Deeply Examined

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

J essica

I’m naked the first time I meet him. Wearing only a flimsy paper gown, I shiver under the relentless blast of air conditioning. He walks in, broad-shouldered, effortlessly confident, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

At first, his back is to me as he closes the door with a soft, deliberate click. All I can see is thick, midnight-dark hair, catching the fluorescent light like strands of polished ink. Then he turns, and a jolt shoots through me, sharp and startling, like static electricity crackling across my skin. My breath stutters. My stomach tightens, a reaction I can’t control.

He's over six feet tall, slightly older than me but not yet gray-haired or wrinkled. A sharp, square jaw with a divot in the chin—one that would make Superman jealous. Full lips, smooth and unchapped. And his eyes…

Flat. Cool. The color of storm clouds. Looking into them, I see nothing but the reflection of myself.

When those mirror-ball eyes meet mine, he freezes, just for a fraction of a second, so short I must have imagined it.

Adam

One second, it’s just another patient chart. The next, I’m staring at my past.

It starts when I walk into exam room six and see her.

Jessica Jones.

My high school crush. Or, let’s be honest, my obsession.

I used to watch her from across the lunchroom, in the hallways, by her locker, which was six down from mine. I’d memorized her schedule, carefully adjusting my route to be close to her. Back then, I studied the way she moved, every flick of her hair, every soft laugh that curled around my ribcage and stayed there. I’d been so focused, hellbent on getting into the university of my dreams. Nothing could distract me from my goals.

Except her .

Almost fifteen years have passed, and she hasn’t changed a bit. Same gorgeous face, long honey-blonde hair, big green eyes, and slender body. I remember how she was always laughing with her friends, oblivious to the guy who watched from the shadows, wanting her so badly it ached. The last time I saw her, she was wearing her cheerleader uniform with its short ruffled skirt that showed off the rounded flesh of her ass when she bent over.

Late at night, I used to jerk off to the thought of that sight.

Shit. Sometimes I still do.

I freeze for a split second, waiting. Wondering if she’ll recognize me the same way I recognize her.

But of course she doesn’t.

I might have been a senior and she was a freshman, but it didn’t matter. I was a loser nerd in secondhand clothing, invisible unless someone needed test answers. And she was the popular girl. We lived in different worlds.

Things have changed now. With the rigor of medical training, I had no time to eat, so I lost weight, shed twenty pounds of fat and replaced it with twenty pounds of pure lean muscle.

Now women chase me . Beg for me . Worship me .

I give her another moment to look me over, to see if she remembers.

Nothing .

Jessica stares without a flicker of recognition. No hesitation. No tilt of her head, searching for my name. It’s like I’m a stranger.

A sharp pang hits my chest, unexpected and unwelcome.

I bury it instantly.

She doesn’t recognize me?

Good .

Let’s keep it that way.

Praying she won’t remember the name, I introduce myself.

Jessica

“I’m Dr. West,” he intones, his voice deep and rich, like whiskey poured over ice.

“What can I do for you today, Ms. Jones?” He’s looking at my chart now, long tapered fingers flip slowly through the pages.

“Oh, er.” I command my brain to stop its wild scrambling, but I’m so overwhelmed by the man that it takes a long minute to answer. “My physical,” I say finally. “I’m here for my annual exam.”

“Is that so?” he asks.

“Yes. That’s it. Just a routine exam,” I confirm with a nod.

“Hmm.” A noncommittal hum from him. The sound reverberates through my body.

He stalks closer, and I swallow nervously. Before, I was freezing, but now I’m suddenly hot. The warmth starts low in my stomach and spreads until it reaches my fingertips and toes.

Cold eyes flick over the thin paper gown that I clutch closed against my chest. They move down to my bare thighs, which are crossed one over the other.

“Spread your legs.”

“Ex-excuse me?” I stammer, taken back by his abruptness.

“I said, spread your legs,” he enunciates slowly. “I have to get out the stirrups.” He gestures to where I sit, to the stirrups folded into their designated slots in the exam table under me.

“Oh! Yes, of course.” I lift my legs and hold them out to each side.

Great, now he thinks I’m stupid.

