Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Seventy-Seven

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What the hell are you doing, Ramona? My mind screams at me, the voice of reason in my head becoming loud and belligerent.

A wave of immense horror quickly follows, along with a bout of extreme blood rush and adrenaline to my head, and as a human being, I do the only thing I've been biologically programmed to do in a situation like this.

I freak the fuck out.

"No!" I whimper, my palms frantically pushing at his chest in sudden panic and mortification.

I'm not sure he hears me, or even senses my abrupt and extreme change in demeanor, but if he does, then he's intentionally ignoring it and bites on my neck again, more aggressively and greedily than before. My pussy spasms erratically from the unexpected jolt of pleasure and pain that results, and another rush of hot, viscous liquid freely pours out of it, discharging onto my panties and jeans with no warning. It's as if I just came without actually coming.

My body's reaction shocks me and only makes me freak out again, and my shaky hands become even more insistent in pushing him away.

"Stop!" I say, trying to sound firm despite how strained my voice is. "Stop it!" I repeat. After a few more hard shoves, I finally manage to push him off me, and as soon as I do, I scramble away from him ungracefully, awkwardly moving my crotch and hips away from his and praying to every god out there and the universe that I didn't just wet his scrubs, as well.

It's not long before the effects of my panic start manifesting and I start to feel dizzy. I can't believe I was so caught off guard. My emotional walls raise themselves again instantaneously, higher and more fortified than they were before. My defenses are cranked all the way up, forming an impenetrable force field around me, and my brain has some extra mental barricades of self-protection thrown in for good measure. My protective instincts kick in all the way, and I push at his chest even harder in an attempt to decline further help or pity from him. I don't want it.

You mean you don't want to have any more reasons to not hate him.

I ignore the little voice inside my head. All I want to do right now is get the hell up from this chair and sprint right out his office this instant leaving skid marks in my wake, and for a split second, I seriously think I'm about to do just that, and my feet actually flex in preparation to dive into road-runner mode.

But then memory instantly halts any plans of such actions when I remember that I'm not done here. He still hasn't told me the other half of the news—the bad half. And that realization only makes me cringe at myself in both disgust and incredulity. I still have bad news to receive and I was busy spending my time feeling the good ole' doctor up while he went to town on my neck.

He started it, the defensive part of my psyche and my sense of self-preservation roar, unwilling to take the blame for what just transpired between us and trying to justify my response in an effort to make me feel better about myself and my dignity.

You mean, whatever's left of it, the little cynical voice in my head mocks.

I wince on the inside as the word hits me, resonating in my mind again and again.

Dignity.

Dig. Ni. Ty.

Sigh.

I clearly signed away all of mine when I signed his stupid contract. I know that better than anyone. And just because he's a willing, no, extremely willing and eager participant in all this—well, more like the motherfucking instigator and ringleader—it still doesn't make me feel any better about my decision, doesn't alleviate the guilt of knowing that my choice will hurt his wife, and what just happened right here only makes this whole situation worse.

I could never have seen this coming. Not today. Not like this. But then again, this is Dexter Frost we're dealing with here. But more than anything, I could never have anticipated that I'd react this way to him, either.

My hand impulsively goes to my chest as I try to catch my breath, as if doing so will actually stop my lungs and my heart from exerting themselves like wild, rabid animals inside my trembling body. I wipe at my face quickly with my sleeves, banishing tear streaks and sucking in more deep breaths as the reality of why I'm here sobers me up.

The brief but intense spell is broken and another bout of extreme awkwardness and weird tension takes up all the space in his office, totally replacing the lusty heat and sexual energy that was raging like a forest fire between us just a moment ago. I can't bear the silence that follows, can't take the insane level of embarrassment and sheer discomfort of this awkward aftermath.

God, this is awkward as fuck.

I can't even bring myself to look in his general direction after what just went down, and so my eyes remain cast downwards, focusing on my palms as they lay face down on my lap. I hear him readjust himself in the chair next to mine, and a part of me wishes he'd just go back over to his chair behind his desk so he can put some more distance between us—distance I so desperately need from him right now. No. Such. Luck.

Fuck.

I force myself to speak even though that's the last thing I feel like doing. I just can't take much more of this unbearable, suffocating strain between us.

I wipe at my eyes again, sniffing and trying to clear my throat, but my words come out in a raspy, choppy croak anyway. "W-what...what's the bad news?"

My lungs seize as I hold my breath on impulse, and my hands simultaneously ball themselves into fists as I brace myself. My fingernails dig into my palms until the pain becomes near unbearable and my knuckles go white, but I still don't let up. I need the physical pain right now; need to feel something other than the emotional chaos that I'm currently submerged in.

He pauses for the slightest moment before speaking, and I feel his eyes assessing me again. "From the look of it, the tumor's probably been there for at least a year, possibly more," he says, his voice calm and unwavering, as if nothing had happened. "Based on its size, color, and texture, it's clearly had some time to grow. And while it's not cancerous right now, there's the fairly high chance that it will become malignant eventually if it's not removed, mainly because of its size, location and the manner in which it has developed so far. The stomach is highly acidic, and acidic environments in the body tend to encourage cancerous cell growth..."

He keeps talking, and I can hear everything he's saying clearly, but at the same time, I feel like I'm outside my own body. It's like he's talking to someone else, like he's telling someone else all these things that aren't supposed to have anything to do with me and I'm just a fly on the wall listening in. Except they have absolutely everything to do with me.

"Look, I don't want to scare you," he continues, "but if I'm being completely honest, I'd advise surgery immediately, just to be on the safe side, especially since you've been having sporadic abdominal pains because of it. It's still a single, isolated tumor, so removal should be fairly straightforward. However..."

My eyes shoot up to meet his signature icy stare and I arch my brow warily. "However...?" I push.

He runs his hand through his hair, almost distractedly, and then interlocks his fingers on his desk once more before resuming. "However, there's a fairly high chance that there might be some... complications."

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