Chapter 1: Bad Timing for Overtime

ADRIAN'S POV

The lavender and sandalwood scent of essential oil from the diffuser hung heavy in the air, usually a comfort in my office at the private clinic. Tonight, however, it was a cruel mockery. I blamed myself for this self-inflicted torment, for deciding to overtime tonight and catch up on paperwork.

Idiot. I'm a fucking idiot.

Through the thin wall, the sounds started – soft at first, like hesitant breaths, then growing in intensity. Moans. Gasps. Skin slapping. Unmistakable cries of pleasure. Damien.... and his clients.

"Ahhh. Please doctor, Move your tongue, faster, please."

"OHHHHHHHHHHHH, fuckk.... doctor, ohh... you're cock..... it is so huge and I love it." a muffled moans from the woman in the next room.

"You want it hard and fast right?" That voice... it was Damien's voice.

It was Friday night, Damien's “after-hours” session as a sex coach, that’s what he calls it. I knew that, of course. Every Tuesday and Friday, like clockwork, my best friend transformed into some kind of pleasure guru, guiding willing participants into realms of ecstasy.

I remembered the day I learned about Damien’s little secret. It was my first week after finally joining him at the clinic, fresh out of my Andrology residency. I needed a file and walked into his office unannounced. The sight of him, mid-thrust, his face flushed, the woman beneath him arching and moaning... it had been a visceral shock.

Anger, confusion, a strange sense of violation and jealousy had all warred within me. I’d initially been furious that Damien kept this kind of thing from me. But then, I’d recognized that he owed me nothing. Why would he share this part of his life with me? I was just… his friend.

We'd built this clinic together, brick by brick three years ago. But it's Damien who takes sole control on it for the first two years while I'm having a two-year residency for my second specialization.

Damien, the charismatic charmer who attracted clients with effortless ease, and me, the dedicated Andrologist, the doctor behind the scenes. The perfect partnership, everyone said. Except, for me, it was a slow, agonizing torture.

Tonight, his clients were Alexa and Mia, a couple I’d seen around the clinic before, always giggling and holding hands. Tonight, they were giggling and… something else. For Damien and his clients, each session was heaven. For me, it was a slow, agonizing burn. A constant reminder of what I couldn’t have, what I desperately craved.

I can't blame Damien, not really. He’s Damien. Irresistible, charming, a magnetic field of charisma pulling everyone into him. He could have anyone he wanted, and he usually did. It was a well-known fact that Damien was straight. He only set his eyes on women.

The blame lay squarely on my own shoulders. For letting my feelings fester, for nurturing this impossible, one-sided love. I knew, with a harsh certainty, that Damien would never see me as anything more than his best friend, maybe a little brother figure at most. The thought was a lead weight in my chest, crushing the air from my lungs and punching my heart.

I gripped my pen, knuckles white, trying to focus on the patient report in front of me. But the words swam on the page, blurring into meaningless shapes. My ears felt flushed, and a traitorous pressure built behind my eyes... tears start to swell from the corner of my eyes.

Damn it.

I buried my face in my hands, the familiar tremor of tears starts to flood from my face. Muffled sobs escaped, desperate attempts to silence the sound swallowed by my hands. The sounds from next door were getting louder, more insistent, a relentless, rhythmic torment.

"Ohhhh! ohhhh! ughhhh!"

"Ohhhh doctor! Oh! Ohh... doctor... deeper... deeper... it's so good....ohh!"

"More... more..., doctor. More. Give me more."

Another sets of moan from the next room. Fuck they can't even tone it down. Well no one expected I'm still here.

I scrambled to my desk drawer, fumbling for my earbuds. Anything to drown it out. Anything to silence the constant reminder of what was happening just inches away.

I jammed them in, cranking up the volume on my classical playlist. Bach. Mozart. Beethoven. Usually, the soothing harmonies would calm my frayed nerves, but tonight, they felt like a soundtrack to my misery.

God knows, how I wanted to storm into that room, to rip Damien away from them, to scream at Alexa and Mia to leave him alone. But I couldn't. I had no right. Damien and I weren't a thing, and we never would be.

I want to scream at his clients every time that he was mine, even though he wasn't, and never would be. But I was trapped, a prisoner of my own unrequited feelings.

Leaning back in my swivel chair, I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut. Trying, failing, to block out the images that flooded my mind. Damien’s hands, his mouth, his body… with them. The positions, the touches, the whispered words – I imagined it all with a clarity that was both exquisite and excruciating.

Just an hour session, he said once. An hour. It was just an hour, an hour of physical release for Damien and his clients. But for me, it was an eternity of emotional torment. An hour of longing, of self-pity, of wondering what it would be like, just once, to be the object of Damien's desire. An hour of knowing, with crushing certainty, that it would never happen.

The classical music swelled in my ears, a desperate attempt to drown out the sounds of my breaking heart. But some wounds, I realized, are too deep for even Beethoven's masterpiece to heal. One hour seemingly not enough time for Damien and his clients, but an eternity for me, a slow, agonizing hour of emotional torture.

I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be beneath him, to have his full attention, to be the sole recipient of that raw, unbridled pleasure. To have him look at me the way I looked at him, like I was the only person in the world.

"Stop it Adrian!", I told myself fiercely. Stop torturing yourself.

But the thoughts kept coming, unbidden, relentless. I pictured his dark eyes locked on mine, the heat radiating from his skin as he leaned in… I imagined the press of his lips against my neck, the feel of his hands on my body…

The music on my ears, a crescendo of violins and cellos, mimicking the rising tide of emotion within me. The moans from next door reached a fever pitch, a final, desperate chorus of release.

"Ahh! doctor!" a woman shouted in pleasure.

"Ohhhhh.... ahhhhh... I'm cumming!" another woman moaned loudly.

"Fuck. Yeah! Fuck! Oh, yeah, dear. Fuck!" It was Damien's voice.

"Ahhh, yeah." Damien moaned in sheer pleasure. "Ride me, baby."

They clearly enjoyed what they were doing. And I was left here, alone in my office, drowning in a sea of longing, a silent witness to a pleasure I could never share.

I slammed my fist on the desk, the sudden noise swallowed by the classical music blasting through my earbuds. Useless. Nothing could drown out the mental images that had taken root in my mind. Damien, his face flushed, his body moving with that effortless grace that always left his clients breathless… with Alexa, with Mia.

Sinking fully in my chair, I kept my eyes closed, dried my tears, picturing Damien. I couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of his passion, to have his full attention, his eyes locked on mine. Just me. The image was both exhilarating and deeply painful. Because I know it would always be just an unreachable dream.