"Duration of current relationship?"
"About four months. Three if you count from when we—" I stopped. How much detail was he looking for? "Three months."
More writing. The pen scratched. He turned a page in the folder like there was actually more paperwork to review.
"Any recent changes in sexual function? Pain, discomfort, abnormal discharge?"
I was going to die. I was going to spontaneously combust right here in this chair while my future husband asked me clinical questions about my vagina with a perfectly straight face.
"No. Everything's—normal."
"Mmm." He made a noncommittal sound, still studying the folder. "And what about psychological symptoms? Anxiety? Intrusive thoughts? Difficulty concentrating?"
"Some anxiety," I admitted, because my heart was hammering so hard I was pretty sure he could hear it across the desk. "Right now, specifically."
He looked up again. Those grey eyes tracked over my face with the kind of assessment that made me feel transparent.
"I'm noticing elevated stress responses," he observed. "Dilated pupils. Rapid breathing. Flushing across the chest and neck." His gaze dropped briefly to where my sundress was doing nothing to hide the heat spreading across my skin. "We should investigate."
He set down the pen.
Stood.
The movement was slow, deliberate—a predator who knew his prey wasn't going anywhere. He retrieved the stethoscope from the desk, looped it around his neck with practiced ease, and moved around the desk toward me.
Each step felt like a countdown.
"Stand, please." His voice was still clinical. Still neutral. "And remove your dress. I need to listen to your heart."
My legs were shaking when I stood.
My fingers found the hem of the sundress, the thin fabric that was the only thing between my bare skin and his assessment. His evaluation. His examination of everything I was.
I pulled it over my head.
The fabric whispered against my skin as it went, catching briefly on my hips before sliding free. Cool air hit me everywhere—my breasts, my stomach, the space between my thighs that was already embarrassingly slick.
I stood naked in Kostya's office holding a sundress with tiny blue flowers, and Dr. Besharov looked at me like I was a medical chart he intended to study very, very thoroughly.
"Good," he said. "Now let's begin."
The stethoscope was cold.
Metal touched the skin just below my collarbone and I flinched, breath catching at the shock of it. Kostya's hands—warm, calloused, familiar—positioned the instrument with deliberate slowness. Moving it from one spot to another. Listening to things he probably couldn't interpret even if his life depended on it.
"Breathe normally," he instructed.
Right. Normally. While standing naked in his office with goosebumps rising across every inch of my skin despite the warmth. Totally normal.
I tried to regulate my breathing. Failed spectacularly.
He shifted the stethoscope lower, pressing it to the space between my breasts. His knuckles grazed skin that felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending screaming awareness.
"Tachycardia," he murmured.
My eyebrows rose before I could stop them. He actually knew the word. Used it correctly, even. I'd been expecting something ridiculous—"your heart is going fast" or "lots of beats"—but no. Proper medical terminology.
Impressive. And somehow even hotter than I'd anticipated.
