Page 8 of The Love Operation

My stomach seems to think he’s not talking about back pain, but my brain says, Why else would he be here? Yet his nakedness is separated from me by a thin scrap of paper that could easily be torn and . . . “Can you describe the pain? Does it radiate?”

“It’s intense, sometimes a dull ache. Definitely throbbing. And every time it hits, my heart races and I break into a sweat. And yes, it radiates”—he pauses, eyes me with a look that holds a whole lot of something—“to one place in particular.”

If I were being a proper doctor, I’d ask him where, but I can’t bring myself to. I’m afraid of what he’ll say.

“Any bowel or bladder changes?” I ask flatly, tone bored, even though I’m anything but. He is not in charge here. I am. And I smile because he’s momentarily caught off guard by the very standard question.

“What? No. No.” He grimaces, like his nerves would never betray him like that and cause him to soil himself.

“Good. Anything make it better or worse?”

“I’m hoping you can make it better.” He chooses this moment to lick his lips, and dammit, my eyes slip to his mouth, which sends a burning arrow between my thighs.

The air in the room is charged. I can almost see the electrons spinning around like sex-starved ballerinas. I feel the thin fabric of my scrubs against my skin, and my lab coat is too restrictive, but I can’t take it off. Of course I can’t.

“Any numbness or tingling?” I continue my normal questionnaire, even though I don’t think this man has back pain.

“No numbness, but definitely tingling.”

“I see. Have you ever had this happen before? Any conservative treatments you’ve tried so far?”

He tucks his lips into his mouth and thinks. “Maybe minor episodes. But honestly, I’ve never experienced anything like this before. And no, I don’t think conservative measures are going to cut it.”

We lock eyes, him daring me to suggest he’s talking about anything other than back pain.

I need to get out of this room, or at least bring in a witness so it’s less likely that I will take off my clothes and start rubbing myself against him.

“All right,” I say with experienced confidence. “We’ll need a set of X-rays. I have a medical student rotating with me. I’ll have her do your physical exam so we can—”

“No.”

I was already heading toward the door, so I turn back. “No, what?”

“No, I don’t want to be examined by a student.”

I take two steps toward him, but that is as close as I’ll let myself get. “Mr. Thompson, surely, as a hospital executive, you understand the importance of a medical student getting the proper training.”

He’s undeterred as he nods. “Of course I do. And if this was any other type of situation, I’d be all for seeing the medical student. But, I am confident that she won’t be able to help me with this problem.”

He’s got some nerve. He’s got a lot of other things too. Even sitting there with his legs dangling in his black socks, he seems in control.

My right eyebrow challenges him. This is my clinic. My exam room. He may be the one with the title, but I’m the one with the license. And I won’t be cornered. “Mr. Thompson, if your problem is the pain we’ve discussed, I can assure you that my medical student is more than capable of taking care of this issue. I’ll be here to guide her.”

“Dr. Wren, I believe I’m the patient here. And I know what I want.”

“And what do you want, Mr. Thompson?” No one says someone else’s name as much as we are right now.

“You, Dr. Wren. I want you.”

All those horny electron ballerinas just screeched to a halt. They’re all staring now, leaning in, wondering what’s going to happen next, their tulle in their tutus gently bouncing with anticipation.

“What I mean, of course”—he clears his throat—“is that I want you as my medical provider.”

I step all the way up to him now, until my face is inches from his. “That is not what you meant, and we both know it. What are you doing here?”

His smile—so fucking devious, so fucking sexy—makes me lose some of my professionalism, or maybe that’s the intoxicating tendrils of his scent wrapping around my brainstem and making me forget how to doctor. He smells expensive. Not just rich—obscene. Sandalwood and leather, with something darker, something warm, like he’s spent the entire morning in a sink-into-me armchair that was commissioned especially for him.

“Everyone tells me you’re the best.” He leans toward me despite there being barely any room to do so.