The San Diego heat swept through Tori's skin like hot breath the moment she cut the engine. For a long, suspended minute, she remained in the chilled sanctuary of her car, the faint taps of air conditioning nipping at her cheeks. The wisps of coolness swished her long, dark hair from the warmth of her back, a final reprieve before she faced the sun-baked asphalt of the hospital parking lot. She carried her little problem with her, a knot of worry coiled low in her belly, hoping it would be solved by the time she left. The problem wasn't just the physical discomfort; it was the doctor. None other than her friend's father, Dr. Dylan McAvoy.

Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. This is a terrible idea. A monumentally, catastrophically bad idea. Chelsea had insisted. "Dad's the best, Tori. Seriously. He'll make you feel so comfortable." Comfortable was the last word Tori would use to describe the electric current that hummed under her skin whenever Dylan was in the room.

Finally, she forced herself out, the wave of heat a physical blow. She smoothed down her simple sundress, her fingers trembling slightly. Inside, the hospital's air was a sterile, refrigerated shock. The hushed hum of machinery and the distant, tinny chime of a paging system replaced the city's noise. The waiting room was decorated in muted teals and grays, designed to be calming but succeeding only in making Tori's nerves feel more raw and exposed.

She approached the check-in desk, her voice barely a whisper as she gave her name. The receptionist’s smile was professionally bland. As Tori sat in a plush, unwelcoming chair, she tried to distract herself with a magazine, but the glossy pages of celebrity homes blurred into meaningless shapes. Her mind was a frantic loop of worst-case scenarios. How could she possibly do this? This was Dylan. The man she'd seen at backyard barbecues, his smile easy and genuine as he flipped burgers. The man whose deep, rumbling laugh made her own breath catch. The man whose eyes—a warm, intelligent blue—always seemed to find hers across a crowded room and hold them for a fraction of a second too long.

Now, those eyes, that voice, those hands… they were going to be a part of the most intimate, vulnerable examination of her life. A hot flush crept up her neck, a mortifying combination of fear and something else, something she refused to name. Humiliation. That was the primary fear. He would see her, all of her, and the little spark of flirtatious charm she sometimes managed to muster around him would be extinguished by a clinical reality. He would see her as just another patient, a collection of anatomy. Or worse, he'd see her as his daughter's silly, nervous friend.

"Victoria?" a nurse called, her voice crisp.

Tori’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She followed the nurse down a long, white hallway, each step an act of will. The exam room was small, clean, and utterly terrifying. The crinkly paper on the exam table sounded like a firecracker in the quiet room.

"The doctor will be with you in a moment," the nurse said, handing her a folded paper gown. "Just undress from the waist down and you can use this sheet for cover."

The door clicked shut, leaving Tori in a silence that was a ringing in her ears. She changed quickly, the paper gown feeling flimsy and absurd. Perched on the edge of the exam table, the sterile paper crinkling beneath her, she pulled the sheet up to her chin like a shield. She stared at the anatomical charts on the wall, the posters of smiling mothers holding babies, anything to avoid thinking about the man who was about to walk through that door.

A soft, confident knock sounded, and before she could even form a word, the door opened.

And there he was.

Dr. Dylan McAvoy.

He wasn't in a doctor's pristine white coat, but in handsome navy scrubs that made his shoulders seem broader. His smile was just as she remembered from Chelsea's last pool party—warm, easy, and crinkling the corners of his eyes. He held her chart in one hand, but his attention was entirely on her.

"Tori," he said, his voice a low, reassuring timbre that vibrated through the sterile air. It wasn't the detached tone of a doctor; it held a familiar warmth that both soothed and electrified her. "Thanks for coming in. Chelsea told me you were feeling a bit under the weather."

He leaned against the counter, a casual posture that instantly closed the clinical distance between them. He wasn't looming. He was just… Dylan. Her heart was still pounding, a wild bird trapped in her chest, but the frantic edge of her panic began to soften under the calm sincerity in his gaze.

"Hi," she managed, her voice thin. She clutched the sheet tighter.

He gave a small, understanding nod, his eyes full of an unnerving perception. "I know this can be awkward, especially given the circumstances." He gestured vaguely, encompassing their entire shared history. "But I need you to know that in this room, my only job is to be your doctor and take care of you. Everything else stays outside that door. Can we agree on that?"

