Page 85 of Dr. Fellow

A rotationplasty is a relatively new surgery. It’s commonly performed for patients with osteosarcoma, a rare bone cancer, but it can be done in other cases too. You remove the malignant bone, only instead of amputating the entire limb, you transform the ankle into the knee joint. I know how to do it in theory, but I’ve never seen one. This type of surgery typically goes to University Hospital since it’s more of an academic institution. The only reason our hospital would ever get a case like that is if the patient personally knew one of our physicians.

My mentor’s voice crackles through the speaker like he’s holding the phone too close to his face. “Well, you’re in luck because I’ve got one in the morning, and I’d like you to assist.”

The offer hits me straight in the gut, almost knocking the breath out of my lungs. Getting to assist on a case like this is something I’ve only ever dreamt of. While it’s possible that I’ll see one during my fellowship, it’s more likely that I won’t—UH has only done two in the past five years.

My mind races, torn between the excitement of being involved in such a rare procedure, and the plans I made earlier with my wife. The offer is tempting as hell, and nearly impossible to refuse, but the team that Morgan’s brother coaches for is in town for a playoff game. When she told me that she was going to attend, I asked if I could tag along too.

I glance over at her, searching for any sign of disappointment, but instead find curiosity and support in her eyes.

I know without a doubt what I need to do.

“Sorry, Dr. Weaver,” I reply, the words tasting sweet as they come from my mouth. “I’ve already got something important planned for tomorrow.”

He scoffs. “You’re sure you can’t reschedule? This isn’t something you see every day.”

“I’m sure. But if you need an extra set of hands, bring Buffington in. He’s got more potential than I ever did.”

His disappointment is palpable through the phone, but he masks it with a professional tone. “Alright—thanks for the recommendation.”

“No problem. Good luck tomorrow.” I feel a weight lift off my chest as I end the call and stop at the light near Piedmont Park.

People are still out and enjoying the spring weather despite the sun setting an hour ago. A middle-aged man and his partner are walking across the street, completely outside of the crosswalk when traffic thins. Normally I’d scowl and think about all of the potential injuries they could sustain, but for some reason, all I think about is how content they look . . . and how content I feel.

“What’s a rotationplasty?” Morgan asks softly, like she understands the gravity of what I just did. “Sounds much more important than a college baseball game.”

I squeeze her thigh. “Nothing is more important.”

She rolls her eyes, though I can see a blush paint her cheeks beneath the city lights. When we start moving again, she discreetly whips out her phone to search for details on the surgery.

“Are you crazy?” I can feel her staring at me, probably scrunching her cute little nose up in disbelief, but I don’t dare look.

“I’ve never felt more sane in my life,” I reply, letting out a humorless laugh. “We’re going to the game tomorrow. I’m going to meet your brother. And you’re going to let me.”

“But it’s your career . . .”

I pause before answering, trying to adequately summarize the thoughts that have been swarming through my mind for weeks.

“No, Morgan,” I reply, glancing over at her briefly so that she can understand the significance of my words. “It’s our career.”

Chapter 34

Morgan

Walker and I have had sex almost every night since we made up, ranging from rough and primal, to soft and tender. But none of those moments remotely come close to beating this, because what’s happening right now is another level of intimacy. This is about trust and vulnerability. Exploration and communication. It’s sexy and beautiful, but it’s also challenging and rigid. It ties everything we feel for each other into one perfectly kinky bow.

There are so many emotions and sensations associated with kink that it can be hard to focus on just one singular thing. But if I had to choose something to pinpoint, it would be love. Because even though Walker has me strung up in his office, standing on the balls of my feet with a hook in my ass and clamps on my nipples, he’s watching me like a hawk. There’s sinful lust swimming in the pools of his eyes, but there’s also intense adoration shimmering through the surface.

“Give me a color,” he asks, glancing up at me from his textbook-covered desk. He’s been pretending to “study” with his bare feet kicked up for the past ten minutes, but I know without a doubt that there’s no way he’s focusing right now. How could he?

“Green, Sir,” I reply despite the ache in my calves.

When we got back from our date, he asked me to go to his office, undress, and wait for him in a kneeling position facing the wall. While I knew exactly what he wanted because we’ve discussed expectations if we use a more formal dynamic, I couldn’t help myself from waiting for him in his desk chair. Technically, I was naked, kneeling, and facing the wall, but he didn’t seem to find as much humor in it as I did when he entered the room.

I had to bite back my smirk when he told me to try again, his tone dry and harsh in the most delicious way. When I eventually followed his instructions, he bent down and told me that there would be consequences for my “silly little deviance.”

And he wasn’t lying.

After making me wait far too long while he went to get something from his closet, he wrapped a soft rope around my wrists and tossed it over a bolt in the ceiling so that my arms were raised in a prayer-like position. He instructed me to stand, pressed his body against my back, and reached around me to place two clamps on my nipples.

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