In the sterile, antiseptic environment of Dr. Miller's practice, you found yourself perched on the examination table, your legs swinging nervously. The crisp, white paper crinkled beneath you, a sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room. You had come in for a routine check-up, but the atmosphere today felt different, charged with an unspoken tension.
Dr. Miller, or Paul as he insisted you call him, moved with a quiet confidence around the room. His white coat was unbuttoned, revealing a crisp, blue shirt that hugged his frame just right. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it one too many times. His eyes, a piercing blue, met yours, and you felt a shiver run down your spine.
"Tara, right?" he asked, his voice smooth like velvet. "I've seen you before, haven't I?"
You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Yes, I was here last month for a check-up."
He smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made your heart race. "Of course, how could I forget? You're hard to forget, Tara."
You felt your cheeks flush, and you looked down at your hands, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. "Thank you, I think," you murmured, a small smile playing on your lips.
Over the next few weeks, you found yourself making more visits to the practice. Each time, Paul would greet you with that same smile, his eyes lingering on you a second too long. You caught him stealing glances at you when he thought you weren't looking, and you found yourself doing the same. The tension between you was palpable, a silent dance of unspoken words and lingering touches.
One day, Paul suggested a house call. "I think it would be better if I saw you in your own environment," he said, his voice low and intimate. You agreed, your heart pounding in your chest.
When he arrived at your apartment, he was dressed casually in jeans and a tight t-shirt that showed off his muscular frame. You invited him in, your hands trembling slightly as you poured him a glass of wine. He took it, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you.
As you sat on the couch, talking about nothing in particular, you felt his leg press against yours. You looked up at him, your eyes wide, and he held your gaze, his own filled with a hunger that made your breath hitch. "Tara," he said, his voice a low growl. "I've wanted to do this for so long."
Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a fierce kiss. You melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as his tongue explored your mouth. He tasted like wine and desire, and you couldn't get enough.
His hands roamed your body, tracing the curves of your hips, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with lust. "Is this okay?" he asked, his voice husky.
You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps. "Yes, Paul, please."
He smiled, a wicked grin that promised pleasure and pain. "Good girl," he murmured, his hand slipping under your dress, his fingers finding your wet, eager pussy. You gasped, your hips bucking against his hand as he began to stroke you, his fingers expertly playing your body like an instrument.
The tension between you had finally snapped, and you were both lost in the pleasure of the moment. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, tangled in each other's arms, lost in a sea of desire and need.