She could only nod, mesmerized by the way he was handling this. He wasn't ignoring the awkwardness; he was meeting it head-on with a gentle confidence that was disarmingly charming. He was making it easy for her, when her own mind had insisted it would be impossible. As he began to ask her questions about her symptoms, his voice remained even and professional, yet beneath it, Tori could feel that same steady warmth, a deep-seated kindness that had nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with the man himself. And in that moment, her fear of humiliation began to recede, replaced by a much more complicated and dangerous emotion.

He offered a small, reassuring smile that normally would have made her heart skip a beat. Today, it only made her cheeks burn hotter.

"Hey, Tori," he said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. He closed the door behind him and moved to the small rolling stool, his professionalism a stark contrast to the memory she had of him laughing at a barbecue just last month, flipping burgers with his daughter, Chelsea. "Chelsea told me you were feeling a bit under the weather. What's going on?"

Tori wrung her hands in her lap, her gaze fixed on the pristine linoleum floor. "It's… uh… it's probably nothing."

Dylan waited patiently, his silence more probing than any question. "Tori, you can tell me anything. There's nothing I haven't heard or seen before, I promise." He leaned forward slightly, his expression open and earnest. "Help me help you. Can you tell me where the discomfort is?"

She swallowed hard, the words getting stuck in her throat. "It's… down there," she mumbled, the phrase sounding impossibly childish.

"Okay," he said, his tone even and calm. "Down there. Can you be more specific? Is it a pain, or something else?"

"It's not pain, exactly," she whispered, finally forcing herself to look at him. The genuine concern in his eyes made her feel a fractional bit safer. "It's… an itch. A really, really annoying one." The confession tumbled out, and she felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over her.

Dylan simply nodded, his expression unchanging. "Alright. An itch. That's one of the most common reasons people come to see me. It's nothing to be ashamed of." He reached for a box of latex gloves on the counter. "I'll need to do a quick examination just to see what we're dealing with. It won't take long."

Tori was dressed in a loose paper gown, the air prickling her skin with goosebumps. The snap of Dylan's gloves sent a cold shiver up her spine, as she found herself crossing her legs to somehow defense the awaiting exam. "Okay, sweetie, just turn around for me," Tori looked up, her green orbs meeting Dylan's bright blue ones. With a hesitation -- and a hand from Dylan's hands on her hips -- Tori was lying face down against the table, her face against the crinkling paper, as the back of the gown slowly undid from Dylan's gloved hands, exposing her flushed plump bubble bottom. Tori's face flushed with humiliation as she felt Dylan's gentle touch caress her cheeks, like doughy mounds of silk. "Okay dear, I'm going to check inside now." He cooed, his tone smooth and gentle. Before Tori could respond, a thick icy touch circled her exposed rosebud. The finger leaving a small glob of lube around her circle before gently gliding inside deeply, forcing Tori's breath to hitch. "Am I hurting you?"

"N-No," Tori breathed, "I-I fine..." Dylan's finger slid in deeper, the lube coating the ring from the outside, as the jelly penetrated its way in with Dylan's finger.

He withdrew slowly, his touch lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "Okay, everything looks clear there," he murmured, his voice now a little thicker, a little closer to her ear. "Now, if you can just roll onto your back for me, I need to check vaginally. That's most likely where the issue is."

Her mind was a dizzying haze of embarrassment and a strange, unfamiliar flicker of heat. She complied numbly, rolling over to face the ceiling tiles. Dylan adjusted the gown over her stomach, but his eyes held hers for a long moment, a silent question passing between them. He parted her thighs with the same gentle authority, his gaze both clinical and intensely personal.

"Just relax," he whispered. This time, when his gloved fingers, slick with fresh lube, came toward her, they were aimed for the source of her distress. His touch was hesitant at first, tracing the sensitive folds before he slid one finger, then two, inside her. Tori gasped, her body instinctively tensing.

"Easy, sweetie," Dylan soothed, his thumb stroking her inner thigh. "Just breathe." He pushed deeper, his fingers moving with a slow, exploratory pressure that was far from purely medical. He was searching, mapping her insides, and the methodical invasion sent a tremor through her. Then, his fingers curled upward, pressing firmly against the front wall inside her.

A bolt of pure, unadulterated lightning shot through Tori's body. Her back arched off the table, a strangled cry catching in her throat. It wasn't pain. It was a pleasure so sharp, so unexpected, it was almost overwhelming.

Dylan froze, his fingers still pressed against that hidden nerve center. "Tori?" he asked, his voice a low thrum.

She could only shake her head, her eyes wide and glassy with shock and burgeoning arousal. He saw it. He saw the flush that spread from her chest to her neck, the way her lips parted on a silent gasp. The pretense of the exam shattered in that instant. With deliberate intent, he pressed again, rubbing his fingers against that spot—her weak spot—in a slow, knowing circle.

