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He’s done this a million times; he’s done this a million times.
It was too late to regret failing to pay more attention to personal grooming. But then I’d not anticipated exposing my hairy balls to a bloke I really fancied. As I stared at the ceiling, hoping to miraculously teleport myself into a fourth dimension for the next five minutes, Evan positioned himself just to the side of me. A cool hand landed inches from my cock; the palm flattened against my skin.
Trying not to flinch, I took a deep breath in, a huge error seeing as my nostrils were now filled with the delicious fucking scent of him. The material of his suit brushed against my shirt as he patted around, his fingers slipping down to my balls.
“Okay. You most definitely have a hernia swelling. Fortunately, it doesn’t yet extend into your scrotum.”
He pressed a little more firmly, the fingertips of his other hand lightly resting at the small of my back. His slightly scratchy suit sleeve brushed against my bare arse. “Can you cough for me?”
Warm breath ghosted across my cheek. Of course, as I worked my throat, attempting to muster up a cough, my mouth suddenly became as parched as the Gobi desert. I’d heard less pathetic bleats from new-born lambs. “Sorry, I’ll try again.”
My second attempt was an improvement, meeting Evan’s approval. With a now familiar, weird slithery feeling, my hernia fully popped out.
“There it is.” He gave a quick nod. Barely a foot separated our faces; I briefly wondered what his reaction would be if I bridged the gap and kissed him. Flabbergasted, I imagined. “Nearly done. I’ll quickly compare with the other side, and then if you could shuffle over to the trolley and lie down, I’d like to see how easily it pops back in again.”
“A lot more easily than your shoulder,” I joked lamely. “Are you fully recovered?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Awkwardly, seeing as my trousers were flapping around my ankles, I arranged myself on the trolley, feeling more exposed than when standing.
“Rest your arms down by your sides and try to relax.”
Relax? Really? With his soft hands gently wandering over some very sensitive areas? And his handsome face smiling down at me? So far, my cock had behaved. Only a minute or so more of mind games to ensure it stayed that way, and I could tuck it safely away.
Under the deliberate pressure of Evan’s warm palm, my hernia slipped back inside. “I think you’re going to have to get it fixed, Rob,” he pronounced, as I reassembled my clothing. “I recommend keyhole surgery and a mesh repair. You could leave it, but the muscle defect in your abdominal wall will only get bigger and more uncomfortable. And there’s always the risk at some point in the future that a section of your intestines could become trapped in the hernia sac, and then you’d need emergency surgery. Which would be a much bigger operation and a longer recovery time.”
We were back facing each other across the desk, and he tapped on the computer. His words pretty much echoed my GP, so they weren’t a surprise. Nonetheless, the idea of an operation didn’t exactly infuse me with pleasure. He ran through the nuts and bolts of the procedure, the risks (that testicle word popped up way too often for my liking), how much time I’d need to recuperate afterwards, and that his secretary would be in touch with some dates to book me in.
And then, all too soon, the consultation was over, and he rose from his desk once more. Those delectable green eyes and slightly lopsided smile clouded my vision, and his wonderful clean scent obliterated all the important information he’d painstakingly communicated.
I gritted my teeth. I didn’t want our acquaintance to end like this—politely remote and professional. He shook my hand again, his fingers cool and smooth in mine. Did he hold it a fraction longer than normal, or was that just wishful thinking?
Fuck it. He’d seen me puke; he’d now fondled my balls. So we were practically lovers already. We’d even made sex noises while I’d relocated his shoulder. How bad could it be?
“Fancy a drink sometime?” I heard the words fall from my mouth; to my ears they sounded incoherent. I hoped he could make sense of them.
Christ, he did more than that. He actually seemed thrilled I’d asked. “That would be great! Thank you!” Then his brows knitted together. “Ooh…the General Medical Council don’t tend to approve of doctors fraternizing with patients, but…” He scratched at his stubble and then gave me a quick nod. “You were a friend before you were a patient – sort of, anyhow. Or at least we knew each other. So…yes, I don’t see why not?”
The whole doctor-patient thing hadn’t occurred to me. “God, sorry, I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
He brushed me off. “No, it’s fine. As I said. We knew each other before. When are you free?”
CHAPTER 6
Many moons ago, I’d prided myself on being a responsible dog owner. The sort who religiously attended puppy training classes, agreed that firmness was kindness, never fed Zeus titbits from the table, and tutted with despair at fools who fell for the whole soulful eyes routine.
Times had changed. In public, I liked to imagine we were colonel and first lieutenant; Zeus was a hardened farm dog, sleeping outside and guarding the herd while his master luxuriated in the cottage’s equivalent of the officer’s mess. In private, he was a beloved Man Friday to my Crusoe; he even trailed me to the bog if I’d let him. Thus, as I prepared for my night out, Zeus lumbered behind up the stairs, settled in the middle of my ancient flowery eiderdown and began the important job of rummaging around in his groin. I acted like I hadn’t noticed.
Anyhow, I was too busy getting myself in a tizz. Showered, and clad in another pair of new boxers, I pulled some shirts out of the wardrobe at random, increasingly dismayed. Already, five or six sat in a crumpled heap next to Zeus as the truth became blindingly clear. They were all fucking identical.
“You’re no bloody use,” I said to the back of his head.
In total, I had about eight acceptable ones. All checked, all well-worn, and all cotton flannel. I’d also flung a threadbare tweed jacket on the pile, belonging to my dad before me, then foraged through the wardrobe as if another, newer one might magically appear. Sadly, it didn’t. My holey Barbour sweaters were also plentiful, and I owned two fleece gilets, one olive green and the other navy, for chillier weather. And several indifferent pairs of jeans, in varying stages of wear, but all straight-cut and all classic faded blue.
“Pissing bollocks,” I cursed, to no one in particular. In two hours, I’d be on a date—sorry—having a casual beer with a smart, handsome gay surgeon, dressed like I was filming a bird-watching documentary. All that was missing was a pair of binoculars slung around my neck.
Having completed a thorough assessment of his balls, Zeus eyed me coolly, then inched forwards and made himself comfortable on the tweed jacket. Which, frankly, was about all it was good for. As was the eiderdown underneath him. Christ, did I seriously imagine I’d invite Evan back here for a nightcap, then entice him upstairs to get laid? In this bedroom? If post-war council-house chic was in fashion, then the rose-patterned flock wallpaper, austere wooden chest and tasselly yellow lampshade were cutting edge. I strongly suspected it wasn’t, however. Freddie’s joke, that the place needed a woman’s touch, came back to me, and I groaned again. I’d left things a little late in the day.
