Chapter 5
He locks the front door himself.
I watch him do it, the deadbolt turning under his hand, the waiting room going dark and silent behind us, and something about the sound of that lock catching makes this feel real in a way the kiss somehow didn’t.
This isn’t an accident anymore. This is a decision, made deliberately, by a grown man who knows exactly what he’s choosing.
“This way,” he says, and leads me past the exam rooms to a door at the end of the hall, one I’ve never seen open before.
His office. A desk, a couch, a lamp throwing warm light instead of the fluorescent glare from the rooms I’ve been examined in twice now.
It feels like a different building entirely.
He doesn’t rush. He never rushes, I’m learning, and there’s something about that patient certainty that leaves me strung tight, waiting.
“Sit,” he says, nodding at the couch, and I sit.
He kneels in front of me and works my jeans open, easy, competent, the same practiced hands from the exam room now doing something else entirely.
He pulls them down along with my boxers, and I’m already hard, embarrassingly hard, and he doesn’t comment on it, just looks at me for a second like he’s taking his time deciding where to start.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says.
“I don’t.” My voice comes out wrecked already. “I don’t want to stop.”
He gets me flat on my back on the couch, guides my knees up, and reaches for something in the desk drawer, lube, and the click of the cap is louder than it has any right to be in the quiet of the office.
He slicks his fingers and doesn’t hesitate, one finger pressing into me slow, easy, like this is just an extension of the exam except every single thing about it feels different now.
“Relax,” he says. “Same as before.”
I do. Easier this time, my body already half-trained to open for him, and he works me slow, taking his time, one finger becoming two, stretching me open with a patience that makes my thighs shake.
“You remember where I found you last time,” he says, low, almost conversational, his fingers moving slow, deliberately not there yet, close enough that I can feel it coming. “I’ve thought about that more than I probably should have this week.”
“Yeah?”
“Wondering what you’d sound like if I wasn’t holding back.”
Before I can answer he curls his fingers and finds it again, deliberate, no accident this time at all.
The sound that comes out of me isn’t anything close to controlled.
He eases off almost immediately, just enough to leave me gasping, empty, and wanting, his fingers still inside me but no longer pressing where I need them to. I buck my hips down, chasing it, and he lets me, watching my face with something that isn’t quite a smile.
“Patience,” he says, echoing nothing I’ve ever said to him. “I want to watch you fall apart properly. Not rush it.”
“Garrett.” It comes out half plea. “Please, don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping.” He presses again, slow this time, drawing it out, building instead of striking. “I’m just not letting you rush me.”
“There it is,” he says, something satisfied in his voice now, none of the clinical flatness from the exam room left in it. “That’s it, Tyler. Don’t fight it.”
“Fuck,” I breathe, hips already rocking down against his hand.
He works that spot again and again, unrelenting, his other hand pressing flat against my stomach to hold me still, and I can feel it building somewhere deep and unfamiliar, nothing like anything I’ve felt with a hand on my cock before.
My own cock is hard, untouched, and I don’t understand how that’s possible until it stops mattering that I don’t understand it.
“You’re close,” he says. Not a question. He can feel it in the way I’m shaking.
“Please,” I gasp, not even sure what I’m asking for. “Garrett, please.”
“Tell me,” he says, his fingers slowing just slightly, drawing the word out of me deliberately.
“I’m not sure. I don’t know what I’m asking for.”
He eases back again, right at the edge, holding me there instead of pushing me over, and the sound that tears out of me this time is closer to a sob than anything else.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I accuse, hips jerking down uselessly, chasing pressure that isn’t there.
“I am.” No apology in it. “I want to watch you get to the point where you can’t ask anymore. Where you just take.”
“Garrett.”
“That’s it. Say my name like that again.”
He presses in once more, slow, testing, and I feel myself clench tight around his fingers, desperate, right back at the edge in seconds.
He holds me there again, unmoving, watching the way my chest heaves, the way sweat’s starting to bead along my hairline from how hard my body’s working just to stay still for him.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” I gasp. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing to you.” His voice stays maddeningly calm even as I start to come apart around his fingers. “Just let it happen. I’ve got you.”
“Please, I can’t, I need to.”
“You will.” His other hand smooths flat over my stomach, grounding, deliberate. “When I decide you’re ready.”
He curls his fingers one more time, deep, deliberate, and this time he doesn’t ease off.
He keeps the pressure constant, relentless, and I come untouched, hard, a broken sound tearing out of my throat that I don’t recognize as my own voice, cum spilling hot over my stomach in pulses while my whole body shakes through it.
He doesn’t stop until I’m fully spent, working me gently through every aftershock, watching my face the entire time like he’s cataloguing it.
I’m still shaking when he finally withdraws, and he doesn’t rush me back into my clothes. He just sits on the edge of the couch, one hand resting flat against my chest, feeling my heartbeat slow under his palm.
“I’ve never done that before,” I manage, once I can talk again. “Not like that. Not from just, that.”
“I know,” he says, and there’s nothing smug in it, just quiet certainty. “That’s why I wanted to be the one to show you.”
I finally sit up enough to look at him properly, still catching my breath, everything in me loose and strange in a way it’s never been before.
“Doesn’t this feel insane to you? Any part of it?
I’m twenty-two. I got dumped three months ago for being, and I quote, passionless. I’m one of your patients.”
“Former patient,” he corrects, mild. “As of about ten minutes ago, technically.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
He considers the question seriously instead of deflecting it, giving it the same care he brings to everything.
“It should feel insane. On paper, it’s reckless, unprofessional, everything I spent twenty years building a career around not doing.
” He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair back from my forehead.
“It doesn’t feel insane. It feels like the first thing I’ve wanted in longer than I can remember that I actually let myself have. ”
“That’s terrifying,” I tell him, meaning it.
“Yes,” he agrees, unbothered even by that. “It is. Doesn’t make it less true.”
Neither of us reaches for the light.