-Roxy Delgado:
I could hardly keep my hands still as I sat perched on the edge of the oversized, plush sofa in my room, my heart hammering like a drum in my chest.
Four weeks had passed since Sloane had started visiting, meticulously tending to my wounds, keeping an eye on me, and enduring my relentless flirts without ever losing her professional composure.
And yet, here I was, watching her like a hawk, unable to take my eyes off her. She had this quiet, almost understated aura of control that both infuriated and fascinated me. Every precise movement, every tilt of her head, every calculated step she took toward me sent my pulse racing and my thoughts spiraling.
The sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, scattering patterns across the polished hardwood floor. The room smelled faintly of lavender from the diffusers I had insisted on using, though I knew Sloane would likely ignore it.
The sound of the knock had jolted me, but the moment her soft, measured voice called, I let her in "Come in," I felt my stomach tighten as anticipation coiled itself around my ribcage.
She stepped in, holding her work bag carefully in one hand, the other adjusting her ponytail slightly as if she were conscious of her hair but unaware of the effect it had on me. Her tight jeans hugged her curves like a sin, the soft cotton top she wore clung lightly to her frame, outlining her waist and collarbones, and the subtle hint of cleavage made my chest ache in a way I had no intention of acknowledging.
Her green eyes, which were usually so calm and focused when she was in the hospital, flicked up at me briefly, scanning the room as though she were measuring everything for its safety and practicality, but I saw the microexpressions—the tiny shifts of her pupils, the barely perceptible pause of her lips—that betrayed the slightest hint of nervous energy.
"Good morning, Roxy," she said, her voice smooth but just a little tighter than usual.
My gaze dragged shamelessly over her body, fixating on the curves of her hips. "Doctor..." I let the word curl on my tongue, low and suggestive. "You look different today."
Her hand adjusted her bag on her shoulder, like she needed something to fidget with. "Just... something new. That’s all."
I grinned and leaned back against the pillows, folding my arms. "Something new looks good on you. Really good. Jeans, a little makeup, hair in pony tail instead of a tight bun—you trying to impress me, or is this just a bonus?"
Her green eyes flickered with exasperation and heat, a dangerous mix she always tried to bury. "Roxy, we’re here to begin your therapy. That’s all."
I chuckled, low and warm. "Sure. And I’m the Pope."
She ignored me and set her bag on the chair, pulling out a notebook and a set of clean gloves. "Since your cast is off, we’re going to start with very light exercises—mostly range of motion, nothing weight-bearing yet. The bone needs to keep healing properly."
I tilted my head, watching her bend over her notes, her ponytail sliding forward over her shoulder. "You’re talking, but all I hear is you bending over in tight jeans. Do that again, please."
Her head snapped up, cheeks pinking. "Roxy."
"What? I’m appreciating my therapist. Isn’t that allowed?"
She pressed her lips together like she was holding back a retort and knelt by the edge of my bed, professional mask slipping back into place. "We’ll start simple. I want to check your flexibility."
"Flexibility," I repeated slowly, letting the word drip with innuendo. "I like the sound of that."
"You’re ready?" she asked, her voice steady, professional, carrying that soft timbre that had become embedded in my head, making my pulse stutter.
I smirked, fully aware of how obnoxious I probably looked. "Born ready," I said, trying to make my voice sound casual, though I knew it carried a tone of teasing. My smirk widened when I saw the faint rise of her brows, the almost imperceptible tightening at the corners of her eyes. She was trying not to react, to maintain her professional demeanor, but I could see it. I could see every second of her reaction.
She set her bag down by the far side of the room, moving with careful, controlled steps, each one deliberate and measured. The way she adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, the tiny shift of her weight from one leg to the other—it was hypnotic.
My fingers twitched, itching to touch her hair, to trail a hand down the line of her shoulder, to test just how much restraint she could maintain in the face of me. I didn’t even realize I had been holding my breath until she took a step closer.
"So," she said, her tone clipped but polite, "we’ll start with some basic assessments today. Just to gauge your current range of motion and see how your leg’s healing. Nothing strenuous, just observation and gentle stretches."
I nodded eagerly, trying to contain my excitement, though I could feel it radiating from me like heat. "Observation, huh? I think you mean spying on me," I teased, leaning slightly to the side, letting my body relax into the softness of the sofa. I wanted her to see me, really see me, in every detail.
My hair, still slightly damp from the morning shower, fell in soft waves around my shoulders, the streaks of red glinting in the light. I caught her eyes flicking down for a brief second, and I felt a spark of satisfaction.
Sloane adjusted the clipboard she held in her hands and gave me a pointed look. "Flattery won’t improve your leg’s flexibility," she said dryly, though there was a flicker in her eyes—just a flicker—that suggested she noticed the effect she had on me.
I laughed softly, a low, throaty sound. "Oh, I’m not flattering. I’m... appreciating. Just making sure you know your work is necessary," I said, letting my voice drop a fraction, just enough to make the words feel heavier, more intimate.
She sighed softly, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re torn between annoyance and a desire to remain professional.
