Dr. Mark, My Mom’s Ex-Husband

3

Mark

I hadn’t planned on talking to anyone that night.

I’d only gone up to the rooftop to escape the charity mixer three floors down. My assistant had dragged me there, promising it would be quick. Suits, small talk, donation tiers. I’d slipped out early, told the host I had an important call, and found the quietest corner of the building instead—the roof. Away from the noise and the expectations.

Then I saw her at the railing, wind tugging at her dark hair, a half-empty glass in her hand. She stared down at the glittering city like she was trying to decide if it was beautiful or just very far down.

I almost kept walking. I’m not the kind of man who approaches strangers. Somewhere between residency, endless hospital shifts, and a divorce that ended so quietly no one even noticed, I’d stopped being that guy. I work. I go home. I sleep four or five restless hours and do it again. My closest friend, Peter, says I’ve become a very well-dressed ghost.

But something about her stopped me. The way she gripped that glass like it was the only solid thing left. The set of her jaw, like she’d decided crying in public wasn’t an option tonight even if the rest of her looked ready to shatter.

So I spoke. I don’t even remember the exact words—something about how she looked like she might cry or jump, and that I’d rather talk her out of both.

She turned, eyes meeting mine without the usual calculation. No quick glance at my watch, my shoes, my suit. Just a woman looking at a man. Something tight in my chest loosened for the first time in years.

We talked for hours. I told her I hadn’t taken a real vacation in forever. I gave her the short, clean version of the divorce—the one that doesn’t invite questions. She didn’t push. She listened like she actually cared, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass while the city hummed below us.

She told me about a fiancé whose name she never said. About the necklace she still wore out of stubborn pride. And about a children’s hospital wing she’d designed years ago in a notebook, full of wide windows and soft colors so it never felt like a hospital. Her hands moved as she described it, her whole face lighting up. For the first time in a long time, I was standing next to someone who still believed in building beautiful things.

“You should build it,” I said quietly. “The world needs more people who still believe in things like that.”

She looked at me strangely, like no one had ever said that to her before.

When I finally asked if she wanted to get out of there, I already knew her answer. The air between us had been thickening for hours—nothing to do with the drinks, everything to do with the pull neither of us wanted to name.

“One condition,” she said, voice low. “No names.”

That surprised me. Most people chase my name, my title, what I can do for them. She wanted the opposite.

“No names,” I agreed. “No numbers. Whatever this is, it stays tonight.”

“Tonight,” she echoed, tasting the word. “I can do tonight.”

We left together. The elevator ride down was silent, thick with anticipation. My hand brushed hers, and electricity shot through me. In the cab, her thigh pressed against mine. By the time we reached the hotel, I could barely keep my hands to myself.

The door had barely clicked shut behind us before I pulled her close. She came willingly, her body fitting against mine like she belonged there. Our first kiss was slow, searching—then hungry. She tasted like whiskey and something sweet, her fingers sliding into my hair as she moaned softly into my mouth.

I walked her backward toward the bed, hands exploring the curves I’d been imagining all night. Her dress slipped off her shoulders easily, pooling at her feet. Underneath, she wore black lace that made my mouth go dry. I kissed down her neck, tasting her skin, while my fingers traced the necklace she refused to take off.

“Beautiful,” I murmured against her collarbone. She shivered when I cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her hardening n*****s through the lace. I unclasped her bra and took one into my mouth, sucking gently then harder as her back arched and she gasped my— no names. Just raw sound.

Her hands worked my shirt open, nails scraping down my chest. When she reached my belt, I helped her, kicking off the rest of my clothes. Naked, I pressed her down onto the bed, covering her body with mine. Skin on skin, heat building fast.

I took my time despite how badly I wanted to rush. I kissed every inch of her—down her stomach, over her hips, between her thighs. She was wet, trembling, her fingers tightening in my hair as I licked and sucked her c**t, sliding two fingers inside her. She came hard the first time, thighs clamping around my head, crying out into the dark room.

“More,” she whispered when she could speak again.

I moved up, settling between her legs. She wrapped them around my waist as I pushed inside her—slow at first, savoring the tight, slick heat. Then deeper, harder. We moved together like we’d done this a hundred times, bodies finding a perfect rhythm. Her nails dug into my back, her moans filling the room as I thrust into her. I flipped her over, taking her from behind, one hand gripping her hip, the other reaching around to rub her c**t. She pushed back against me, meeting every stroke, her voice breaking on another o****m.

We didn’t stop. Not for long. She rode me next, hair wild, breasts bouncing as she moved, her hands braced on my chest. I sat up, sucking on her n*****s while she ground down on me, chasing pleasure. The sounds she made—soft gasps turning into desperate cries—drove me wild. I flipped her again, pinning her wrists above her head as I drove into her harder, faster, losing myself in the wet slap of skin and her scent all around me.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, she laughed—that bright, surprised sound—and I smiled against her neck, something in me cracking open. We talked in fragments between rounds: quiet words about nothing and everything, her fingers tracing the lines of my muscles, mine stroking her hair.

I fell asleep with her curled against me, her hair on my shoulder. I never sleep in strange beds. But that night, my mind was quiet. Peaceful.

She was awake when I stirred just before dawn. Sitting up, sheets pooled around her waist, hair beautifully messy. She looked toward the window.

“Sun’s coming up,” she said softly.

“Yeah.”

We stayed like that for a minute, neither moving. I almost broke the rule. Almost asked for her number, told her this felt like more than one night. But she was already reaching for her dress, piecing herself back together.

I understood. This was what we’d agreed to. One perfect night. No names. No future to complicate.

She paused at the door, glancing back with an expression I couldn’t quite read—grateful, a little sad, a lot satisfied. Then she gave me a small, real smile and stepped out.

I lay there long after the door shut, staring at the ceiling, already missing a woman whose name I would never know.