Dr. West bends low to pull out the stirrups and unfold them. Small pieces of white fabric are on each end, where my feet will go, almost like the stirrups are wearing socks. I stare at the scraps of fabric, perplexed.

He follows my gaze. “To protect your feet from the cold metal.”

“That’s thoughtful. Thanks.” I place my bare feet with their sparkly red painted toes into each side and scoot closer to the edge.

“Your comfort is my utmost concern,” he drawls. I think he’s teasing, but I’m not sure.

“Lean back.”

I slide down until I’m lying flat on cool paper that crinkles beneath me.

He looms at the end of the table and stares at me, his expression unreadable.

“Good,” he declares after a pause. He disappears, and there’s the squeaking of rolling wheels. Earlier, I’d noticed a small white stool in the corner of the room. I assume he’s moving that over to me now. I expect him to sit, but he doesn’t.

Instead, there’s the sound of splashing water and the ripping of paper towels. I crane my head to see his back to me as he washes his hands. He wears a long white lab coat over dark blue scrubs. Even through all that material I can see the powerful muscles of his shoulders ripple with every motion.

God, he’s hot, I think, followed quickly by, why does he have to be so hot? That just makes this even more uncomfortable.

The truth is, I hate getting my annual exam. I should have done it months ago, but I’d put it off, dreading the indignity and discomfort of it. I hate how you have to get completely naked. I hate how invaded I feel afterward.

Calm down, I tell myself. You have to do this. The last thing I want is to miss some terrible diagnosis because I was too chicken to go to the doctors. Between my low salary as a high school teacher and the medical bills from when my parents died, there’s not much left in my bank account. If I got sick and had to take time off, I’m not sure I could cover my rent.

Lost in these thoughts, I jump, startled, when Dr. West reappears next to me. Without a word, he peels back the front of my gown, releasing my naked breasts. My hands fly up to cover my nipples, which are peaked from the cold air washing over them and maybe also from the handsome doctor.

He pulls my hands away and lays them down along my sides.

“Breast exam,” he says gruffly.

Oh.

Now I feel like such a dummy. Of course that’s why he’s looking at my chest with those strange eyes.

His hands are slightly wet when they clamp around my right breast, the one closest to him. Slowly, with both hands, he kneads the tissue in a clockwise direction, and it feels good, like a massage. The rhythm relaxes my body until I sink fully into the upholstered tabletop. I let out a sigh allowing my head to loll. Once he’s done on the right, he crosses over to my left side and repeats the motion of palpating my breast slowly and thoroughly. I watch through my lashes as his eyes follow the path of fingers. He’s concentrating, a small furrow in his brow.

“Do you do this?” he asks, without looking up. “Touch yourself?”

My eyes fly open. “What?”

“Do a self-exam? Have you noticed any lumps? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Oh.” I relax back onto the table and answer his question. “No. I mean, yes, I do self-exams, but no, I haven’t felt anything abnormal.”

“Where do you do it?”

“Do what? The self-exam?”

He nods, his warm hands moving over my skin.

“Usually in the shower, when I’m washing.” His fingers move closer to my nipples, lightly brushing them with each rotation. My breath catches, sputters. That feels a little too good. It feels…arousing. I clear my throat and try to distract myself. “Is that okay? To do it in the shower? I thought I read that somewhere.”

“It’s fine,” he answers and pinches my nipple, hard.

I yelp, rocketing into a half-sitting position, with my upper body supported on bent elbows.

Dr. West puts a large hand on my shoulder and forces me down. “I have to examine your nipples to eliminate any subareolar masses.”

“Of course.” My cheeks heat with a blush.

Why did I overreact?

“I’m sorry. I was surprised, that’s all.”

He doesn’t answer. He rolls my nipple between his thumb and index finger, watching as he does it. There must be a nerve in my breast that communicates directly with my vagina because every time he squeezes my nipple it sets off an ache between my legs.

Crap. I’m getting turned on. This is so embarrassing.

