The Andrologist's Secret Therapy - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading The Andrologist's Secret Therapy, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of The Andrologist's Secret Therapy.
Just as things were heating up, reality came crashing down like a bucket of ice water.
I shoved him away with both hands before my brain even caught up.
Alexander staggered back, the sofa armrest catching him hard in the ribs.
In one fluid motion, I was on my feet—panties adjusted, skirt smoothed, professional mask back in place.
The rules were ironclad: no physical contact. Period.
This boundary wasn't just about ethics—it was my entire reputation on the line. Cross it, and what separated me from some back-alley hooker?
"Dr. Roscente, I—that wasn't supposed to happen." My voice came out steadier than I felt as I grabbed my bag.
He blocked the doorway. "We're not finished."
"We are tonight. Don't worry—this won't affect our professional relationship." I sidestepped him and practically ran to my car.
That night, my traitorous brain replayed everything in HD. Alexander's hands mapping my body like undiscovered territory, his mouth—God, his mouth—leaving invisible brands everywhere. I came harder than ever before in my life... and woke up furious that even in my dreams, he'd denied me completion.
The next morning, my reflection showed the damage—dark circles, pale skin, the works. Of course the universe would make me bump into him the second I walked into Mercy General. His casual "Morning, Dr. Laurent" made my coffee churn in my stomach.
By the time I hit the surgical floor, the nursing staff descended like vultures. Since when did the famously aloof Dr. Roscente acknowledge anyone below the boardroom level? I mumbled something about shared research and escaped to OR 2.
Two routine circumcisions later, I thought I'd earned a peaceful lunch. Wrong. Alexander materialized at my table with his tray, all casual arrogance.
I hissed under my breath, "People are staring."
His smirk could power a small city. "Two colleagues eating salad. The scandal."
Every bite tasted like sawdust. I was halfway to the exit when his voice stopped me cold: "My place. Tonight." Deliberately loud enough for three tables to hear.
By afternoon rounds, the hospital grapevine had us secretly engaged. I was drafting a denial text when my brother's call came—Dad collapsed. The same brain tumor from years ago, back with a vengeance.
Alexander scrubbed in without being asked. Five grueling hours later, the neuro team agreed—without him, my father would've died on that table.
For the next month, I lived at Dad's bedside. Alexander never pressed about his treatment, just quietly checked in with updates. The day Dad walked out, relief finally hit me.
Then my phone buzzed with a single message: Tonight.
After last time's disaster, I had a sinking feeling what kind of "therapy" he needed now.
I shoved him away with both hands before my brain even caught up.
Alexander staggered back, the sofa armrest catching him hard in the ribs.
In one fluid motion, I was on my feet—panties adjusted, skirt smoothed, professional mask back in place.
The rules were ironclad: no physical contact. Period.
This boundary wasn't just about ethics—it was my entire reputation on the line. Cross it, and what separated me from some back-alley hooker?
"Dr. Roscente, I—that wasn't supposed to happen." My voice came out steadier than I felt as I grabbed my bag.
He blocked the doorway. "We're not finished."
"We are tonight. Don't worry—this won't affect our professional relationship." I sidestepped him and practically ran to my car.
That night, my traitorous brain replayed everything in HD. Alexander's hands mapping my body like undiscovered territory, his mouth—God, his mouth—leaving invisible brands everywhere. I came harder than ever before in my life... and woke up furious that even in my dreams, he'd denied me completion.
The next morning, my reflection showed the damage—dark circles, pale skin, the works. Of course the universe would make me bump into him the second I walked into Mercy General. His casual "Morning, Dr. Laurent" made my coffee churn in my stomach.
By the time I hit the surgical floor, the nursing staff descended like vultures. Since when did the famously aloof Dr. Roscente acknowledge anyone below the boardroom level? I mumbled something about shared research and escaped to OR 2.
Two routine circumcisions later, I thought I'd earned a peaceful lunch. Wrong. Alexander materialized at my table with his tray, all casual arrogance.
I hissed under my breath, "People are staring."
His smirk could power a small city. "Two colleagues eating salad. The scandal."
Every bite tasted like sawdust. I was halfway to the exit when his voice stopped me cold: "My place. Tonight." Deliberately loud enough for three tables to hear.
By afternoon rounds, the hospital grapevine had us secretly engaged. I was drafting a denial text when my brother's call came—Dad collapsed. The same brain tumor from years ago, back with a vengeance.
Alexander scrubbed in without being asked. Five grueling hours later, the neuro team agreed—without him, my father would've died on that table.
For the next month, I lived at Dad's bedside. Alexander never pressed about his treatment, just quietly checked in with updates. The day Dad walked out, relief finally hit me.
Then my phone buzzed with a single message: Tonight.
After last time's disaster, I had a sinking feeling what kind of "therapy" he needed now.
End of The Andrologist's Secret Therapy Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to The Andrologist's Secret Therapy book page.