Provocative Professions Collection (9 page)

I'm headed back to see Dr. Reynolds.

Chapter 8

Again with the paper robe? Why even pretend? We all know I'm as good as naked minus my favorite pair of smooching frog socks snuggling my toes.

There's no fancy schmancy prep this time; I'm in far too foul a mood. Only a rushed hot shower, one squirt of lavender and a quick leg and pit shave. I did, however, brush my teeth
twice
, now keenly aware he prefers to be up close and personal with more than just my cha-cha.

Other than that, this is as good as it gets.

I spent all night tossing and turning, anxious about my results, mad I'd missed more work, and positively distraught at the current state of affairs with Brady and Dylan.

So when Dr. Reynolds knocks and steps in bearing that charming smile, and dear God wearing the sexiest pair of blue scrubs I've ever seen in my life, I almost feel bad for the scowl I'm throwing back.

"Addison," he regards me, airing on the sign of caution, "how're you?"

"Not great, Doc, not even close. Kinda wanting to speed things along and go straight for a drink. It's gotta be five o'clock somewhere, right?"

He glances around, noticeably uncomfortable, before blowing out a long winded breath. Obviously he was expecting the universally acceptable response of, "fine, how are you?"

Not today, sorry, Doc.

"I, um," he stammers, concentrating on the damn all-knowing chart. "Anything I can do?"

"Ha," I scoff. Doesn't matter—doctors, lawyers, trash men, janitors—they're all still
men
, so they have no clue what to say.

"You could explain my test results. My first ever exam was nerve-wracking enough. Getting a call that my results are," I air quote, "'inconclusive,' well, it scares the shit out of me, quite frankly."

With that admission, my catty, sniping anger is gone, replaced with a trembling lower lip and watering eyes. "And I couldn't even call my best friend to get a medical opinion on it, because again, quite frankly, he's an asshole."

Another thing all men, any walk of life, have in common—they can't stand it when a woman starts to cry.

Dr. Reynolds rises from the stool and moves to stand directly in front of me. "Hey, shhh." He rubs my knee. "Addison, everything will be fine, I promise."

I wipe my palms down my face, a mess inside and out. "Th-thank you for fitting me in, by the way. I appreciate it." I sniffle, long past simply feeling vulnerable. "I'm sorry, I'm just overwhelmed, worried, exhausted." I wave my hand as though "shooing" away the unbearable list. "Anyways, please, can we just get this over with? I need to know what's going on."

Head ducked to meet my eyes, his empathic smile soothes me. "Inconclusive means just that. Not good, not bad, not anything. Something made it impossible to get any results at all."

That's my vagina alright—never getting any results.

"Addison," he taps the hand still on my knee, bringing me back from thought, "did you by any chance douche before you came in that day?"

Oh dear God, he'd smelt the vinegar!
My entire body flushes with morbid embarrassment as I fidget away from him.

"Maybe," I mutter, unable to look anywhere besides my lap.

With a gentle hand, he lifts my head, forcing our eyes to meet. "It's a common thing, don't feel like you're the only one. So that's a yes?"

I nod, and very slowly he steps back, releasing his hold on my chin as well as my gaze.

"That's it then," he says, his voice reassuring. "The chemicals in the douche render the swab unreadable. We'll simply take another sample, alright?" He rolls the cart holding the tray of torture over and my spine stiffens, arms and legs nervously crossing together.

"T-take another?" I stutter.

Abruptly he turns back. "You didn't do it again today, did you?"

"No," I reply with a bit of haste and indignation. How rank does he think it is down there?
Sheesh.

"Good. It's not recommended, ever. The vagina actually does more good for itself, naturally, if you let it. Douches strip away those good things."

"Okay." Yeah, that's all I got on the subject, not one I'm looking to discuss.

"So, alright, we'll take another pass at it. You know I have to ask, would you like—"

"Is one of your nurses begging to see my goods or what? My God, how many times must I say I'm fine without spectators?"

Scrubbing a hand over his mouth to hide the smirk, those eyes of his twinkle with amusement. "As far as I'm aware, none of my staff is vying for a peek. It's a requirement that I ask, each and every time."

I offer a grateful smile for his professionalism. "This is a small town. The less people I run into who've seen my bits, the better. No worries here. Proceed." I flop back against the table with ceremonious flair, not caring which part of my robe flies open.
Own it, right?

Obviously taking his sweet time, I sit back up and decide to help, attempting to go ahead and raise the stirrups for him while he does the glove/tray thing,
attempt
being the key word. I fail miserably, nearly upside down trying to pull out the difficult metal contraptions.

At the echoing clatter, his head cocks back a smidge, one brow raised. "Anxious, are we?"

I roll my eyes and sit back, realizing the stirrups are not going to cooperate. Dr. Reynolds strides over and of course makes easy work of them.
Show off
.

"Nice socks," he says with a teasing smile, guiding my feet one at time up and into place.

I shoot him a proud grin, then in one big scoot, move myself forward all the way to the end. The looming possibility of a nervous freak out is absent this time, perhaps because he's already seen all I'd kept hidden for so long.

"You remember how this works, right?" He reaches for the lamp. "Legs wide apart."

With one big breath in, I relax and allow my legs to fall open as he pulls up the bottom of my robe.

"Speculum in." He eases the cold metal inside me, then stills, waiting to hear my exhale of acceptance. "And a pinch. Good, Addison, stay relaxed for me."

It's easier this time, since I know what to expect. There's only my clammy hands and an obvious case of goosebumps, which I blame on the chill in the air, despite the heat raging under my surface. I still wonder if I feel wet, if he's using some sort of lubricant, or if the lamp is in fact the source of great heat.