He places one hand on each breast and cups them, gathering and lifting the rounded globes. Then he drags his palms across from bottom to top. Every time he touches my erect and sensitive nipples, it feels good, exquisite actually. Each brush of his skin against mine heightens a needy emptiness between my legs. I struggle to control my breathing, which has sped up, coming in short soft bursts. When Dr. West flicks the tip of my nipple with his fingernail, I can’t contain my gasp. My eyes fly up to him, and I open my mouth to apologize. To explain away my unprofessional response—but maybe he didn’t notice it because he appears unfazed. His expression is cool and calm.

“Your breasts look good. I don’t feel anything worrisome,” he says.

“That’s a relief,” I answer, watching as he pulls bright-green latex gloves out of a box on the counter. He puts them on and straightens each one.

My phone buzzes next to me, where I left it. I glance over at it and grimace when I see the name “Brad” flashing on the screen. A quick tap silences the noise.

Dr. West is staring at me with one eyebrow raised and his foot impatiently tapping.

“Sorry,” I mumble. Warmth climbs my cheeks. He must think I’m so rude.

Without responding, he takes a seat on the stool and presses the back of his hands against my inner knees to open my legs wide. I stare at the ceiling, mortified. I got wet down there when he was touching my breasts, and I’m sure he can see it.

Should I say something? Is he going to say something?

Dr West drags a silver, long-necked lamp to him and turns on the light. He adjusts it until it’s directly pointed at my exposed core. I close my eyes against the glare. Warmth from the lamp washes over my inner thighs and across my pelvis.

“You’re going to feel my touch now,” Dr. West warns in his low baritone.

I feel his finger run along my seam from the back to the front, bumping up against my clitoris at the end of the stroke. I suck in a breath at the fireworks that result. He repeats the motion, and I open to him like a flower. I swear I hear an appreciative murmur, but I must have imagined it, because when I open my eyes to peer down Dr. West’s face remains an expressionless mask.

He separates me with another back-and-forth motion, rubbing his finger deeper into me. Now he’s breached my inner folds. He brushes across the opening of my vagina and then uses the tip of his finger to slowly circle that inner ring. It feels amazing. I’m already wet so his touch glides effortlessly. He runs along the rim several more times as I resist the urge to push down toward him. I want more of this sensation. I want his fingers inside of me. I want his dick inside of me— wait ! What am I thinking? This is my doctor . I shouldn’t be having these ideas about him.

If only he weren’t so attractive.

As if he heard my inner turmoil, Dr. West fulfills my secret desire. He slips into my opening, just an inch, and then withdraws it.

I whimper. I can’t help it. The sound just comes out of me, but it’s quiet and I hope he didn’t hear. My next whimper is louder when, in one smooth thrust, Dr West shoves all the way in. He holds it there, rotating it around.

“I’m palpating the back wall of your vagina,” he says.

“Mmm-hmm,” is all I can manage.

He moves his finger, pulling it almost all the way out before pushing it back in.

I try to hold still, but it’s hard not to lift my pelvis toward his touch. My heart rate picks up, along with my breathing. I curl my hands into fists by my sides and bite back the moan that climbs my throat.

A second finger joins the first, stretching me. He swirls his fingers around and then pushes even deeper than before. My pelvis rises to meet him. I can’t control it. His other hand comes to rest on my pubic bone. With his palm he pushes down, holding me in place. His fingers dangle, brushing against my clit, which is swollen with desire. In this position, he holds me prisoner. One hand stimulates my clit while the other pumps into me, over and over again.

My muscles tense as an orgasm builds slowly in my center. I bite my lip and attempt to take my mind off what he’s doing by counting the ceiling tiles. This is so humiliating. I can’t orgasm on my doctor’s fingers.

That’s not who I am.

I’m a good girl.

The regular kind.

Not the hot, sexy kind.

My effort to distract myself fails when he applies his thumb to a grinding circle on my clit. My back arches off the table, and I groan. I’ve been examined before, but never like this. It feels so good. Better than anything my previous boyfriends have done. Maybe it’s because he understands anatomy that Dr. West seems to know exactly the right amount of pressure and where to apply it.

My hips buck against the weight of his hand. He adds a third finger, filling me up in the most delicious way. His hands coordinate, one pushing into my drenched pussy and the other rubbing hard against my clit.

