Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but there’s so much trust in the way she follows me across the room. Poppy’s my lost little lamb, hopping up to sit on the desk when I tap the wood. My shirt is so huge on her, and those sandal-clad feet kick in the empty air between us.
There’s not that much space. I’m losing an endless battle trying to keep away.
“You’re flushed,” I tell her. Poppy blushes even harder, but she lets me place two fingers beneath her jaw and feel her pulse. It slams against my fingertips, strong and a little quick. She’s vibrant; always so alive.
“Well, Doc?” There’s a mischievous glint in those gray eyes. “Will I live?”
“Difficult to say.” Uh. Who am I? Am I really doing this right now? “More tests needed, I think, Miss Lennox.”
And fuck, I’m definitely going to hell for this, but it’s worth it when Poppy lights up with pure delight. “The stethoscope?” she whispers.
Straight. To. Hell.
“Perhaps.” First, I trail my fingertips down the center of her throat, feeling the warm satin of her skin, the bob as she swallows, then skirt along her collarbone. I slip up to the second knuckle under her borrowed shirt, watching my fingers disappear. “Tell me your symptoms. What are you feeling right now?”
“Flushed,” Poppy says immediately, but I gave her that one. I level her a look and she grins. “And—and my heart’s racing. My palms are, um. Sweaty. My mouth is dry and my head—hey!”
I ignore the loud complaints, crossing to the sink in the corner of the room. Poppy stops grousing when I bring her back a glass of water.
“Drink. You’re a little dehydrated.”
She sips her water, so unimpressed. Three long, sullen gulps later, half her glass is drained and she’s glaring at me over the rim.
“I thought we were doing, you know. A sexy thing. Playing doctor.”
I hide a smile as I take her glass. “We are.”
All the air leaves the room as the glass clinks against the bookcase, and when I turn back around, Poppy looks dazed. Her pupils are huge, her eyes nearly black, and her lips are damp. She’s squirming on the desk. So eager she can’t sit still.
I take my stethoscope from the top desk drawer. Poppy squeaks.
“Alright, Miss Lennox. Undo your top two buttons, please.”
Shaking fingers hurry to obey. I wait, jaw clenched.
Poppy’s hiss echoes around the office as cool metal meets flushed skin. “Whit—I mean Doc. Oh my god.” She clings to the open sides of my white coat, swaying on the desk as I press the stethoscope over her heart. And I really am curious, so I slip it into my ears.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Her heart is racing. Pounding fast and hard.
“Are you lightheaded at all?” I ask, slipping my other hand beneath her shirt. Poppy whimpers, the sound such a dark thrill as my fingers graze the soft cotton of her bra.
It’s not padded. There’s nothing but a thin scrap of material between her nipple and my thumb as I rub back and forth over the hard bud. Back and forth. Teasing her through the fabric.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Her heart beats faster.
“Interesting.” I pinch her nipple. Another hiss. “Tell me, Miss Lennox: where does it hurt?”
“Here.” Immediately, Poppy flattens her hand over mine through the shirt, molding my touch to her breast. She urges me to cup her, to knead, to squeeze her soft flesh, and my pulse throbs in my ears as I do it. She’s the perfect fit, tailor-made for my palm. “Better,” she gasps.
I’m out of control. I’ve gone off the rails.
I don’t recognize myself. I’veneverdone this before.
“You look good in my shirt,” I murmur, then drag myself back into my role. “Any other pain?”