide open. While he does that, I reach behind her back and undo the tie that keeps the gown closed. “You won’t need this today.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Her voice is barely audible in the quiet room as I pull away the gown, and she’s exposed to my gaze.

  She’s absolutely gorgeous, and I can’t resist her. Cupping her plump breasts in my hand, I squeeze them, and she moans in response. “Yes,” she whimpers, throwing back her head, her hips bucking in need. “Oh God, that’s so good.”

  “You know what I’m going to do, Ms. Davey?” Blake’s voice is rough with desire. “I’m going to push my cock into your wet pussy. You’re ready for me, aren’t you?” His fingers tease her slit, hovering just out of reach of her clitoris, and she bites back another moan.

  “Yes Doctor,” she says again.

  I squeeze her perfectly round breasts, rubbing her pert pink nipples between my thumb and forefinger. She’s so beautiful, so responsive. Running my hands over her ankles, I make my way to the space between her legs. “Are you wet, Ms. Davey?” I scold her. “Already? You’re such a bad girl.”

  Blake grasps her ankles and buckles them into the stirrups. Her breathing quickens as he places her, swiftly and surely, under his control. “Somebody’s excited,” he says, amused. He bends his mouth to Lana’s pussy, and she whimpers as he sucks her clitoris between his teeth, almost jumping off the table in response.

  “Tie her down, Declan,” Blake says to me. “I don’t want her squirming away from me.”

  A shiver runs through her body, as I hold up the leather straps in my hands so she can see them. Goosebumps rise on her skin, but her eyes shine with excitement, and she nods eagerly.

  A smile curls on my lips.

  Ms. Davey, we’re about to give you an afternoon you’re never going to forget.

  1

  Lana:

  I’ve never felt the urge to throttle my boss. Until now.

  “You promised I could go on vacation.” I stare at John Beene in exasperation.

  For months, the managing editor of The Torch, Portland’s finest investigative weekly news magazine, has had me chasing one depressing story after another. I’ve done exposés of isolated religious sects in which the ‘leader’ marries every fifteen-year-old girl in the community. I’ve written articles about corruption in local governments. About water poisoning. About factories in the remote Northwest breaking environmental regulations without consequences.

  I’m exhausted. “I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the last three months,” I continue, my voice rising in frustration. “You promised me that I could take a week off, and you promised,” I give my unrepentant boss a glare that bounces off him without impact, “that you’d give me a stint in the Lifestyle department. Three months, I believe you said.”

  “That was before the Pulitzer nomination,” John says blandly. “Come on, Lana. You’re an amazing investigative journalist.
I have a story for you to investigate. I don’t see what the problem is.”

  Let’s see. When I got back to my apartment after chasing the latest story, my lone houseplant, a cactus, had died. Cacti survive in deserts. They’re supposedly indestructible, but even a cactus couldn’t survive my neglect. “John,” I try to appeal to my boss’s good sense, “I’m burned out. I need a week on a beach somewhere. I need margaritas and hot muscled pool boys offering to rub lotion on my back. What I do not need,” I pause for effect, “is to rush off to some remote middle-of-nowhere small town to investigate some kind of medical scam.”

  John isn’t budging. He’s like a dog with a bone. I’m so tired that even my metaphors don’t make any sense. “Admit it, Lana. This is fascinating stuff. In the last year, dozens of single women have moved to the small town of Goat, Oregon, all because a pair of doctors are running some kind of sex clinic, with promises of ‘happy endings.’” He does air quotes when he says ‘happy endings’ and his eyebrows rise comically high. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested in figuring out what’s going on.”

  “I’m not interested in figuring out what’s going on,” I reply flatly. “Insurance scams are a dime a dozen, and they’re boring. Come on, John. The Astoria Yacht club is celebrating its hundredth anniversary this weekend. Let me cover that.”

  John rolls his eyes. “That’s a fluff piece,” he replies. “It’ll be a bunch of rich guys in their boats, sipping martinis and what not. Mindy can handle it.”

  Lucky Mindy. “You ever stop to think I might want to find myself a rich guy in a boat?”

  He snorts. “You’ll be bored in ten minutes being some guy’s arm candy. Besides, I’m watching out for you. You’ll need to infiltrate the community before you can set up a sting at the clinic. That’ll probably take a month or two. Think of it,” he adds persuasively, “as a vacation.”

  It’s not a vacation, not if I know John. I’m pretty sure he’ll be expecting me to write an article a day while I’m hanging out in Goat.

  You could always say no.

  But then what? Investigative journalists are being laid off by the dozens. I’m lucky to have a job at The Torch. Several of my classmates are flipping burgers and writing freelance click-bait articles for ten bucks a pop.

  Of course, click-bait sells, and that’s precisely why John’s so gung-ho about this story. It involves doctors, sex, and threesomes in a small town. I bet you anything that John’s fantasizing about exploding subscriber numbers. “Fine,” I sigh. “What’s my cover?”

  Now that he’s ensured my cooperation, John’s all smiles. “You have a reservation at the Nanny Goat Bed and Breakfast for the next eight weeks,” he says cheerfully. “They’re expecting you tomorrow night. Your cover story is that you’re a writer working on your next novel.”

  Goat, Oregon. Nanny Goat Bed and Breakfast. I’m sensing a theme here.

  “Tomorrow is Saturday, John. You have got to be kidding me.”

