Chapter 9 Doctor’s Hands #2
Amir’s hands were gentle, precise as ever. His palm slid down my thigh, finding the edge of the long graze. The pressure was feather-light, just enough to test for swelling, hidden trauma. Still, every brush sent a shiver racing up my spine.
I clenched my jaw, willing my body not to react.
The heat of his skin contrasted the clinical intent—steady, grounding, but so close.
His fingers pressed at the inside of my thigh, slow, careful, almost reverent as he checked for damage.
Blood pulsed beneath my skin, too aware of every point of contact.
A traitorous twitch made me curse myself. The ache in my ribs warred with a stubborn throb between my legs. I tried to focus on the pain—on anything but the way his touch, even accidental, made me want to lean into the comfort, the safety, the warmth.
He paused, glancing up with a quiet concern. “Pain here?”
My voice scraped out lower than I intended. “Not…not there.”
A knowing half-smile touched his lips before his expression sobered. He continued his exam, slow and thorough, hands mapping every bruise and abrasion, giving me time to breathe, to settle. Still, the pressure of his palm, the intentness of his gaze, made my skin burn in ways pain couldn’t explain.
A heartbeat dragged out, silence heavy except for the sound of his breath, and my own—shaky, uneven. Amir’s hands lingered a moment longer, then retreated, cool professionalism sliding back over his face like a mask.
“You’ll live,” he said quietly, reaching for the bandages. “But you need real rest. No more midnight heroics. Promise me.”
“I promise.” I lied.
The urge to deflect with humor died on my tongue. Instead, I nodded, keeping my gaze fixed on the pattern of marble tile between my feet, trying to will my pulse back to normal.
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 colder than 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.
“Any pain?” His voice was calm, professional, but pitched so low it felt like it might have been meant only for me.
“Just…pressure,” I breathed, barely trusting my voice.
Amir withdrew, the slide of latex leaving me aching and raw, but he wasn’t done.
I heard the sound of a sterile package tearing open, the quiet click as he prepped the real instrument—a cold, clinical tool made for this exact exam.
He pressed a fresh dollop of lube to the tip, the scent sharp and unmistakable.
“You’ll feel a little more now,” he said, voice steady, a whisper of comfort that made my spine arch. “Try to relax.”
The instrument pressed in, wider than his finger, gliding on a thick layer of gel.
My body clenched reflexively, then loosened as he coaxed it deeper, rolling, careful, never cruel.
The pressure on my prostate was immediate, firmer, focused.
A helpless groan broke loose from my throat, and my cock—already half-hard—swelled, drooling pre-come onto the paper sheet beneath me.
The evidence of my arousal felt shameful and electric, but there was nothing I could do to hide it; not with my size, not with how thick and heavy I’d become.