Page 3 of Deeply Examined

Oh.

Now I feel like such a dummy. Of course that’s why he’s looking at my chest with those strange eyes.

His hands are slightly wet when they clamp around my right breast, the one closest to him. Slowly, with both hands, he kneads the tissue in a clockwise direction, and it feels good, like a massage. The rhythm relaxes my body until I sink fully into the upholstered tabletop. I let out a sigh allowing my head to loll. Once he’s done on the right, he crosses over to my left side and repeats the motion of palpating my breast slowly and thoroughly. I watch through my lashes as his eyes follow the path of fingers. He’s concentrating, a small furrow in his brow.

“Do you do this?” he asks, without looking up. “Touch yourself?”

My eyes fly open. “What?”

“Do a self-exam? Have you noticed any lumps? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Oh.” I relax back onto the table and answer his question. “No. I mean, yes, I do self-exams, but no, I haven’t felt anything abnormal.”

“Where do you do it?”

“Do what? The self-exam?”

He nods, his warm hands moving over my skin.

“Usually in the shower, when I’m washing.” His fingers move closer to my nipples, lightly brushing them with each rotation. My breath catches, sputters. That feels a little too good. It feels…arousing. I clear my throat and try to distract myself. “Is that okay? To do it in the shower? I thought I read that somewhere.”

“It’s fine,” he answers and pinches my nipple, hard.

I yelp, rocketing into a half-sitting position, with my upper body supported on bent elbows.

Dr. West puts a large hand on my shoulder and forces me down. “I have to examine your nipples to eliminate any subareolar masses.”

“Of course.” My cheeks heat with a blush.

Why did I overreact?

“I’m sorry. I was surprised, that’s all.”

He doesn’t answer. He rolls my nipple between his thumb and index finger, watching as he does it. There must be a nerve in my breast that communicates directly with my vagina because every time he squeezes my nipple it sets off an ache between my legs.

Crap. I’m getting turned on. This is so embarrassing.

He places one hand on each breast and cups them, gathering and lifting the rounded globes. Then he drags his palms across from bottom to top. Every time he touches my erect and sensitive nipples, it feels good, exquisite actually. Each brush of his skin against mine heightens a needy emptiness between my legs. I struggle to control my breathing, which has sped up, coming in short soft bursts. When Dr. West flicks the tip of my nipple with his fingernail, I can’t contain my gasp. My eyes fly up to him, and I open my mouth to apologize. To explain away my unprofessional response—but maybe he didn’t notice it because he appears unfazed. His expression is cool and calm.

“Your breasts look good. I don’t feel anything worrisome,” he says.

“That’s a relief,” I answer, watching as he pulls bright-green latex gloves out of a box on the counter. He puts them on and straightens each one.

My phone buzzes next to me, where I left it. I glance over at it and grimace when I see the name “Brad” flashing on the screen. A quick tap silences the noise.

Dr. West is staring at me with one eyebrow raised and his foot impatiently tapping.

“Sorry,” I mumble. Warmth climbs my cheeks. He must think I’m so rude.

Without responding, he takes a seat on the stool and presses the back of his hands against my inner knees to open my legs wide. I stare at the ceiling, mortified. I got wet down there when he was touching my breasts, and I’m sure he can see it.

Should I say something? Is he going to say something?

Dr West drags a silver, long-necked lamp to him and turns on the light. He adjusts it until it’s directly pointed at my exposed core. I close my eyes against the glare. Warmth from the lamp washes over my inner thighs and across my pelvis.

“You’re going to feel my touch now,” Dr. West warns in his low baritone.

I feel his finger run along my seam from the back to the front, bumping up against my clitoris at the end of the stroke. I suck in a breath at the fireworks that result. He repeats the motion, and I open to him like a flower. I swear I hear an appreciative murmur, but I must have imagined it, because when I open my eyes to peer down Dr. West’s face remains an expressionless mask.

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