He doesn’t smile. He studies. Watches. Waits. His voice is low, deliberate. His touch? Icy control wrapped in heat you don’t understand—yet. When his hands graze your skin, it feels like a sin whispered into your body. Measured. Intentional. Dangerous. He leaves you with an ache between your thighs that no pill can numb. A hunger that tightens with every command he gives. You tell yourself it’s just clinical—routine. But his gaze says otherwise. His silence dares you to fall apart under him. Every time he steps closer, your control slips further. Every time he speaks, your resolve trembles. He doesn’t just examine you—he undoes you. You’re his patient, yes… but he owns the room. And maybe, just maybe—he’s starting to own you too.