I feel a slight ringing in my ears at the sound of his insanely deep voice. I’m not sure if it’s just me or the general funkiness I feel from being in a surgery center, but his statement sounds an awful lot like a demand. And the way he just said my name? Holy shit.
Before I even get a chance to speak, he says, “Or would you prefer to go by ‘Miss Gallo’ or something else?”
My toes curl on impulse at the sound of him calling me in such a formal way. It sounds both incredibly sexy and so damn respectful at the same time. I’m not sure I’d be able to decide, so I just shrug in a gesture of indifference.
“Uh, Ramona’s fine,” I manage to croak. I’m not sure it even matters what he calls me. 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 my name gives me the most gigantic goosebumps ever. I’m not entirely sure if they’re the good or bad kind, but I’m more inclined to think they’re the good kind.
He remains silent, and I realize he’s waiting for me to speak.
I tell him about the hitches, when they first started, and how they seem to happen randomly. His expression remains thoughtful as I explain everything, his eyes unnervingly intense and observant.
I lower my own eyes with record speed—speed that I honestly didn’t think they possessed, darting my gaze away from his with a quickness when I catch him staring at me so intently.
My heart picks up its pace and refuses to slow down even a little bit, even when I silently beg it to.
I feel extremely nervous.
He’s making me extremely nervous, and I don’t know why.
“Lift up your shirt,” he says suddenly, and my eyeballs damn near switch places.
“Excuse me?” I know my shock at his statement—which, again, sounds way more like demand—is obvious in my noticeably strained voice.
He pulls his stethoscope from around his neck and motions to my belly with his perfect looking finger. “Let’s get you checked out.”
Realization sets in, and I feel nothing short of absolutely stupid.
Before I can think of anything else, he comes around his desk and sits in the chair opposite mine, beckoning me to stand.
He sets his free hand at the side of my waist, and even though he seems to do it absently, the resulting contact catches me way off guard.
The sensations his fingers elicit are undeniably and terrifyingly electric, catapulting a million sharp tingles and prickles all over my body in seconds which quickly gather and collect in areas I wish they wouldn’t.
Instinctively, I clench my thighs, pressing them tightly against each other at the overwhelming sensations that happily blast away between them.
I feel blood rushing to my head, and for a moment, my vision becomes slightly blurry from the sudden lightheadedness sweeping over me.
He places the stethoscope just below my bra, and I’m not prepared for the stab of cold it shoots through me. My body jolts involuntarily at the frigid sensation and I inhale sharply on a gasp.
“Cold?” he simply asks without looking at me.
I can only nod emphatically, afraid my voice will fail me if I try to speak right now. I think he feels rather than sees my 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 I realize I’m holding my breath, but I don’t think it’s just because of the cold stethoscope traveling all over my tummy.
His fingers slide toward the front of my torso, lightly grazing my skin as they do, and I literally have to grit my teeth together because I’m afraid I might actually moan from how good they’re making me feel. I clench my thighs even tighter until they start to hurt as I desperately try to breathe normally.
He pushes the pads of his index and middle fingers into my belly, increasing the pressure on my skin again and again on various areas, looking for exactly where this hitch is coming from. He presses again, firmer this time, and I abruptly lurch forward, stumbling as I fall forward onto him.
My hands reach out instinctively and my fingers clutch at his broad shoulders in an effort to brace myself from what would have been a very awkward collision, but I realize I’d still be okay even if I didn’t.
His grip on my waist is firm, and his hand easily stabilizes me. It’s actually pretty ridiculous how little effort it’s taking him to keep me in place.
I realize I’m standing between his legs now, and I only realize that because my thigh accidentally brushes against his scrubs, and I feel a protrusion gently pressing against me that I can only hope is not what I’m pretty fucking sure it is.
I feel myself completely stiffen as my mind registers two things; one, for whatever reason, this handsome stranger-doctor person that I just met has a hard-on, and two, I just practically rubbed up on said handsome stranger’s hard-on.
And as a result, I can only manage to do one thing; freak the hell out.