Tori whimpered, her hips lifting to meet his touch. The clinical coldness of the room melted away, replaced by an inferno building deep in her core. "Dylan…" she breathed, his name a plea.

He answered by stripping the paper gown from her body in one smooth motion, pulling it down to her waist. Her plump breasts, crowned with tight, pebbled nipples, were bared to his smoldering gaze. While his fingers continued their relentless, hypnotic rhythm inside her, his other hand moved to cup her breast. The warmth of his palm was a brand against her cool skin. He kneaded the soft flesh gently before his thumb and forefinger found her nipple, rolling it, tugging lightly.

The dual assault was too much. Her world dissolved into pure sensation. The pressure inside her built to an unbearable peak, and with a final, desperate push of his fingers, she was sent spiraling over the edge. Her body convulsed around him, a raw, muffled scream lost in the crinkling paper beneath her head as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed through her. Even as the orgasm subsided, leaving her trembling and breathless, Dylan didn’t stop. He continued to lave her nipple with his thumb, his fingers still moving slowly inside her, stoking the embers of a fire he had just ignited.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, a slick sheen coating them in the dim light. Tori's body was still humming with the aftershocks of her release, her legs weak and trembling. Her green eyes, hazed with pleasure, found his. The space between them crackled, thick with unspoken words and the undeniable truth of what had just happened. The last shred of clinical distance had been incinerated in the heat of her climax.

Dylan moved from his stool, his movements fluid and certain. He shed his white coat, letting it fall to the floor in a heap, followed by his scrubs. He stood before her, his powerful body a stark, beautiful contrast to the sterile environment. Tori’s breath hitched. A fresh wave of heat, mingled with a shy, nervous flutter, washed through her. This was wrong, so impossibly wrong, yet her body yearned for him with an ache that overshadowed all reason.

He came to the edge of the table, gently parting her knees. His gaze was a physical touch, tracing the lines of her inner thighs, coming to rest on the soft, vulnerable place between them. He could see her perfectly in the glow of the exam light—the delicate, pink folds, so exquisitely bare and open for him. The image burned itself into his mind: her utter smoothness, a testament to a private, hidden beauty he was now privy to.

"You are so beautiful, Tori-bird," he whispered, the pet name a soft, intimate caress. He positioned himself, the blunt tip of his erection pressing against her entrance, hot and demanding.

Tori gasped, her fingers digging into the crinkling paper beneath her. She was slick and ready for him, her own body betraying her timid heart.

"Just relax for me, my sweet girl," Dylan murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble that vibrated through her very core. He leaned down, brushing a kiss against her lips as he began to push inside.

The feeling was overwhelming, a slow, thick stretching that made her hips lift instinctively. He was so much larger than she could have imagined, filling her completely, stretching her to a point that teetered between pleasure and a sweet, aching pain. He paused, letting her body adjust to the magnificent intrusion, his eyes locked on hers, searching for any sign of distress. All he saw was wide-eyed wonder and burgeoning ecstasy.

"Okay?" he breathed against her cheek.

She could only manage a shaky nod. He took that as his cue, beginning to move with a deep, deliberate slowness. Each thrust was a loving possession, a careful exploration of the heat and tightness surrounding him. He pulled back until he almost left her, then surged forward again, burying himself to the hilt. A soft, helpless moan escaped Tori’s lips with every powerful stroke.

After several long, hypnotic moments, he withdrew completely. Tori whimpered at the loss, but he was already moving, his hands warm on her waist.

"Turn over for me, honey," he commanded gently. "Let me see you."

Shyly, her cheeks burning with a blush that spread down her neck and chest, she complied. He helped her onto her hands and knees, her long hair cascading over her shoulders like a silken curtain. From behind, the view of her was breathtaking. He took a moment just to look, his gaze tracing the delicate curve of her spine to the lush swell of her backside.

He entered her again from this new angle, his body flush against hers. The position was deeper, more primal. He wrapped a hand around her stomach, pulling her tight against him as he established a driving, hypnotic rhythm. His eyes were fixed on the sight before him. With every powerful thrust, he watched the rosy, plump mounds of her bottom jiggle and sway, the soft flesh moving in a hypnotic, perfect rhythm with his own. The sight was intoxicating, fanning the flames of his desire into a raging inferno. He was lost, completely and utterly consumed by the sweet, shy musician who had somehow captured him, body and soul.