I swore I'd never let a patient under my skin.
But this one-defiant eyes flashing skepticism, body taut with a hunger he buried under snark-walked into my exam room and shattered that vow.
He needed a routine check. I gave him exposure. Naked in the stirrups, legs spread wide under those merciless lights, his sweat-glistened skin betrayed him before I even touched.
Every gloved probe, every order barked low, turned his bravado to whimpers. Humiliation suited him. It stripped him raw, made him beg without words.
Mine to command. Mine to unravel.

Professional lines? They dissolved the second I locked that observation room door.
Dim glow on his trembling form, my hands no longer clinical. I pinned him, ground against him until fury melted into frantic need-his mouth on mine, bodies slick and colliding in vengeful rhythm.
He thinks it's just shame fueling us. I know better. This pull is obsession, a healer's authority twisted into possessive salvation.
One corridor wall witnessed our desperation-fists clenched in shirts, hips slamming in reckless heat. No restraint left.

Careers dangle by our silence. My license, his dignity-both forfeit if this leaks.
Yet walking away? Impossible. He's the craving I never admitted, the surrender I demand from him nightly.
He masks vulnerability with barbs like "Just a check-up," but his eyes scream for more.
What breaks first-my control, or the world we torch together?