"Speculum closing, and," I feel it slide from me, "out. You did great this time." He stands over me, sitting the tool on the tray. There is no quick turning around on his part, no attempt to hide the easy smile he's wearing, gentle and kind.

My breath hitches when he pulls off his gloves and tosses them in the trash beside him, never breaking the connection between us. As if I'd silently asked for more, he delicately places his hand on my calf, I assume to help lower my legs, but no. Rather, his eyes bore into my own, never wavering, as his thumb rubs slow circles over my sensitive flesh.

This I'm not imagining, or wishing—
this
is actually, tangibly happening.

I do nothing to stop him, remaining absolutely still, focused on his powerful stare and the feel of his thumb massaging against my skin. Legs open, robe brazenly agape, I lie there unashamed, completely mesmerized.

"Addison," he murmurs in a deep timbre, "I—" His head shoots to the door.

Why sure, why wouldn't someone knock right at that exact moment? I mean, this is
my
luck we're talking about here. More disappointed than startled, I lazily sit up, drawing my legs together and straightening the robe as he moves away.

With a peek back at me, confirming that I'm composed enough to welcome a possible third party, he cracks open the door the slightest bit.

By the time he's done speaking with whomever was out in the hall and turns back, I've gotten down off the table and pulled my yoga pants up on under the robe.

"I have to go. I'll, uh, someone will call as soon as your results are in," he explains, his words unsteady.

A line has been crossed, the air surrounding us no longer heavy with intrigue and lust but awkward restlessness.

"Thank you, Doctor," I say to the floor, confusion clouding my soft voice and dictating the downward direction of my head.

I only look up when I hear the door click. He's gone and I'm a mess of hands and feet shoving on my shirt and wrestling with my shoes. As soon as I'm fully dressed, I pull out my phone to make the call my complete bewilderment won't allow me to delay another minute.

"Jennifer, hey, it's Addison. I'll be out for the rest of the day. I'm sorry. I just finished at the doctor and I need to go home and lie down. Thank you."

Dragging into my house, my back throbs and aches from the hunchback-ish posture that's set in with my mood. I'd fix this funk I'm in if only I knew how—usually I'm a productive, happily independent functioning member of society. Problem is, I can't pinpoint exactly what's sucked the life from me; it's just one big hodge-podge of fuzzy
ick
.

Giving no fucks that it's early afternoon, I trudge to my bedroom and slip into my comfiest pajamas, then crawl under the sanctity of my billowy down comforter. I've never been a big napper, always more important things to do in daylight, but damn if my eyelids aren't already heavy.

Everything's a wreck and I need a break from reality, so I surrender to sleep.

"Addison."

My eyes flutter open, taking in my surroundings, no longer my bedroom. Instead I'm back there, his office, sitting on the exam table wearing nothing but my lucky socks. There's no robe to cover even the smallest part of me. I'm naked, vulnerable, yet my focus is trained solely on searching for the wanting masculine voice calling out my name.

He's not in the room, not yet, but he soon will be. He's close, on the other side of that door, I can feel him. I close my eyes, imagining him standing there, ready to greet me, touch me. Is he visualizing me? Preparing his body, pleading with it to behave as I am my own?

Anticipation trembling down my legs, I watch as the door opens and he appears, calm and collected, all business. But his eyes…his eyes give him away, telling a different story. He's not just my doctor, I'm more than his patient. There's a hunger there, one that matches my own, challenging me to take what I want.

Instantly he's in front of me, as though he'd flashed across the room too quickly for the human eye to catch. No words are spoken as he lays me back, his fingers curling around my own until I'm spread out over the table.

His mouth suckles my breast, tongue flicking the nipple, hands wandering over me. He can't get enough. I can feel his excitement, his eagerness. I arch my back up, needing him closer.

He understands, walking to the end of the table and climbing up. His strong body covers my own as he claims my mouth in zealous fervor, his hard, rigid length pulsing against my stomach.

My legs creep out from under him and wrap around his back, the movement pushing his cock exactly where I need it. I feel the twitch when I grind against it.

My hands tangle in his silky hair over his shoulders, then slide between our bodies, tugging to open his pants. He places a final kiss to my collarbone then raises up to assist. My heavy lidded eyes meet Brady's familiar face suddenly looking down into mine.

"I know you want me too, Moe. Always been mine."

I throw up my hands, pushing him away, scurrying off the side of the table, now my bed, where I awaken, fingers delved in my core, body so close but mind alarmingly confused. It takes a moment to fully immerse back into consciousness.

What the hell is happening to me?

Overheated and heart pounding, I'm twisted in the sheets, a light sheen of sweat covering my enflamed body.

My dream. Oh God, my dream.

Attempting to control my rapid breaths, I glance over at my alarm. Eight am! I'd never set it, falling asleep mid-day, and now I'm right on track to be late for work and irresponsibly unconcerned.

And like a slap in the face, my
dear
friend irony decides to pick this moment to start pounding on my front door—literally. I only have myself to blame for the early morning visitor. Finally acknowledging the silent phone on the side table, I have no doubt who it is. I climb out of bed and check that I'm presentable enough, or at least fully covered, and go answer him.

This outta be fun. "Morning. I stopped short of what was an actual wet dream when you showed up in it. How are you today?"

"Counting to ten, Moe, then I'm using my key!" he yells from the other side.

"Calm down, I'm coming," I mumble, swinging open the door to one frumpy-faced Brady.

"She's alive!" he snaps, showing himself in. "Here." He hands me a Starbucks cup, one quick sip confirming my favorite grande no whip peppermint white mocha.

"Is this—"

"No, after five thousand orders, I begged them to pour in an actual vat of fat.
My bad
," he deadpans. "Did you want non-fat?"

Well, someone's in a mood.

Not wanting to test the waters further
,
I take another sip, the harshness in his surveying eyes running the length of my front and then back up.