Page 95 of Dr. Attending

I glance up.

“What was that?” I ask, crossing my arms authoritatively.

He doesn’t respond as he moves the bench like I asked, his eyes shooting daggers in my direction once he finishes.

“Nothing . . . Madame.”

I bite back my amusement as I dim the lights in the room and move toward him, purposely swaying my hips and taking my time because I like the way it feels when he watches me.

My hand rests on his shoulder as I move around his broad frame, stopping just out of his view. I lean in, dusting my lips over his earlobe.

“Let’s get this off of you,” I whisper, pulling his navy windbreaker and scrub top over his head and tossing them to the floor beside us.

Weston keeps his eyes glued straight ahead as I begin to circle him again, admiring his half-naked body. I can totally understand the doctor fetish that some people have now, especially if those doctors look like the man in front of me.

I pause in his line of sight, reaching for the waistband of his scrubs.“You won’t need pants for what I have planned tonight,” I tease, watching his defined chest muscles flex as I pull the drawstring free and let his pants fall to his bare feet.

A quiet gasp leaves my lips when I lower my gaze because I expect to find him in his boxer briefs. But instead, his rock-hard cock is pointing straight at me.

“Uh.” I wet my lips, caught off guard. “Care to tell me why you don’t have any underwear on?”

Weston shrugs, still staring at the wall. “Laundry day, Madame.”

Damn—he’s catching on.

I take a single step closer, gripping his chin to get his attention.

His golden eyes lock on mine, the color darker than normal because his pupils are blown wide with arousal. Either he’s more into this than he lets on, or he’s about to pounce on me, and I might as well enjoy this for as long as I possibly can.

I drop my voice into the most serious tone I can muster. “If youeverpurposely tease me like that again, I’ll punish you. And it won’t be for your enjoyment. Do you understand me?”

It takes all of my control not to burst out laughing because I’m using the very same line he threw at me the night I wore his button-down shirt around the house.

He must remember because his lips thin like he’s stifling a smile.

“Yes, Madame.”

“Good boy.” I gently stroke his jaw with my thumb, stealing another play out of his playbook. “Go lie down on the bench. Stroke that cock for me while you wait like a good boy.”

Weston narrows his gaze but doesn’t protest as he steps out of his scrub pants and follows my instructions.

I know I should pretend to be disinterested, but I can't bring myself to look away as he sits on the edge of the black leather bench because I want to know exactly how he’s going to touch himself.

He leans back, lacing one hand through his dirty-blond hair to prop his head up while the other fists the base of his shaft. I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep my attention locked on his cock as he begins to lazily pump himself.

Whenever Weston and I have hooked up, it’s always been about me. Even the night that I gave him a blow job, he made metouch myself while he fucked my face, so I’ve never gotten to see how he likes it—what he prefers.

His grip is looser than I expect, more sloppy and fluid. It strikes me as odd that he enjoys it like this because he’s so precise and meticulous with everything else in his life. But I guess that’s on brand with Weston—he’s a walking, talking contradiction.

The day I showed up at his house to bring him to the lake, I expected the same guy that I knew from previous summers. But he surprised me. And he’s continued to surprise me ever since. Because he’s so much more than the person he led me to believe he was all of those years ago—he’s the man of my dreams. The man I’m falling for.

“Wes,” I whisper, feeling my lower lip tremble as a sudden surge of emotion rushes through me.

I want to say more. To tell him that I’m sorry for treating him like he was a dick for years. To tell him how much I appreciate him for waiting until I was ready. To tell him how much he means to me.

But I don’t have to because he knows—he always knows.

“Come here, princess,” he says, his expression full of understanding as he sits up and pats his thigh.

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