Page 2 of Doctor Daddy Dilemma
I didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, so I chuckled nervously, clutching my purse to my stomach. My heart raced and butterflies danced in my belly. This man was so frickin’ hot and I was supposed to keep myself together to do an interview? In fifteen minutes?
“You understand that breast reduction on a woman your age can affect mammary glands and eventual breast milk production if you choose to have children someday?” He spoke with such authority and presence, I didn’t want to interrupt him.
“Uh, yes sir, well…” My feeble attempt to begin speaking was overruled by his dominant demeanor.
“I’m going to need you to unbutton your blouse and unhook your bra. You wore a front-clasp as indicated in the paperwork emailed to you?”
Flustered, I felt my throat closing up. I wasn’t supposed to have to actually expose myself to him. I just hadn’t gotten a handle on how to break the ice yet. He reached for the blue gloves as I fumbled for words.
“I…uh, well…”
The gloves snapped into place as he turned to me and looked confused. “You are here for a consultation on breast reduction, correct?”
My stomach did a flip and I swallowed hard. I couldn’t lie, but I didn’t know how to broach the subject, so I bit my lip and nervously set my purse behind me on the table as he approached and raised his eyebrows.
“Dr. Hartman, I was hoping…” I bit my lip again and my hands had a mind of their own, unbuttoning my white silk blouse. He seemed patient enough to wait for me but now my thoughts were anchored to every reason why this was a bad idea. How had I let Mr. James talk me into this?
My body was on fire. I was sweating again despite the air conditioning, and I knew my face was probably beet red. I wanted to run and hide, not show this man my chest. This beautiful, gift-from-the-gods, paralyzingly good-looking man. My core ached. I just did what he told me, and when my top was open and my bra unhooked, his gloved hands met my skin and made me shudder.
Crap. This wasn’t going how it was supposed to go.
2
LEX
Ms. Martinez was flustered, adorably so. Her cheeks were the brightest shade of red I’d ever seen. Most women who came into my office to have any sort of surgery were usually comfortable with their body, or at least comfortable with me viewing their body. It was, after all, my profession and the reason they came into my office to begin with.
But as my fingers felt her—literally perfect—breasts I sensed she was nervous, or flustered. Her nipples could cut glass, so perhaps aroused too. I had to fight a smirk because I found myself attracted to her too. She wasn’t the average celebrity with spindly legs and bony hips. Ms. Martinez, whose first name I’d already forgotten but I would definitely look up as soon as she left this exam room, had curves—a lot of them. Full ones with ample locations that appealed to my eyes. But I focused on the exam, on her round full tits.
God, why was I thinking like this?
“You understand that if we reduce the size of your breasts, you may encounter changes in hormones. You may experience loss of sensation in your nipples”—I pinch one, judging the reactiveness to touch and then watch as it hardens further—“changes in sexual desire, and that the surgery may not be successful. Your breasts can actually return to their normal size post-surgery.”
All I could think was, Yes, God, I’d like these to remain this size—wow. And then I internally scolded myself for having such thoughts. It wasn’t normal. I never thought this about patients, so why was I finding myself so aroused by her.
“Dr. Hartman,” she said, and I had the feeling she was going to vomit. Her face contorted and she gave me a deer-in-headlights expression. “I’m Charlotte Martinez from the Register in Tampa. I am here to see if you’d like to do an interview.”
I’m ashamed to admit my hands lingered on those luscious round tits a little longer than they should have when she blurted that out. God, they were perfect. But I reluctantly pulled back, pausing for a moment to look away and collect myself as she scrambled to hook her bra shut and button her shirt. I took a deep breath and walked to the counter, peeling my gloves off as I went.
I’d made it abundantly clear to every newspaper or magazine reporter who called that I was done with interviews. The paparazzi followed me around just as much as my celebrity patients, and it was daunting. To the point that some of my more well-known patients had to come to my home in the evenings or take house calls—which was getting tiresome.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Hartman, it’s just that, well… We want to do an exposé on your life, not just your work. We want to show the world the man behind the knife, so to speak.”
I rolled my neck and glanced at the tablet. She’d wasted seven minutes of my day already and with eight minutes until my next appointment, I didn’t have the time or patience for yet another interview that would only say the same things about me. I did real work here, work the news media didn’t seem to understand or care about. A lot of times they painted me as a ne’er-do-well playboy who had a different woman every day and only cared about the money.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Ms. Martinez. You’ve wasted valuable time I should have been spending with real patients. This is not a joke.” Frustration colored my tone as I turned to see she’d put herself away, a point I couldn’t say I was pleased about. I’d seen a lot of naked women and Ms. Martinez was the only one who’d ever done that to me. My dick throbbed a little, begging to be stroked—or maybe that was my ego.
It took real cojones to fake an appointment with me to get the scoop, and she’d followed through too. Her nervous jitters and flushed face hadn’t been due to embarrassment or unease over an appointment. She was hiding a secret and now I had to send her away—never again to see those gorgeous tits.
“Please, if you’d just give me a moment.” She slid off the table and grabbed her purse again, but she hovered between me and the door, and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with this. Ballsy, I’d give her that, and it impressed me a little that she was sticking to her guns, but I was over this.
“I am not interested in more interviews. I run a serious business. Yes, I work on celebrities, but I’m not name-dropping, and if you’re interested in the life-saving face transplant my team and I did, you can read one of the hundred articles that have already been written.” I scowled at her, though it pained me to do so. She was so gorgeous, and she had guts. I liked that about her. I just didn’t like that she was a reporter, that she’d weaseled her way in here and wasted my time.
Yes, if she’d called me at home I’d have just hung up. If she’d asked me upfront for an interview, it would have been a hard pass. She was sneaky but she was smart.
“Please, I understand you’re serious. I want to help you shift that narrative. Other papers have touted your impressive skill in saving that woman’s life. But I want to show the world you’re more than the playboy they paint you to be. That you?—”
“Cut the crap.” My snarky interruption startled her and she jumped a little. “You reporters are all the same. You may actually be worse than them. At least they respect that when I say no it means stand outside my gated property and stare at my beautiful home because you’re not getting in. You waltzed right in here like you owned the joint and flashed your tits to get me to pay attention, then hoped you’d get an interview?”