by Lane Hart
My wayward eyes keep roaming over the girl’s supine form without my permission while I massage her swollen ankle between my hands. The two bastards are obviously in cahoots with my overeager cock. That fucker has been swelling ever since I walked into the exam room and saw Samantha’s mile-long legs stretched out on the table and smelled her delicious coconut scent, reminding me of the beach, my most favorite place in the world.
It doesn’t help that from my rolling chair’s position at the foot of the exam table, I can see all the way up her tiny black shorts to the bright pink panties peeking out of the leg hole. The color of her intimates matches her sweatshirt that’s now riding up her flat, toned stomach.
How is any man supposed to resist such temptation?
I’m mentally calculating the date of which I can release her from my care. What is four weeks from now? March fourteenth? God, that’s a really long time to wait to ask her out, but there’s no gray area in the Code of Ethics for Physical Therapists. Thou shall not fuck patients is one taken very seriously, and there’s no way I could date her without fucking her, so March fourteenth it is. Well, if she even agrees to go out with me. She doesn’t have a date tonight, so if she has a quick recovery, and is still single in a month, maybe I can work a yes out of her. Followed by my name being shouted in gratitude.
Samantha Elliott is definitely unlike most of the other women in this small town who are either married or cougars; there’s no in between. I guess most single ladies flee the area as soon as possible in search of men who have wardrobes that consist of more than camouflage and flannel and don’t chew tobacco.
“Mmmm.”
God, the sounds coming from her mouth are eating away at my already weakened self-control. I wonder if she’ll make the same sounds when I’m between her legs.
Get a fucking grip, Grant!
I’ve only been licensed as a physical therapist for thirteen months after working my ass off for six long years in school, and two more in a fellowship. A third of my life has been spent trying to get to where I am now, having my own practice, even if it is in a small town. And there’s no way anyone, especially some random nineteen-year-old small town college girl (according to the birth date listed on her chart and occupation stated as “student”) is going to be worth it all going up in flames.
One month.
Twenty-eight days.
Four short weeks.
That’s nothing compared to how long it took to get my doctorate.
Too bad there are no other PTs in this shitty town, or I’d refer her out today, and then maybe I could get her naked and underneath me tonight. I swallow down a groan at the mental image and try to remind myself that she’s too young and innocent for me. My cock strongly disagrees after he’s been dry now for almost six months, while I applied for jobs and traveled the country for interviews.
“You doing okay?” I ask, getting nothing in response. “Miss Elliott?”
Releasing her ankle, I stand up from my stool and find her head lolled to the side, her small, perfect red lips parted in her sleep. I can’t help but smile, wondering how long she’s been out. Since she’s sleeping so peacefully, I continue my regimen. She doesn’t flinch when I apply the electro pads to her skin and turn on the nerve stimulator, or fifteen minutes later when I wrap up her ankle with an ACE bandage. I watch Sleeping Beauty a little longer before I go to the supply room and look for some crutches, and to maybe take an ice-cold shower to cool my overheating hormones before I return.
Chapter Three
Sam
Still groggy from the best dream ever featuring Superman saving me from falling off a cliff, I blink my eyes open and swipe away the drool from the corners of my mouth.
Oh, God!
Using my elbows to push myself into a sitting position on the cushioned table, I realize I must have fallen asleep in the freaking doctor’s office! My knees are now bandaged, and my ankle is all wrapped up. A pair of crutches is propped against the counter.
How long was I out? And how freaking embarrassing! I wouldn’t have given a shit if I had passed out on Dr. Draper, but doing it in front of Dr. Scrumptious is probably the epitome of loser moves.
I need to get out of here fast before I make more of a fool of myself.
Swinging my legs around to the side of the table, I slowly slide down off it, careful not to put any weight on my left foot. Now, to get over to the crutches standing about five feet away. In two unsteady hops, I’m there and reaching for them, right as the exam room door swings open and surprises me. To add to my resume of epic dorkiness, my hands are gripping the crutches that slowly start to slide along the edge of the counter. It happens so fast that I’m left with no choice but to ride them both to the ground in a loud clatter while holding one foot in the air.
“Oh, shit!” I hear behind me, making me cringe. “Are you okay?”
Nope, definitely not okay. I probably look like I’m playing some fucked up version of Twister with my hands down, ass in the air, foot hovering like I’ll lose the game if it touches the ground. I sort of wish the aforementioned would just open up and swallow me whole, so I can escape without facing him.
