The Andrologist's Secret Therapy - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
You are reading The Andrologist's Secret Therapy, Chapter 5: Chapter 5. Read more chapters of The Andrologist's Secret Therapy.
Alexander Roscente's words dripped with deliberate provocation, deflating me in an instant.
Was he seriously doubting my competence?
In the past year alone, I'd rehabilitated dozens of patients. My practice had grown, my success rate impeccable—not a single failure.
Irritation flared, and I curled my lip, firing back, "With that attitude, Dr. Roscente, I'm not surprised you're single."
His expression darkened instantly.
In one fluid motion, he swung his legs off the bed and pinned me with a glare—before his lips twisted into a smirk. "And someone like you, Dr. Laurent? I doubt you've had much luck keeping a man either."
The jab landed right where it hurt.
News of my breakup with Ethan Winston had spread through the hospital like wildfire.
His mother had made sure of that—whispering that Ethan "couldn't satisfy me," that I'd "strayed."
Denying rumors only fed them. So I hadn't.
But now, Alexander had ripped off the scab, leaving the wound raw.
I stood abruptly, heading for the door. "I've reconsidered. I don't treat patients like you."
He shifted, blocking my path with that infuriating half-smile. "We signed an NDA. Are you really going to breach it? Or should I let the hospital know how you privately treat male patients?"
"Dr. Laurent," he added, voice smooth as poison, "don't say I didn't warn you. One word from me, and that license of yours? Gone."
I hadn't expected outright blackmail.
Rage burned through me as I spun to face him.
Alexander's smirk was pure menace.
And it worked. I caved.
"Fine. I'll honor the contract. But not tonight. We'll continue tomorrow."
He didn't argue, shrugging into a robe before escorting me out.
At the foyer, I hesitated. "Dr. Roscente—my side practice stays between us."
A curt nod. "Mm." His gaze lingered until the door shut behind me.
Over the next few days, whenever our schedules aligned, I returned.
Sometimes, if I missed dinner, I ate at his place.
Surprisingly, Alexander was a damn good cook.
But he remained distant, guarded—always armed with a razor-sharp retort.
After dinner, he'd disappear into the shower.
I'd wash up, gather my equipment, and wait in the bedroom.
When he emerged, he was completely bare.
His half-hard length lacked enthusiasm but made up for it in sheer size.
Snapping on gloves, I motioned for him to lie down.
Alexander didn't move. "Ever think of switching methods? This routine's wasting time."
Previous sessions followed the same pattern—initial arousal, then dwindling patience.
Sex was like that: too short, too long—neither ideal.
And prolonged suppression? Bad for a man's health.
"Fine." Patient needs came first.
He added, "Lose the gloves. Can't feel anything through them."
"Alright." I peeled them off.
I got it. Like condoms, that thin barrier made all the difference.
This time, he sprawled on the sofa, legs apart, watching me with lazy arrogance.
I knelt, but as I reached for him, his hand shot out, stopping me.
"Hands won't cut it."
His tone left no room for argument.
But my treatments were strictly manual. The NDA was clear—hands and tools only. No suggestive methods.
"Dr. Roscente, the agreement—"
Before I could finish, his grip seized the back of my head.
A sharp yank, and my face was pressed against his groin, his heat branding my skin.
"Dr. Laurent," he murmured, "this is just treatment."
Was he seriously doubting my competence?
In the past year alone, I'd rehabilitated dozens of patients. My practice had grown, my success rate impeccable—not a single failure.
Irritation flared, and I curled my lip, firing back, "With that attitude, Dr. Roscente, I'm not surprised you're single."
His expression darkened instantly.
In one fluid motion, he swung his legs off the bed and pinned me with a glare—before his lips twisted into a smirk. "And someone like you, Dr. Laurent? I doubt you've had much luck keeping a man either."
The jab landed right where it hurt.
News of my breakup with Ethan Winston had spread through the hospital like wildfire.
His mother had made sure of that—whispering that Ethan "couldn't satisfy me," that I'd "strayed."
Denying rumors only fed them. So I hadn't.
But now, Alexander had ripped off the scab, leaving the wound raw.
I stood abruptly, heading for the door. "I've reconsidered. I don't treat patients like you."
He shifted, blocking my path with that infuriating half-smile. "We signed an NDA. Are you really going to breach it? Or should I let the hospital know how you privately treat male patients?"
"Dr. Laurent," he added, voice smooth as poison, "don't say I didn't warn you. One word from me, and that license of yours? Gone."
I hadn't expected outright blackmail.
Rage burned through me as I spun to face him.
Alexander's smirk was pure menace.
And it worked. I caved.
"Fine. I'll honor the contract. But not tonight. We'll continue tomorrow."
He didn't argue, shrugging into a robe before escorting me out.
At the foyer, I hesitated. "Dr. Roscente—my side practice stays between us."
A curt nod. "Mm." His gaze lingered until the door shut behind me.
Over the next few days, whenever our schedules aligned, I returned.
Sometimes, if I missed dinner, I ate at his place.
Surprisingly, Alexander was a damn good cook.
But he remained distant, guarded—always armed with a razor-sharp retort.
After dinner, he'd disappear into the shower.
I'd wash up, gather my equipment, and wait in the bedroom.
When he emerged, he was completely bare.
His half-hard length lacked enthusiasm but made up for it in sheer size.
Snapping on gloves, I motioned for him to lie down.
Alexander didn't move. "Ever think of switching methods? This routine's wasting time."
Previous sessions followed the same pattern—initial arousal, then dwindling patience.
Sex was like that: too short, too long—neither ideal.
And prolonged suppression? Bad for a man's health.
"Fine." Patient needs came first.
He added, "Lose the gloves. Can't feel anything through them."
"Alright." I peeled them off.
I got it. Like condoms, that thin barrier made all the difference.
This time, he sprawled on the sofa, legs apart, watching me with lazy arrogance.
I knelt, but as I reached for him, his hand shot out, stopping me.
"Hands won't cut it."
His tone left no room for argument.
But my treatments were strictly manual. The NDA was clear—hands and tools only. No suggestive methods.
"Dr. Roscente, the agreement—"
Before I could finish, his grip seized the back of my head.
A sharp yank, and my face was pressed against his groin, his heat branding my skin.
"Dr. Laurent," he murmured, "this is just treatment."
End of The Andrologist's Secret Therapy Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to The Andrologist's Secret Therapy book page.