Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Sixty-Three

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Yeah. No panties for Ramona Lisa.

At least, not for today, anyway.

Unfortunately for me, my current, super messed up state of mind has been a direct reflection of my life, and that especially includes my domestic life. So that means, aside from a sink full of dirty dishes, a carpet that hasn't been vacuumed in only God knows how long, and two and a half trash bags of recycling that still haven't been taken out, I have piles and piles of undone laundry that can't even fit into my hamper any more. Thus, my current predicament of no clean underwear, and between rushing and running late this morning, I didn't exactly have much of a choice than going commando. I mean, I've gone without panties before, so I didn't think it was a big deal. Plus, I figured one of the nurses would be doing my vitals and exam so I didn't think much of it. But then I found out that I was going to be dealing with Frost, and only Frost. And now my lack of underwear is making me feel beyond self-conscious.

I feel the cold metal slip away from my skin, as well as his long fingers, taking their warmth and their very strange sense of comfort with them. He pulls the buds from his ears and hangs the stethoscope around his neck in one swift, effortless motion, making it obvious that he's done it a billion times before. Again, I can't help but notice how the stethoscope drapes around his broad shoulders as if it belongs there permanently, as if it's just another part of his body. The black rubber is a direct contrast to the immaculate white of the lab coat it rests against; so different from each other yet so complementary—supplementary, even—that they almost wouldn't look right if they weren't together.

And the irony is not lost on me that it's the exact opposite case with Frost and I. We are different in every aspect and by any stretch of the imagination, but we are far from complementary, and definitely not supplementary. The whole 'opposites attract' thing is total hogwash as far as I'm concerned. At least it is in our case.

He reaches for a black blood pressure cuff on the counter next to him. "I'm going to check your blood pressure now," he says. He leans his body in even more closely to mine so that our knees are practically touching now. I inhale sharply at the unexpected contact, trying to move my knee away on reflex, but there's nowhere to actually move it from the position I'm in. And he obviously doesn't intend to move his, considering how deliberate the action was. Still, maybe I should tell him to?

I'm still focused on our touching knees when he reaches for my wrist, his large, long fingers easily wrapping themselves around it with quite a bit of room to spare, and I'm only reminded, once again, of just how much bigger this man is than me.

I can't stop the very tip of my tongue from darting out and licking my bottom lip at the feel of his hand firmly gripping mine, and I don't even realize I've done it until it's already happened. And from the way he's looking at me now, he obviously saw me do it, too.

The intensity in his eyes and the feel of his firm grip on me are too much to take all at once, and I have to avert my eyes from his as I feel my naked pussy clench involuntarily beneath my jeans. I try to bring my knees together on reflex as I feel the unmistakable gush of hot liquid leak from my core, but all I end up doing is getting my knees stuck between his.

"You seem rather fidgety today, Ramona," he says casually, but there's nothing casual about the edge in his voice. Or the gleam in his eyes.

I have nothing to say to that; no witty comeback or even a nonchalant roll of my eyes. My heart races at the way he says my name, and it damn near leaps out of my chest when he tightens his grip on my wrist. I have to stifle a surprised yelp when he also locks his knees in place so that mine have no way from between them now. This man literally just barricaded my legs with his. Well, actually, I think I may have been partially—but completely unintentionally—responsible for that part, but he's certainly making sure that I'm not going anywhere.

Still, it doesn't stop me from trying to, and I move my knees again, but all I succeed in doing is brushing up against both his inner thighs with them, and when I realize what I'm doing, I immediately freeze. And then, if that's not bad enough, my stupid eyes somehow latch onto the growing mass just inches away from my kneecaps, the large bulge now very obvious beneath his blue scrubs. I stare at his enlarging cock for two seconds too long before my eyes reflexively dart upwards again, only to find him staring unbelievably hard at me.

I didn't even mean to look at him—or his dick, for that matter. I feel my neck and cheeks burning up as sheer embarrassment takes over. I'm beyond flustered, and my erratic heartbeat certainly isn't helping.

Without saying anything else, he wraps the Velcro cuff around my arm, securing the straps with a firm nudge that makes my pussy jump for some reason. He proceeds to squeeze the pump, pressing it again and again for several consecutive seconds. The gassy sound of pumped air fills my ears, and I feel the cuff getting progressively tighter around my arm, its rims slightly digging into my skin as it becomes more and more inflated. I can practically hear my veins and arteries screaming their protest, swelling and expanding to accommodate the surge of blood that's struggling to pass through them.

He stops pumping eventually, and traces of a frown slightly contort his face. "Your blood pressure is a little high," he says as his eyes focus on the gauge, but despite his seemingly concerned expression, the casualness in his voice is not lost on me. I can't stop myself from rolling my eyes.

No shit, Sherlock. And just whose fucking fault exactly do you think that is?

I peek a glance as he writes down the readings in the systolic and diastolic slots on my exam form, his handwriting pretty illegible as one would expect from a doctor.

I've never understood why they always, always have crappy handwriting. Each and every single one I've ever met. It's always tedious to try and decipher their lines of hastily scribbled chicken-scratch, and now is no exception.

My eyes are still on his moving hand when I realize, possibly for the very first time, that he's left-handed. And just as soon as I do, my stupid eyes latch onto his wedding band, its rich, gold color reflecting the fluorescent light beautifully...and I immediately feel like throwing up.

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