Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Sixty-Five

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Several seconds pass, although in that moment, time actually feels like it's standing perfectly still—as does everything else.

I can only stare at Frost with what I'm positive is the most extra-confused, extra-shocked expression that has ever found its way onto anyone's face in the history of time and existence. I can almost feel my forehead scrunching itself into a million tiny furrows as my eyes stretch themselves as wide as they can behind my glasses. It's several more seconds before I can say anything, and even then, all I can manage is a strained and barely audible, "What?"

I must have heard him wrong. I simply must have.

Still, I feel another rush of wetness leak from my pussy, the hot liquid now seeping through my jeans, spreading across the faded blue denim fabric. I try to clench my thighs as tightly as I can, but it can't stop the treacherous flow from soaking the crotch area of my jeans.

I can't bear to look down at myself; can't bring myself to check if the sopping wetness between my thighs is as visible as I think it is, if it's as obvious to him as it feels to me. Especially not when he's looking at me the way he is; in that dangerous, overly calm, analyzing, calculating way he does when he's getting ready to do something outrageous, like a wild animal trying to decide how it's going to take down prey that it hasn't yet caught, but is a hundred percent confident it will. It's the same look he had on his face the night he dropped me off from the mansion party—just hours before I was met with his proposal.

He cocks his head ever so slightly to the side. "You heard me. Take off your jeans," he repeats, the edge back in his voice, perfectly matching the sharp, unwavering quality in his eyes; a quality I'm not sure I'll ever get used to. His stare alone is overwhelming, but coupled with his words, it's mind-blowing and arresting on an entirely different stratosphere.

Somehow, I manage to find my voice—or whatever traces of it are left—in the sea of confusion, paralysis, and sheer horniness that has hijacked my body. "Why?" is all I can come up with.

"Because I need to take your temperature," is his simple response.

My eyebrow almost shoots it way up into my hairline and a deep frown lines my lips. "From my ass?" I say incredulously, my voice coming out louder than I intend it to.

"The clinical term is rectum, but yes. From your ass." His words are laced with a smugness and nonchalance that makes my blood boil. I feel my fingers twitch with need to hit something, and I have to clench them into a fist in order to stop myself from slapping the living daylight out of him. How can he be so aloof and casual about this?

I shake my head vehemently, refusing to entertain this...this madness. "No," I say firmly. "Absolutely not. You can put it in my armpit, or even my mouth, but that's as far as it goes. I'm not some newborn baby that needs to have a bunch of thermometers stuck up her behind."

For some reason, he grins at that, and the wicked, lopsided half-smile makes me even more nervous than the neutral, unreadable expression it just replaced.

"What's so funny?" I ask, doing absolutely nothing to mask my irritation, but also trying not to sound as anxious as I feel.

He makes this weird gesture with his shoulders that I can only peg for some sort of shrug, though it doesn't quite look like one. "I actually intend to take it all three ways," he explains. "Oral, which is from your mouth, axillary, which is your armpit, and rectal—your ass, as you put it. Or more specifically, into your rectum through your anus."