A fresh strip of bandage circled my thigh, Amir’s hands moving with a kind of gentle authority I’d never managed to resent. “We need to finish your physical now,” he said. “Lie back on the exam chair, please. I want to check for internal bruising, concussion signs, all of it. Clothes off—everything except your underwear.”
My face heated, but I did as told. The crisp paper crinkled under me as I stretched out, the air oddly cool on my bare skin. I folded my arms behind my head, pulse still tripping unevenly from the adrenaline, the pain, and the impossible intimacy of being laid bare for him.
Amir’s eyes traveled over me, more doctor than anything else—sharp, methodical, but not unkind. His fingertips pressed at my collarbone, tracking the line of muscle and bone. He worked his way down: throat, ribs, testing for hidden breaks or tenderness. Every touch was careful, clinical, and still it left my skin tingling.
His palm pressed to my chest, splaying over my heart, counting the beats, listening for irregularity. His breath feathered across my cheek as he leaned in to check my pupils, his gaze serious and intent.
“Follow my finger,” he murmured, his voice pitched low—steady, grounding, but soft enough that it seemed meant just for me.
I did, resisting the urge to flinch away. My body betrayed me, heat pooling low in my belly, nerves sparking every time his hands found a new patch of skin. His fingers lingered on my bruised ribs, thumb tracing a line beneath the faintest of old scars.
“Breathe in for me—deep as you can.” His hand slid down, palm flat to my stomach, steadying me as I obeyed. Pain lanced through my ribs, and I winced, exhaling in a shaky rush.
His eyes softened. “I know. Almost done.”
He checked each arm, rolling them gently, feeling for swelling. His touch moved lower, pressing at my hips, then down my thighs, pausing at every fresh bruise, every line of dried blood he’d missed the first time. When his hands reached the crease of my hip and thigh, thumb barely brushing the elastic of my briefs, I had to close my eyes, fighting a shiver.
No question he noticed. Amir’s professionalism didn’t falter, but there was a hitch to his breathing, a tension in the air between us that was more than medical concern.
“Legs apart, please.” His tone was gentle, not a command but a reassurance. He palpated the inside of my thigh, searching for deep tissue injury, fingers spreading warmth through skin still oversensitized by pain and something else I didn’t want to name.
His hand lingered on my knee, then trailed down my shin to my ankle, checking the grazed calf. “You got lucky,” he said softly. “No fragments left. Just a graze. But you’ll need to watch for infection.”
Amir’s hands left my leg, and for a moment the absence felt colderthan it should have. He reached for his stethoscope, looping the tubing over his neck, eyes flicking up to meet mine with a flicker of concern—or maybe just careful attention.
“Sit up for me,” he said, voice low, gentle but expectant.
I pushed myself upright, every bruise and pulled muscle screaming in protest. The paper beneath me crackled. Amir leaned in, chest close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, the faintest trace of his cologne—clean, warm, with a spice I couldn’t name.
He warmed the metal disc in his palm, then pressed it lightly over my sternum, just above my heart. The stethoscope was cool, sending a shiver across my skin. He listened in silence, brow furrowed, gaze trained on the rise and fall of my chest.
His fingers moved, sliding the stethoscope across my chest, landing just beside my nipple. A pulse of sensation shot through me—sharp, electric. The pad of his thumb brushed the sensitive peak, not quite an accident, not quite intentional. My breath hitched. The world tunneled to the places he touched and the places I wanted him to.
“Breathe in again. Slow as you can.”
I tried, but my pulse thundered. His touch lingered, thumb circling my nipple as he held the stethoscope steady. The cool metal and the warmth of his hand had my body reacting before I could stop it—my cock swelling, heat pooling low, briefs growing painfully tight. Shame tangled with want, making my chest ache.
Amir’s gaze flicked up, meeting mine. There was a softness there, but something else too—a question, maybe, or a permission I wasn’t ready to claim.
He moved the stethoscope lower, then to the other side, thumb brushing my other nipple this time. Each pass sent sparks along my nerves. His voice had gone a little husky. “Heart’s racing,” he murmured, pretending to focus on the steady thump under his palm.
My cheeks burned, but I didn’t look away. “Old injury,” I managed, words trembling on my tongue.
His mouth twitched, the edge of a smile threatening, but his hands stayed steady, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary before he finally lifted the stethoscope away.
The stethoscope finally lifted from my skin, but the echo of his touch lingered. Amir set it aside, slipping his gloves on with that same careful precision. His voice gentled, but the note of authority returned—a doctor giving orders, and something more.
“I need to check your prostate, Sebastian. On all fours, please. Take your underwear off.”
The flush of embarrassment ran deeper this time, but I did as I was told. My fingers hooked the waistband of my briefs, pushing them down and off. The cool air in the exam room felt almost shocking against my bare skin. I climbed onto the chair, settling on all fours, palms pressed into the paper, head bowed so I wouldn’t have to see my own reflection in the steel drawer across from me.
The sound of latex snapping, the squirt of lubricant—intimate in a different way, echoing loud in the hush between us. My breath caught, heart thumping as I felt Amir’s hand rest lightly on my lower back, steadying, comforting even as he prepared to do something that made me feel stripped raw.
“Try to relax for me,” Amir said, voice close behind, impossibly gentle. “It’ll just take a moment. Breathe.”
The pressure of his gloved, slick finger found the cleft of my ass, spreading lube with slow, even circles. A sharp chill, then a flush of heat as he pressed inside, the intrusion foreign but not unfamiliar, each movement careful and measured. The clinical edge of the moment clashed with the way my body reacted—hips twitching, thighs trembling, not just from pain or fatigue.
Amir’s other hand braced my hip, thumb drawing small circles against my skin as his finger slid deeper, searching with practiced expertise. My whole body went taut, nerves firing in a slow, hot wave as he pressed gently against my prostate, rolling, assessing.