Going down to my knees in an effort to look slightly less idiotic, I belatedly remember I just lost a layer of skin on them until the bandages touch the cool tile. “Ow,” I groan and hang my head while I catch my shaky breath, breathing through the pain.
If things weren’t awkward enough, the doctor is suddenly pressed up against my ass, apparently in an effort to try and help me up.
“I’m gonna pull you up, okay?” he asks, and I nod.
When his arm wraps tightly around my waist to assist me to my feet again, well…that has to be a banana in his pocket or…
“One, two, three.”
He yanks me to my feet or foot, and as soon as I grab onto the counter, he lets me go. I miss the weight of his arm holding me to his warm, hard body. Hard in more than one way.
I keep my back to him, unable to face him after all the humiliation. But then I have no choice when he walks around and picks up the fallen crutches, offering them to me.
“Thanks,” I say, sticking one under each armpit.
“It might take some time to get used to them,” Dr. Scrumptious informs me.
“You don’t say,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the floor.
Dr. Matthews chuckles softly, the deep, husky sound exacerbating the warm pressure in my lower belly.
“You’re really tall and…so damn cute.”
“What?” I ask, looking up at him to watch his mouth move because he couldn’t have just said I was cute. The movement of his hand pressing against the bulge at the front of his pants pulls my attention lower. So that wasn’t a banana. That was his…
“Yes, that was my cock you felt. I’m sorry. It’s extremely unprofessional, but it seems to be a constant occurrence around you.”
“Oh,” I mutter, completely taken back hearing him say the word cock. I force my curious eyes to hold his and to not lower to his crotch again, but of course, they go rogue. Wow, that’s an impressive bulge!
“So, is there any way I could convince you to go out with me March fourteenth instead of reporting me to the physical therapy board?” he asks, drawing my attention up to his face again.
My jaw comes unhinged as I stare unblinkingly at the gorgeous man in front of me. Man, not boy like the idiots I go to school with. A man who just asked me out after admitting that I caused his massive arousal.
“You…you want to go out with me?” I ask, just to make sure I understood all that correctly.
“Yes,” he says, crossing his arms over his broad chest and resting his back against the counter.
“In March?”
“Yes. I figure by the fourteenth you should be finished up with your PT.”
“Finished with PT?” I repeat.
“I can’t date you if you’re my patient.”
“Oh,” I say in understanding, more than a little disappointed that we have to wait so
long. Still, it’s exciting knowing that this God-like superhero/doctor wants to go out with me, even if he has to wait a month! If my ankle weren’t sprained, I would jump up and down. Damn, a month seems like forever, though. “Aren’t there any other physical therapists…” I start to ask.
“Nope,” Dr. Matthews chuckles, clearly knowing what I was going to ask. “I’m the only one in a sixty-mile radius.”
“Well, fuck.”
I slap a hand over my mouth when I realize I said that aloud.
“My sentiments as well,” he replies, tilting his head with a boyish smile. “So, March fourteenth?”
“I’ll…I’ll have to check my schedule,” I tell him honestly.
March is when track season starts; and, unfortunately, I could have a scrimmage meet out of town that day. Seeing the hot doctor’s face fall with my response makes me all giddy inside.
“If not the fourteenth, then maybe the fifteen or sixteenth?” I offer to show him I’m definitely interested. So freaking interested!
“Deal,” Dr. Matthews says, recovering with an even bigger grin. “Let’s hope you have a speedy recovery.”
“It does seem like I’m in pretty good hands,” I tell him.
So, okay, I may be shy and completely inexperienced, but I plan to try my best to shamelessly flirt with my doctor for the next four weeks. I’m already mentally combing through my small closet trying to decide what outfit I should wear to my next appointment.
“The best hands,” he assures me with a wink. God, his confidence is so hot. Is there anything about this man that’s not? “So, did you drive yourself here today?” he asks.
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you okay to drive home, or do you need a ride?” he asks. “The office is closed, so…”
And there it is again. The warm clenching in my lower belly that flares up just from knowing I’m alone in this building with him. That I could be alone with him in his car, or in my house…
KEEP READING INDISCRETION
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Lane Hart was born and raised in North Carolina. She continues to live in the south with her husband, two daughters, and several pets named after Star Wars characters.
When Lane's not writing or reading sexy novels, she can be found in the summer on the beaches of the east coast, and in the fall watching football, cheering on the Carolina Panthers.
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Website: http://www.lanehartbooks.com
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