Page 79 of Fixation
Until I think this is perfectly normal doctor behavior.
His eyes cut to mine. His lean, large body towers over me. “Please, what?”
Before I answer him, I get struck by a brilliant idea.
I still have one question left.
“What do you do in your spare time?” I ask, hoping it might save me. Might stop me from losing myself in him.
Before he shoves his fingers in my ass, he goes lower. His finger circles my clit, and I’m falling for his seduction like a fool.
I have to keep talking. Have to snap out of it. “When you’re away from the hospital? You said you were busy. Busy doing what?”
He considers this. Considers some more while his fingers are back to pressing against my ass. While he squirts another load of soap and rubs it into my skin.
“I’m paying off an old debt.”
An old debt? To who? For what?
His gaze says he won’t answer those questions. That I maxed out on the two I had, and that’s it.
“Relax.” This order is harsher than the ones that have come before it. His fingers circle my tight hole. Putting pressure on the rim. “I won’t ask you twice. You can take it like a good patient. You can fight me on it. Either way, I’m going to shove my fingers in your tightest hole.”
The terrifying thing is that he’s telling the truth.
I suck in a deep breath.
As soon as I let it out, he pushes his finger inside me.
“Oh,” I whimper. I cry. “Oh my God. Please, stop.”
“Shh.” He shoves it in and out in purposeful strokes. “Almost done.”
“It stings.” And it’s humiliating. And awful. It’s not supposed to feel so good. “I—please, stop.”
“Why did you move to New York?” He’s ignoring me again. His free hand is firm under my waist, holding me up.
Concentrating on the answer is impossible. Not because he caught me by surprise. In my short stay here, I’ve learned to expect that I have a stalker who knows too much about me. A deranged angel who cares.
My problem is that I’m putting everything into staying still so I won’t start fucking his hand. I have to pretend that the invasion hurts, even though his touch is getting me worked up.
“Answer me.” His clinical voice sends a thrill up my spine.
We stare at each other.
His silence is ominous.
The threat becomes real when he pulls his fingers out of me.
He stares me dead in the eye. A wipe sterilizes his hand. After he’s clean, he soaks the washcloth in the bowl of warm water.
“To be inspired. That’s why I moved. Inspiration,” I groan the answer as he places the cloth on the top of my back. For years, I underestimated the power of touch. The effect it could have on me. Apparently, I’ve been desperate for it, for someone to tend to me this intimately. I need that from him. “I’ve lost it. I want it back.”
Anderson’s hand holds me up by the crease between my waist and thighs. He dips the washcloth again and returns to my skin.
“The r-r-routine,” I murmur when he slides the wet washcloth down my thighs.
He hums his approval at my moan, completely unaffected. He nods when I clench on air. I never imagined that having my calves washed could be sensual.