She knelt carefully in front of me, her knees brushing against the soft rug as she set the clipboard down. Her movements were meticulous, precise, controlled—but there was a natural fluidity to them, like water sliding over rocks. I couldn’t help but notice the gentle curve of her jawline, the way her lips pressed together as she focused, the subtle flare of her nostrils as she concentrated.
"Okay," she said, voice calm, professional. "I need you to lift your leg slightly so I can observe the muscle tone and the healing around the joint."
"You’ll feel a stretch here," she said, gently guiding my leg.
I didn’t even try to hide my smirk. "Oh, I feel something, alright."
Her eyes rolled heavenward, but I swore I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
I complied, lifting my leg just enough to let her hands hover around my calf and thigh. The warmth of her touch—professional, clinical, but still undeniably there—sent a shiver through me.
My heart raced, and I had to consciously swallow to keep from reacting audibly. She noticed, of course. I could see the slight twitch at the corner of her lips, the tiny pause in her fingers as they adjusted my leg, the careful avoidance of eye contact that told me she knew exactly what I was doing to her.
"You’re... very precise," I said softly, letting my words linger. "Even with... touch. You’re careful... but attentive. Almost... too attentive. Are you like this during sex too? Do you like it gentle? I’m gentle but I can be for you." I let the words trail, letting the pause hang like a drawn-out note.
Sloane’s jaw tightened slightly, her green eyes flicking up at me, scanning my expression for any hint of jest. I let her squirm just a little longer, noting the subtle flare of her nostrils and the way her hands hesitated for a split second. "That’s... standard procedure," she said firmly, but her voice had a faint catch that she quickly smoothed over.
I let a slow, deliberate smile spread across my face. "Standard procedure, huh? And yet, here you are, in my home, bending down, looking at me, touching me, all while trying to stay professional. Tell me, doctor... are you really that immune to distraction?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing slightly. "I’m not here to be distracted," she said, though there was a faint heat rising to her cheeks. "I’m here to do my job."
"Ah, your job," I murmured, tilting my head to the side and letting my hair cascade over one shoulder. "And your job is... to take care of me?" I asked, letting my voice drop a fraction, teasing, sultry.
"Yes," she said firmly, her fingers grazing the skin of my calf as she adjusted her hold. "To ensure your leg heals properly, your mobility returns, and that you don’t... injure yourself further."
I let a soft laugh escape me, low and throaty. "You sound so serious. But I like that. I like it when you sound like this. All business and smart... all control... it’s... it’s sexy."
She stiffened slightly, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks, but her hands remained on my leg, steady, controlled. I could see the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw shifted as she tried to maintain composure.
I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know... doctor, I’ve been waiting for this day. Waiting to... finally have you work with me... really work with me. And now you’re here, and I can’t... I can’t even stop looking at you. You’re... mesmerizing. God, your curves, why were you hiding them?"
Sloane blinked rapidly, swallowing, her hands pausing for the briefest of moments. "R-Roxy," she said, voice clipped, trying to reclaim professionalism. "Focus on the therapy. Please."
"Oh, I am focusing," I murmured, letting my eyes trace her every line, her every curve, the way her hair caught the light, the subtle tilt of her head. "I’m focusing... on the therap...ist."
She let out a quiet exhale, almost like a sigh, her fingers moving to adjust the angle of my leg as she tried to regain her clinical composure. I watched every micro-expression—the slight tightening around her eyes, the soft flush rising to her cheeks, the brief tremor in her lips—and I could feel my chest tighten, my pulse racing with satisfaction.
"Fine," she said, trying to sound firm. "We’ll... continue. I just need to measure... your flexibility, and... strength recovery."
I let a low, teasing hum escape me. "Strength recovery, huh? You sound like you’re... imagining things, doctor. Are you?"
Her eyes widened slightly, a sharp intake of breath. She looked down, focused on her clipboard and the notes she was jotting, but I could see it—she was flustered, and it made me grin. "I am not... imagining things. I am... measuring... your leg’s recovery."
I tilted my head, letting my gaze linger on her, letting my voice soften, teasing. "But doctor... you’ve been in my home every day for weeks now... watching me, tending to me, making sure I heal. Don’t tell me... you haven’t thought about... anything else?"
Her fingers stilled, pressing against my leg, and she swallowed audibly. She straightened slightly, keeping her focus on the clipboard as she muttered, "I am... not here to... think about... anything else. Just... your leg."
I leaned back, letting a slow, satisfied smile play across my lips. "Mmh... good. I like it when you try to stay professional. But it doesn’t stop me from... enjoying your company... every moment."
Her jaw tightened, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. She didn’t look up at me, but I could sense the slight tremor in her hands as she shifted my leg slightly. I could feel the tension in the air, thick and electric, our proximity charged with unspoken words, stolen glances, and barely-contained desire.
I let the silence stretch, letting her focus on her tasks while I continued to observe her, memorizing every detail—the curve of her shoulders, the way her hair swayed as she bent over my leg, the sharp, precise movements.
I will have you sooner or later, Doc.