“I’ll let you open the top part of your gown and we’ll get the breast exam out of the way.”
I don’t move at first. I simply look at him, searching his expression for anything that’ll tell me he feels the same awkwardness I’m currently feeling. He’s either damn good at hiding it, an ace at being a professional, or our night together wasn’t as significant to him as it was to me. He remains stoic, and it kinda pisses me off.
I look away from him, and with jerky movements, I yank open the top part of my gown. I close my eyes and mentally begin to slowly count backward from one hundred, hoping to use the exercise as a distraction.
I barely hold back my gasp when one of Carter’s hands gently grabs one of my wrists and lifts it over my head.
“Keep your arm there. The position will make it easier to feel for lumps.”
Is it just me, or was his voice deeper than normal? I’m not willing to open my eyes to find out, because I’m afraid of what I might see.
My molars grind together and my stomach muscles quiver when he presses the tips of his fingers on the outside of my right breast. Applying pressure, he moves his hand in a circular motion, sort of like a massage, only not the kind that loosens muscles.
I keep my eyes shut the whole time, begging my body to behave and not squirm around like it wants to.
When he gets close to one of my nipples, which are now hard—I blame it on the chilly air in the room and not the hands on my breast—I suppress the urge to wiggle an inch to the side, because that’s all it would take for his fingers to brush the tight bud.
Once he’s done and he takes his hands off me, I want to whine in protest, but remember at the last second I’m not here for enjoyment. When I feel his presence move away from me, I slit my eyes open a little and watch as he walks away. His back is stiff as he stands at the laptop and taps away at it. When he turns to face me, my eyes, of their own accord, drop to the front of his slacks. Warmth coats my cheeks and slides down my torso to between my legs when I see the bulge.
It seems he’s not as unaffected as he wants me to believe. Knowing this makes me feel marginally less creepy.
“Everything was fine with the breast exam,” he remarks as he pulls out a pair of latex gloves from the box hanging on the wall. It’s no surprise he chose a large pair. The man has huge hands. “Are you ready for the pelvic exam?”
Not really. “Yes.”
He nods, takes a seat on the stool and wheels it closer to me. I lose sight of him. “Scoot down to the end of the table.”
Having already done this dozens of times, I lift my ass and scoot down. My knees are locked together and the sheet covers my bottom half, but I’m still very conscious of the fact that he’s only a foot or two away from my lady bits.
He grabs my ankle and places my foot in a stirrup then does the same to the other one. With my ass hanging off the table and my legs spread obscenely apart, I feel really fucking exposed and he hasn’t even started the exam yet.
All too soon, I feel the sheet being lifted. Anticipation and dread fill me. Anticipation because, as wrong as it is given our current situation, I want him to touch me. Even if it is just clinically.
I must be seriously fucked up.
I’m also dreading him seeing the evidence of how turned on I am right now. And let’s face it, there’s no way he could miss it. I felt myself get wet and drip down my crack. I have no doubt the paper I’m lying on is soaked. But then again, I’m sure he’s had other female patients get wet when he’s down there messing around. The man looks like a walking sex God.
He doesn’t say anything as he exposes me, but he doesn’t need to. I hear the slight shift in his breathing in the quietness of the room.
He clears his throat before he speaks, his voice definitely deeper than it was before. “There will be a slight pressure when I insert the speculum and extend it.”
“Hmm,” I answer because that’s all I can manage at the moment.
I lock my fingers together and lay them on my stomach. Holding my breath and hoping my body stops betraying me, I wait for the first touch. Something cool touches my hole right before I feel it slide inside me. The pressure he spoke of comes next, but it’s not uncomfortable like it normally is during these visits. Instead, it inconveniently builds on the ache I’m already feeling.
I hear some paper rip and then comes the irritating scrape of the long q-tip thingy doctors use to take samples. Thankfully, that part is over quickly.
The pressure of the speculum is released and Carter slides it out slowly. He fiddles with my lady bits a couple more minutes—I’m sure checking to make sure everything looks normal. I breathe a sigh of relief that this awkward situation will be over soon.
When I hear the snap of his gloves as he takes them off, I figure he’s done, so I begin to close my legs.
“Leave them open,” he barks, and I jump at the harshness in his tone.
“What?” I try to sit up, but my arms give out when I feel a surprisingly sharp slap on the inside of my thigh. “What the he—?”
“I said leave them open, Harley. I'm not done with my exam.”
I’m not exactly sure what’s going on or what he means that he’s not done, but I’m still shocked by the slap on my thigh and the edge in his voice that all I do is lay there stupefied.