Mal
The metal ridge of the examination table pressed cold against Mal’s bare thighs. He shifted his weight from side to side, trying, and failing, to keep himself from watching what Vincent was doing. From the second Mal had entered the room, he couldn’t help but sneak lingering glances his way. After their text conversation last night, how could he?
There’d never been a time where Mal had felt this way—where he’d anticipated touch, taste, talk…
Vincent revitalized him, and in doing so, gave him a chance to reclaim his stolen youth. Somehow, he’d pieced the broken parts of Mal back together and made him better than new.
“How did everything go last night, Mr. Collins?” Dr. Heaney inquired. He stood near the examination table with the same tablet from yesterday—Mal remembered the scratch across the top right corner that disrupted the device’s silver backing. “Have you noticed any unsavory changes in your behavior, your body, your mood, your thoughts?”
“Unsavory? No.” Mal glanced at Dr. Peterman, who prepared the vials necessary for his blood samples. “I… I slicked again without going into full-blown heat. By full-blown, I guess I mean… it’s kind of like an itch, or like a feeling. It’s inside me—Iknowit is—but it’s not willing to come out just yet. That’s… that’s the best I can do to describe it. It’s not like the other heats I’ve had while going through IVF. This one isn’t traditional. It’s like it’s teasing me.”
Not that teasing was a bad thing. Mal had done enough teasing last night to appreciate what power a few subtle suggestions could have. He glanced at Vincent, who stood across the room and had his back to the examination table, and wondered if he was the only one who felt that way. What did Vincent have planned for him after last night’s invitation?
“Describe how your heats were during the traditional IVF process,” Dr. Heaney prompted.
Mal paused. Frowned. Collected his thoughts. It was difficult to look into the past when he was so focused on what was set to happen in the future.
“During traditional IVF, my heats were sporadic. They were short—usually lasting from a handful of hours to about twelve hours max. They hit suddenly, and they hit hard, and then they took a lot out of me. Sometimes, it’d happen several times a day. This… this hasn’t been like that at all.”
To that, there was no comment. Dr. Heaney typed dutifully, his face impartial. The tapping of his fingers against the screen filled the silence, but it wasn’t Mal’s focus for long. Dr. Peterman finished her preparations and stepped in to continue with the appointment. More bloodwork, more samples. Mal watched with muted interest while Dr. Peterman talked him through the process, then let his attention wander as she drew the blood necessary for their lab analysis.
Across the room, Vincent prepared a tray. From where he sat, Mal wasn’t able to make out most of what he was doing, but the last several days of treatment had familiarized him with what was going on. A sterile, wrapped syringe. A small bottle filled with viscous, clear liquid. An antiseptic wipe. Soon enough, Vincent would cross the room, wheeling the tray with him. He’d swab Mal’s thigh down, likely the opposite one from the day before, then inject him with the compound that would kick-start his journey to being a single dad.
“And we’re done,” Dr. Peterman announced. Six different vials of blood had been filled. Mal had no idea what they were looking for, or why they needed so many samples, but he didn’t question it. “Once the injection is complete, you’ll be free to go about your day.”
“Thank you, doctor.” Mal looked away from Vincent to give Dr. Peterman his full attention. It was better that he stopped staring—Vincent was counting on him to keep the secret. “I don’t know if you can tell me, but has everything been okay so far with the blood samples?”
Dr. Peterman’s face didn’t change—she wore the same impartial mask that Dr. Heaney’s had not all that long ago. “We aren’t at liberty to disclose specifics, but there’s nothing you need to worry yourself over.”
“Thank you.” Mal blinked a few times, then shivered. The air in the room changed. It smelled no different than usual—subtle hyper-clean citrus and other sanitizing agents—but there was a sharpness to it that Mal wasn’t used to. Vincent, likely prompted by Dr. Peterman’s parting words, wheeled the tray over, just like Mal had known he would. In that bizarre moment, Mal thought that even from a distance he’d be able to spot every freckle in Vincent’s eyes and count the hairs on his head. Reality was more highly defined than it had ever been before, like all his life, Mal’s eyes had been streaming in low definition, only to now switch to HD. The change left him dizzy, and he braced his hands on the examination table as his head pulsed.
Dizzy, but aware.
Painfully aware.
Arousal crept through his groin, piquing the interest of his balls and stirring his cock from its slumber. Mal blinked several more times to try to clear the dizziness away, but it wouldn’t budge. The creeping arousal inside of him rose higher, wrapping itself up the length of his spine like ribbon.
Heat.
It was heat. Blooming, swelling, consuming heat. But it had never been like this before—never moved so fluidly, or come on like silk over shower-soft skin. Mal’s cock throbbed. The blockers he needed were in the partitioned area he used to change, waiting in the pocket of his pants. Even if he took them now, they’d take a while to kick in.
Could he drive home like this?
“Doctors?” Mal asked, letting his voice break the relative silence of the room. What he wanted to say, voice shrill and uncertain, was, “Vincent?” but calling Vincent out now would do neither of them any good. No matter how badly Mal wanted to lean on Vincent for support, he had to stand on his own. This was his heat to deal with, his problem to conquer. He was strong and independent. He could do it. “I’m going into heat right now. I need to get my blockers.”
Vincent stopped no more than three feet away. The detached, pleasant expression he wore—his professional mask—had been knocked askew to reveal surprise, and behind that, strain. The expression only lasted a moment, but a moment was long enough. The connection rekindled between them, crushing Mal in its gravity.
Vincent was the one he needed—the only one who could make him better.
“Go ahead,” Vincent said. While his tone was polite and courteous, Mal didn’t mistake the look that burned behind his eyes, visible only in the elusive moments where his bedside manners slipped. “Your comfort and security during this process is paramount. Another few minutes’ wait won’t do any harm.”
Another few moments might do more harm than Vincent anticipated. The heat that swept Mal’s body had finished ribboning up his spine, and now its presence played games in his mind, its touch like fingertips cascading down the back of his head, through his hair, down his nape. Tingling. Teasing. Shiver-inducing. Heats didn’t usually feel like this. It had come on too quickly, made itself known too fast, and yet, hadn’t robbed Mal of his senses. Not entirely. It taunted him instead, daring him to let it go on a second longer.
No matter how strange the heat, it wasn’t the kind of bet Mal was willing to take.
He stepped down from the examination table, his starchy medical gown slipping down over his thighs. On bare feet, he padded across the tile.
Cold tile. Bare feet.