  He spreads his arms wide. “I don’t want to get scooped on this, Lana. This story is going to be big. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Shaking my head, I get to my feet. If I’m supposed to leave tomorrow, I have laundry to do.

  Later that evening, I head out to meet my friend Hailey for drinks at a bar in Concordia. We settle down in a booth, and the waiter appears to take our food orders. Once we’ve been assured of nachos and beer, Hailey looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “What’s with the long face, babe?”

  “John wants me to check out a couple of love doctors in some crazy-ass small town,” I mutter gloomily. “So much for the Astoria yacht club feature I was hoping to do.”

  She cocks her head to one side, looking remarkably like a parrot in her bright green t-shirt and crimson red pants. Hailey never met a color she didn’t love. “Love doctors?” she asks. “Crazy-ass small town. I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

  Our beers show up. I drain almost half my glass before answering. “According to John, there’s a pair of doctors in the town of Goat, Oregon that specializes in getting women off as part of their treatment. John called it a ‘happy ending.’”

  She snorts into her beer. “Goat, Oregon?”

  “Yup.” While my clothes were drying earlier, I had time to do some research on the remote community. “It was founded almost sixty years ago by a reclusive millionaire who wanted a secluded place where he could stash his mistress. His fifteen-year-old mistress.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Unsurprisingly, Hailey’s voice is sarcastic. She’s the editor of a feminist magazine called Girl Power. Stuff like this outrages her.

  “Don’t worry; the millionaire is long-dead. The mistress is still alive though. She’s in her early seventies. Her name is Elvira Grantham, and she lives in a mansion on the outskirts of town. I bet you anything that she’s a lot more interesting than a pair of doctors with a fondness for pussy.”

  The waiter shows up at that moment with a platter of nachos, and judging by his scandalized look, he’s overheard my last sentence. Poor guy. I make a mental note to tip him well.

  Once he sets our food down and makes a break for it, Hailey continues her cross-examination. “So how do the doctors know if a patient wants a little frisky on the side? Is there a form to check off?”

  “You’re far more fascinated by this than I am.” I snag a cheese-coated chip. “According to the anonymous tipster who called The Torch, there’s a code phrase. ‘Make me feel good, Doctors.’”

  Hailey starts to giggle. “This is awesome.”

  A reluctant smile curls on my lips at my best friend’s mirth. “Okay, I guess it is kind of interesting, in a strange and demented way. You want to know what the absolute best thing is?”

  She nods enthusiastically.

  “The clinic is called Clinic of Love.”

  She bursts out laughing. “Please tell me you’re going to become a patient at the Clinic of Love,” she begs me. “And you said there are two doctors? Do they both participate in the dirty-dirty? What are their names?”

  “Not a clue about the dirty-dirty.” I pop a slice of jalapeno in my mouth. “And would you believe the Clinic of Love doesn’t have a website? I don’t know anything about the doctors.”

  Hailey leans forward, her eyes shining with glee. “You should do them,” she says. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her ever-present notebook. Flipping to an empty page, she writes a big, bold heading.

  Lana’s Sex Bucket List.

  “What the hell?” I stare at my friend. “You’re nuts, you know that?”

  “Am I?” she retorts. “When was the last time you had sex?”

  The waiter had been approaching us to ask us if we were ready for our next round. As soon as he hears Hailey’s loudly-voiced question, his face heats up, and he scampers away. “You scared the kid,” I accuse Hailey. “He’s going to be scarred for life if you keep this up.”

  “Please,” she scoffs. “I bet he hears a lot worse. You’re ducking my question.”

  How long has it been? I can’t even remember. Too long. I’m never home long enough to date someone, and I’m not brave enough for Tindr.

  “Exactly,” Hailey says smugly.

  I roll my eyes. “Hailey, I’m not doing it with the two doctors. Who knows what I could catch?”

  “It doesn’t have to be dick action,” she says encouragingly. “They could pet the kitty, couldn’t they?”

  “Pet the kitty?” My lips twitch. “Is that what the cool kids call a handjob nowadays?” Before she answers, I cut her off. “Not. Doing. It.”

  “Spoilsport.” She rolls her eyes and writes in her notebook.

  1. Say Yes instead of No.

  “Really? We’re doing this, are we?”

  Her lips curl up in a grin. “Of course we are. You’re going to Goat. Live it up.” She adds a couple of items to her version of my sex bucket list.

  2. Have a vacation fling.

  3. And a threesome.

  I snort. I’m definitel
y not brave enough for a threesome. Hailey, on the other hand, seems to act like it’s no big deal. “Have you been in one?” I ask her curiously. “A ménage, I mean?”

  She’s unfazed by my question. “Twice,” she replies. “It was five years ago.”

  Before we knew each other. That explains why I’ve never heard about her threesome experiences. I rarely talk about my sex life, mostly because I don’t have much of one, but Hailey’s seldom shy about sharing details.

  “I even wrote an article about it in our magazine,” she continues. “I got a ton of complaint letters for it.”

  “Your readers didn’t like the raunch?”

  “No,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. “There was some dick-sucking going on, and readers wrote to me and told me that when I went down on a guy, I was supporting the patriarchy.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Some people take the fun out of everything.”

  “Indeed. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and your quest to get laid.” Her pen is poised over the list. “What else?”

  Flagging down our terrified waiter, I order a pitcher. If we’re going to do this, I need beer-induced courage. “Fine. I’ve never been picked up at a bar.”