Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Sixteen (Role Play Edition)

 

You feel a slight ringing in your ears at the sound of his insanely deep voice. You’re not sure if it’s just you or the general funkiness you feel from being in a surgery center, but his statement sounds an awful lot like a demand. And the way he just said your name? Holy shit.

Before you even get a chance to speak, he says, “Or would you prefer to go by ‘Miss Gallo’ or something else?”

Your toes curl on impulse at the sound of him calling you in such a formal way. It sounds both incredibly sexy and so damn respectful at the same time. You’re not sure you’d be able to decide, so you just shrug in a gesture of indifference.

“Uh, Ramona’s fine,” you manage to croak. You’re not sure it even matters what he calls you. His voice would most likely still have the same attention-grabbing effect.

He simply nods. “Alright, then. Ramona it is.”

Jesus, he really needs to stop doing that! The way he says your name gives you the most gigantic goosebumps ever. You’re not entirely sure if they’re the good or bad kind, but you’re more inclined to think they’re the good kind.

He remains silent, and you realize he’s waiting for you to speak.

You tell him about the hitches, when they first started, and how they seem to happen randomly. His expression remains thoughtful as you explain everything, his eyes unnervingly intense and observant.

You lower your own eyes with record speed—speed that you honestly didn’t think they possessed, darting your gaze away from his with a quickness when you catch him staring at you so intently.

Your heart picks up its pace and refuses to slow down even a little bit, even when you silently beg it to.

You feel extremely nervous.

He’s making you extremely nervous, and you don’t know why.

“Lift up your shirt,” he says suddenly, and your eyeballs damn near switch places.

“Excuse me?” You know your shock at his statement—which, again, sounds way more like demand—is obvious in your noticeably strained voice.

He pulls his stethoscope from around his neck and motions to your belly with his perfect looking finger. “Let’s get you checked out.”

Realization sets in, and you feel nothing short of absolutely stupid.

Before you can think of anything else, he comes around his desk and sits in the chair opposite yours, beckoning you to stand.

 

He sets his free hand at the side of your waist, and even though he seems to do it absently, the resulting contact catches you way off guard. 

 

The sensations his fingers elicit are undeniably and terrifyingly electric, catapulting a million sharp tingles and prickles all over your body in seconds which quickly gather and collect in areas you wish they wouldn’t.

 

Instinctively, you clench your thighs, pressing them tightly against each other at the overwhelming sensations that happily blast away between them.

 

You feel blood rushing to your head, and for a moment, your vision becomes slightly blurry from the sudden lightheadedness sweeping over you.

 

He places the stethoscope just below your bra, and you’re not prepared for the stab of cold it shoots through you. Your body jolts involuntarily at the frigid sensation and you inhale sharply on a gasp.

 

“Cold?” he simply asks without looking at you.

 

You can only nod emphatically, afraid your voice will fail you if you try to speak right now. You think he feels rather than sees your response.

 

“Just relax,” he says, moving the stethoscope an inch from where it was. “Breathe for me.”

 

It’s only when he says the words that you realize you’re holding your breath, but you don’t think it’s just because of the cold stethoscope traveling all over your tummy.

 

His fingers slide toward the front of your torso, lightly grazing your skin as they do, and you literally have to grit your teeth together because you’re afraid you might actually moan from how good they’re making you feel. You clench your thighs even tighter until they start to hurt as you desperately try to breathe normally.

 

He pushes the pads of his index and middle fingers into your belly, increasing the pressure on your skin again and again on various areas, looking for exactly where this hitch is coming from. He presses again, firmer this time, and you abruptly lurch forward, stumbling as you fall forward onto him.

 

Your hands reach out instinctively and your fingers clutch at his broad shoulders in an effort to brace yourself from what would have been a very awkward collision, but you realize you’d still be okay even if you didn’t.

His grip on your waist is firm, and his hand easily stabilizes you. It’s actually pretty ridiculous how little effort it’s taking him to keep you in place.

 

You realize you’re standing between his legs now, and you only realize that because your thigh accidentally brushes against his scrubs, and you feel a protrusion gently pressing against you that you can only hope is not what you’re pretty fucking sure it is.

 

You feel yourself completely stiffen as your mind registers two things; one, for whatever reason, this handsome stranger-doctor person that you just met has a hard-on, and two, you just practically rubbed up on said handsome stranger’s hard-on.

 

And as a result, you can only manage to do one thing; freak the hell out.

 

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