Page 38 of Stirred Up

“Tongue, both, please, you.”

“Maybe you’d prefer my fingers inside you again instead?” He removes the tool and the loud thud it makeswhen he tosses it back on the tray echoes off the wall.

I can barely focus as his thumb is still swirling over my clit. I feel two fingers sliding over my mound, spreading my juices over my entire sex. Biting my lip, I quiver violently, body moist with sweat. His thumb draws back and my swollen clit aches for more.

“Mmmmm,” he moans, followed by the sounds of his lips smacking shut. Did he just lick his fingers?”

I can’t stop writhing, breathing hard, wanting to see him. Sitting up, I reach for him but am met with a gentle hand pushing me back down.

“I said lay back. Unless you want to end the exam?” The deep command in his murmur holds my focus. All I can see are his dark, clouded eyes gauging me.

“N-no. Don’t stop. Please, I need more.”

“Anticipation is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Now let me do my job properly.”

Staring up at the ceiling, immersed in pleasure, I feel his fingers spread me wider, opening my lower lips. Anticipation is an understatement; I’m about to burst into flames without his touch where I need it most.

His hands move to each of my thighs and in one longlap, his tongue runs over the entire length of my slit. I cry out, placing my hand over my mouth to silence the sobs of pleasure as he delves his tongue deep.

This is where you need a real sheet under you to grip onto, not a paper one that shreds in your hands. Still, I claw at it, arching up into his mouth as he caresses my inner walls. I’ve hardly had my fill when his tongue flicks out and sets its beautiful torture to my clit, two fingers satisfying my neglected center.

They thrust in and out, hooking up and hitting the exact spot they seek, the spot no man has touched in me before. My screams spill against my palms, covering my mouth as I writhe and buck against him.

His face is buried between my legs as he inserts a third finger, which stretches me in pure delight. I shudder and convulse, my walls gripped around his digits as I buck up once more. As the wave washes me away, I fall back, oblivious to all but sheer bliss.

His fingers fall away and he stands. I sit up, catching my breath, still dizzy from my orgasm but ready for his dick to fill me. When I reach out to him he steps back and walks over to the sink.

I watch, unsure what to think when he pumps two squirts of soap on his hands and washes them hastily.

Once he grabs a paper towel, he turns back to me, face passive.

My lips curl up, legs falling open in the stirrups. “It’s your turn to strip,” I hum.

“Why would I do that?” he asks, tossing the towel in the trash can and crossing his arms over his chest.

I blanch at the harshness in his tone. “What? I thought…I mean…I want you. I want to feel you inside me.”

“You just had my fingers and my tongue, what else do you want?” He’s goading me to say it. I’ll play along if he needs to hear it.

I sit up straighter and lean forward, palms down against the table supporting me. “Iwantyour cock.”

“Hmm, well

problem with that is,” he stalks towards me, stopping inches from my face, “I don’tfuckmy patients.” With that, he turns on his heel and storms from the room, leaving me rooted in place, feeling anything but satisfied.

Chapter 14

I leave Dr. Reynolds’ office unsure what to make of his last words. Unlike the previous times he’d left the room after our trysts, I was never regarded so severely. I drive straight home, my thoughts muddled, ready to soak in a hot bath to clear my head then curl up on the couch for a marathon of my favorite sitcom. Jack and Karen usually never fail at having me doubled over in fits of hysterics, no matter how many times I’ve seen the episode, but tonight I barely crack a smile.

Something changed between us and I have a feeling his secretary won’t be calling tomorrow. Shifting the pillowunder my back, I brush off the looming chance that our scandalous rendezvous could be ending and gulp down another swig of wine. He just needs time to see what we have is ideal—no fuss, no strings, simply raw pleasure.

I refuse to worry over what the future may bring and enjoy the mental replay of his hands working over my chest, the pressure of his fingers, the smoldering desire in his blatant stare. My eye slide shut and I’m there again, relishing the roughness of his words, a molten zing coursing through me from his vulgar, dominating instructions.

Of course I can’t stay in that happy place for long as my phone begins to buzz from the side table. No clue who would be calling, I’m pleasantly surprised to see Dylan’s name on the screen, half wondering if he might have butt dialed.

“Guess I can call off the APB,” I greet him.

“Mocifus! How the hell are ya?”

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