Chapter 6

The moment Zoe opened the front door, she knew something was off. Nate stood there in his usual fitted grey hoodie and athletic shorts, but he wasn’t wearing that easy confidence she’d grown so used to. Instead, his posture was uneven, his jaw tight, his expression carrying something softer. Vulnerable. His eyes still flicked over her body like they always did—lingering, appreciative—but beneath that was something else. A quiet wince. A held breath.

“Hey, Doc,” he said, voice low, one hand tucked against his torso.

“Nate ... you alright?” she asked immediately, her brow furrowing as she stepped aside. He moved through the doorway with a slight limp—not from his legs, she realised, but the stiff way he carried one arm. “Come in.”

He walked past her, his shoulders broad enough to brush lightly against her chest as he passed, and she caught a whiff of that familiar mix of clean sweat and masculine cologne. Even now, even in discomfort, his presence was overwhelming.

“Tweaked my wrist during practice,” he said, cradling it a little more visibly now. “Coach says it’s probably just a sprain.”

“Oh no,” Zoe murmured, guiding him straight toward the couch in the living room. “Sit down. Let me take a look.”

Nate sank into the cushions—though “sank” was generous. He didn’t so much sit as dwarf the couch, his long legs spreading out, his broad back barely contained by the frame. When he held out his arm, Zoe knelt beside him, taking his wrist gently into her hands. His skin was hot, the muscle beneath still tense from strain and adrenaline. Her fingers moved with slow care, rotating his hand, feeling for swelling. His fingers twitched slightly under her touch.

“Looks mild,” she said, glancing up. “Tender but no immediate signs of tearing. I can bandage it up, but you should really get imaging to be sure.”

“I will,” Nate said, his eyes locked on hers. “But I guess that’s the sperm sample routine out the window for now, huh?”

Zoe blinked. For a second, she forgot what he was talking about—until the memory of this morning hit her like a soft blow to the stomach. The collection schedule. The protocol. Her bedroom. Her hand. Her mouth.

“You mean ... because of your wrist?” she asked, voice quieter now.

“Yeah. Can’t do it left-handed,” Nate admitted with a laugh that was more sheepish than amused. “Tried once when I messed it up before. Just ... doesn’t work. No rhythm.”

Zoe swallowed, her pulse starting to thrum just beneath her skin. There was something almost innocent about the way he said it. Almost. But not quite. Not when paired with the memory of his body jerking under orgasm, not when paired with the knowledge of what he’d said with her photo in hand.

“Well...” she began slowly, the word hanging in the air like a challenge, “we can’t let the data set fall apart halfway through. That wouldn’t be very scientific.”

Her tone was careful. Neutral. Almost.

Nate’s gaze sharpened slightly. His jaw flexed. “No, I guess not,” he said. His hand was resting on his thigh now, fingers spread wide.

“As your physician,” Zoe continued, standing up with a little too much grace, “I suppose I could find a way to assist. Just until you’re recovered.”

She turned before she could see his reaction. Her legs carried her up the stairs before her thoughts could catch up, each step feeling heavier than the last. She didn’t need to look back to know he was following.

By the time they were in her upstairs office—the one she’d quietly prepared for just such a possibility—the air was thick with tension. Not the kind that crept. The kind that lingered. That waited.

Zoe stepped into her professional persona one last time. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves, the snap echoing in the silence. It was a thin barrier between her and what she was about to do. Clinical. Justified. But the pounding in her chest said otherwise.

Nate stood quietly before her, waiting. The silence between them had shape now—dense, electric. His shoulders were drawn back, his face unreadable, but his chest rose and fell a little faster than before.

“You can lower your shorts,” she said. Her voice barely a whisper.

Nate didn’t speak. He just reached for the waistband, and in one smooth, practiced motion, slid them down. His cock hung heavy—already half-hard, already thickening. Zoe’s eyes widened slightly before she could stop herself. Even in this state, it was magnificent. Heavy. Intimidating. Real.

Zoe reached out, her gloved hand trembling faintly as it made contact with his shaft for the first time. The heat of it radiated through the latex, startling her. It was solid, pulsing with life, thick and heavy in a way that no toy could ever replicate—no photograph, no imagination, no dream had come close to this. She wrapped her fingers gently around the base, feeling the sheer density of him, and instantly understood what Nate had meant when he said he couldn’t manage it with one hand. She couldn’t either.

Her second hand rose instinctively, joining the first. Only then could she encircle him properly, managing his size like some living, breathing instrument of power. She began to stroke slowly, reverently, learning his contours as she moved. The thick veins throbbed beneath the surface. The ridges were pronounced, real. Her gloved fingers slid up, then down, dragging pre-cum across his head with each pass, the tip glistening and slick before she even reached for the lube.

Still, she did. She squeezed a generous amount into her palm, then returned to his cock, spreading it over him in smooth, gliding circles, watching as the viscous gel coated his skin and made her hands slide even easier. It made the obscene sounds louder—wet, rhythmic, impossibly intimate. Zoe’s breathing deepened as she stared, mesmerised.

God ... it’s beautiful.

That thought hit her with force, unbidden but undeniable. She had never truly looked at her husband’s cock like this. Never studied it. Never appreciated it. Barry’s was fine, average, functional. But this—this—was a thing of dark, masculine beauty. A cock that demanded attention, demanded reverence. It was powerful. Animal. Erotic in a way that made her skin prickle and her thighs squeeze together.

She let her hands work their way down to the base and back up again, long, firm strokes that earned a low grunt from Nate’s chest. His breathing was heavier now, his hips tensing just slightly each time she reached the crown. Her eyes flicked upward and caught his gaze—hooded, hungry, full of awe.

The reality of what she was doing suddenly hit her in full—but instead of recoiling, she felt emboldened.

She wasn’t just stroking him.

She was exploring him.

Claiming him.

Her hands moved faster now, not clinical, not hesitant, but deliberate. She was testing him, teasing him. Feeling how the pressure made his cock jump. Noting how the shaft thickened in her grasp as she built the pace. He was swelling rapidly now, the weight increasing in her palms, the girth stretching her grip. It was like holding a live wire.

Zoe’s eyes lowered again, taking him in from this new angle, from this new role—not just as a doctor, but as a woman indulging a deep, long-restrained craving. The pink tip flared with each stroke, flushed, leaking. Her pulse roared in her ears. Her thighs clenched tighter.