“Oh, my god,” I wheeze in a whisper. I lift my head to see that he’s staring at my core, his features smooth as if he doesn’t notice the way I’m responding to his touch.

He picks up the pace, and my orgasm builds until my entire body is trembling. I try to hold it back, but the sensation is overwhelming. My nerve endings sizzle. My muscles pull taut. My mouth drops open as I gasp for air.

He cocks a finger inside me, and I orgasm, my back bowing off the table. Waves of pleasure bathe me, running from my head to my toes. I bite my lip so hard to keep from crying out that I taste the sharp tang of blood.

Dr. West rides the orgasm out, still moving his fingers in a way that’s almost painful with how overstimulated I am down there. The motion extends my orgasm even longer. Finally, he slows and then pulls his hands away. I slump, boneless and trembling, against the hard table.

My eyes track him as he walks over to the trash can and pulls off his gloves, which glisten with my arousal. He steps on the foot pedal, and the lid pops open. With a flick of his wrist, the gloves go flying into the can.

Adam

I shove my hands into the pockets of my white lab coat so she can’t see how they tremble.

My god.

It happened. I just got off Jessica Jones using nothing more than my hands. Teenage me is doing cartwheels. Talk about a bucket list item I never thought I’d get to complete. I’ll always remember the hushed sound of her moans, the pink on her cheeks, the way she rolled her head from side to side as she orgasmed. I’m going to be jerking off to this for the rest of my mother-fucking life.

She wasn’t the first patient to get turned on when I examined them. It’s a normal physiological response. Sure, maybe it’s more common in my patients since I’m decent looking, but it’s not unheard of for any doctor. Usually when a patient acts that way, I try a different technique or end the exam early. With patients who repeatedly have that response to me, I transfer their care to another doctor. I take my responsibility, my position of power as a physician, seriously. I never lose control of the situation. Never .

But this was different. She was different. That single little whimper told me she wasn’t just tolerating my exam—she was enjoying it. That sound had lit a fire in my veins. I wanted to hear it again. I wanted to push her, see how far I could get her to go. I never thought it would be all the way. Never thought she’d actually come.

This is a dangerous game I’m playing. Reckless. My job is the one thing I care about in my entire godforsaken life, the only thing I feel good about. I can’t risk it, even for her. The medical board wouldn’t look too kindly on that little interaction that just occurred. I can only imagine how awkward my deposition will be when she sues me for sexual misconduct.

Lawyer: Dr. West, were you aware the patient was becoming aroused?

Me: Yes, I was.

Lawyer: What did you do to stop it?

Me: Deliberately stroked her clit because for the past decade I’ve been dying to know what Jessica Jones sounds like when she comes.

Yeah, no thanks. As much as I might like the well-equipped gyms they have in prison, orange isn’t my color.

Right before I leave the room, angling my body so she can’t see the bulge in my pants, a nasty thought occurs to me. What if she’s doing this with other men? Back in the day, she had a constant stream of guys after her. Who wouldn’t want to date someone as pretty as she is?

The flash of possessiveness I experience is so strong that I have a sudden urge to take her home and chain her up. I could turn on the alarm system. Lock all the doors and keep the key so she could never get out. Keep her as my little pet forever.

What a strange thought.

I have many lovers, most of whom enjoy the same proclivities I do, but I have a rule to never see the same woman more than twice. I don’t do relationships. Just the word makes me shudder.

Jessica eyes me warily, probably wondering if I’m going to mention what just happened.

I won’t, though. Too awkward for both her and for me.

Refusing to meet her eyes, I look down and scribble nonsense in her chart to buy myself time to think. It’s a good thing she won’t be back for another year, I decide. By that time, it won’t seem odd that a different doctor has been assigned to her. Not me. As fun as this trip down memory lane has been, it’s better for us both if I never see Jessica Jones again.

I turn back to her with my most bland, most professional smile. “The nurse will call you with your blood work results within two weeks. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jones. Have a good life.”

Have a good life, really? Way to make things weird.

A single flash of her baffled expression before I close the door behind me, sealing her out.

Forever.