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I don’t tend to be wrong about people, and the way Prue scolds herself, I’d say I’m not wrong here either. In fact, I’d say she’s worked hard on being an independent woman, and she wants to be respected and to not stumble over her words.
My neighbor didn’t have it easy in life.
Well, now she has me. Whatever challenges will be thrown at her, I’ll always be there to catch them and take the load off her shoulders.
“Go on.” I quirk an eyebrow, reminding her who’s in charge here.
“My boss wrote down your number. She saw it on the door to your clinic.” Prue’s voice gains confidence, though not by much. “It only said Dr. Wentworth. I had no idea you were…him.”
That’s where I crave to keep her—slightly uncomfortable, slightly wary. But not to the point where my advances on her would come off as rape.
Because it isn’t. With fear in her bones and her cunt soaked, she’ll want me and beg for more.
“The neighbor who tore your hymen?” Completely in my element, my question is as clinical as,Are you having regular period cycles?
“Y-yes.” She reddens and groans. Then corrects herself, “Yes. You. So, if that’s inappropriate, I’ll be on my way.”
My eyes observe her like a predator would their prey as she stands up.
“Yeah, thought so.” She grasps the handle of her purse. “Thank you for…you know, out there, for not telling the receptionist and—“
“Sit down.” The command I lash out at her is a whip. A proverbial lasso, curling in one fell swoop around her neck and forcing her ass back on the chair.
“Okay.” Big brown eyes look at me once she’s back where I want her.
“I’m your doctor. You’re my patient. That is a done deal, and you’re not to challenge me again. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Better.” Certain she’s not walking out of here like she had at the pool, I fix my attention on the new patient’s questionnaire. A form I currently use to uncover more about Prue’s history. “Now, we have a few details to go over. Age?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Good.” I almost reward her with agood girlfor her quick reply, but I hold on to the praise for later.
To further unnerve her, I let my eyes scan the paper while I mumble, “No need to ask about your sexual history.”
“No.”
Flicking my gaze up to her, I get a sick kick out of her embarrassment.
My chest burns, needing to cherish it, store it close to my heart like one would a precious memory. After my soul has its fill, my dick would, fucking that coy expression right off her face by pounding into the sweet space between her parted lips.
I don’t do either.
We’re playing. I’m her doctor, she’s my patient.
So, I ask about her cycle. She answers by telling me about her pills again in detail—which brand she uses, when she will need to renew her prescription.
Other questions follow, and she answers them dutifully. Spine ramrod straight, words spoken in a timid cadence. Her cheeks flush, revealing her enjoyment of this despite her underlying fear of what I might do to her.
Rightfully so. With her, I’m not the Dr. Wentworth the rest of the world sees. I’m far sinister, much kinkier, and an eerily possessive sonofabitch.
I won’t ever apologize for it.
She’ll just have to deal with it.
“Okay, that’s it for the form.” I place the pen down on the table.
