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oblivious, and now my ass is covered in it. Chocolate, I assume, the only flavor I'm aware of that comes in such a lovely shade of brown…on my ass.
    By the end of the day, after changing into the extra pair of scrubs I keep in my locker, in case of an animal mishap, not my own , I'm exhausted, and also particularly tired of the new nickname, "Snack Pack." On top of that, I'm flustered and confused, which is evident in my unnatural, shabby quality of work. All I can manage is the motions, my mind a million miles away, replaying and analyzing every single second of this morning.
    Is he that gentle with all his patients? Did I imagine the change in timbre of his voice, the low grunts, the hiss I thought joined mine? And why wouldn't he turn and face me when he was done?
    The circling clouds of thoughts still plague me when Mimi hears the clock chime and screeches out, "Five o'clock, closing time!"
    Couldn't have come a second sooner. I hurry to shut down my computer, grab my things, and rush out the door after some quick goodbyes. Let someone else close up shop tonight—I need some wine and alone time.
    Opting for mellow tunes on the ride home, I open the sun roof, in desperate need of a cool breeze on my overheated skin. It's been far too long since I've relished in a man's touch, exam or otherwise, thus my current sweltering and easy dismissal of blood work or birth control. That peace of mind is nice and all, but the flip side is that I'm all worked up. There's a fantasy in my mind and a hunger throbbing in my nether region that both need some attention. All that paranoia that the unbelievable need building between my legs was going to leave me with an embarrassing wet spot haunted me most the day, one of the only things I was conscious of.
    Finally safe inside my door, I toss down my stuff, not caring where it lands, and kick off my shoes. Wine first! I take the first sip of some crisp Arbor Mist and sigh. Yes, I'm a wine slummer, no fancy-ass smells like Easter egg dye stuff for this girl. My phone alerts me to a text, which I'm tempted to ignore, but my conscience kicks in—they may need help closing the clinic with my mad dash outta there, so I drag myself to retrieve it.
    Brady: just checking on ya.
    Not about to answer, "I'm horny and on edge," I toss the phone back down. Why even bother with pointless lies?
    Anxiety riddling my nerves, I sludge across the apartment. Searching for any sort of relief available, I step in my bedroom, setting the wine on my nightstand and flipping on the ceiling fan. Despite the swirl of coolness in the air, it does nothing to chill my searing body heat.
    In a huff of fury, irritated that my mind is fluttering with images of Dr. Reynolds between my legs and hindering my chances of cooling off, I begin to peel off my clothes piece by piece, teasing myself with a slow strip, imagining him whispering "show me," in my ear. All the way down to lingerie, I'm fine, but when my bra hits the floor and my nipples familiarly pebble from the breeze, I'm instantly back there . Uncovered, exposed, nervous but tingling, his large, muscular hands exploring me.
    "I have to uncover your breasts."
    His rich tone plays in my head as my own hands creep up to my heavy, aching peaks, mimicking his movements. Scenario in my head, I add what I wish he'd done and tug on my nipples, the force pulling all the way to my core. I fall back on my bed with a deep sigh, picturing him giving me the sensations I feel, begging me with his eyes for more.
    "I will never repeat what happens in here.
    It's almost real, him sliding down my panties now, slowly, kissing along their path, a low hum in approval of what he sees. Then—
    Then the damn phone's screeching ring shatters my musing. I lay still, panting and naked, waiting for voice mail to pick up. Ah, silence . I squeeze my eyes shut and let my hand sneak down my stomach, one finger finding my weeping center, the other hand caressing my breast.
    "This will be my