Doctor's Heartfelt House Call

Kelsey Kane sits up against the headboard when she hears the front door click. Her friend Little Puck—doctor bag in one hand, stethoscope draped around her neck—steps in with a brisk nod. "How are you feeling now?" she asks, already rolling up her sleeves. Kelsey's pulse kicks harder, though she only murmurs she feels better. Puck peels back the sheets, cool fingers at Kelsey’s wrist. She presses, counts, listens for any hitch in breath. The cotton of Kelsey’s thin top lifts beneath Puck’s touch; skin meets stethoscope, metal disk sliding from sternum to left breast. Each slow sweep makes the satin rub against Kelsey’s nipple. Heat prickles beneath it. The room smells of antiseptic and faint citrus. Puck’s eyes stay on the second hand of her watch, counting heartbeats, while Kelsey’s thighs shift, damp warmth settling between them. Puck moves lower, fingertips dragging beneath the waistband of cotton shorts, checking glands, checking muscle tone, sliding just beneath the swell of ass before retreating. Kelsey bites her lip. "Sit forward." Puck fits the earpieces, presses the diaphragm above Kelsey’s heart. Thump, thump, thump—furious, relentless. Puck frowns, listening again. She taps two fingers, counts thirty seconds, and the beat refuses to slow. "Extraordinary rhythm. Any pain? Shortness of breath?" Her tone is clinical, but Kelsey’s cheeks burn. Kelsey blurts, "It’s because you’re touching me." The words hang. Puck’s stethoscope dips. Silence. Then a breathless laugh from Kelsey, half apology. "Sorry. I’ve always had… a thing for you. Never said. Figured it’d wreck everything." Puck straightens. The stethoscope clinks against her collarbone. She studies Kelsey, thumb brushing the flushed hollow of her throat. "I kept quiet because I didn’t think you’d want me back." A grin cracks across her face. "Turns out we’re both idiots." The kiss lands open-mouthed, hot. Puck slides onto the mattress, knees pinning Kelsey’s hips. Hands tug at cotton; fabric slips, skin meets skin, sweat catches between breasts and bellies. Puck sucks the throb of pulse from Kelsey’s neck, teeth grazing tendon, while Kelsey’s palms skim the doctor’s ribs, nails biting just shy of marks. Her hips rise to meet fingers that push past soaked cotton, stroke through wet folds, dip inside with one smooth press. Clothes drop to the floor. Puck’s scrub top lands beside the forgotten stethoscope; her small breasts press flushed to Kelsey’s fuller ones. She grinds down, slick heat sliding against slick heat, clit grazing clit on every forward roll. Kelsey gasps, thighs trembling, heels digging into the sheets for purchase. Puck drives two fingers in deeper, palm slapping wet against swollen lips, thumb nudging the tight bundle of nerves above. Wet sounds fill the room—slick, obscene, constant. When Puck curls her wrist, Kelsey comes with a sharp cry, walls pulsing around those fingers, slick coating Puck’s knuckles. Puck kisses her through the aftershocks, hips still working, until Kelsey slips trembling fingers between her folds and returns the favor. Two hands moving at once, they grind, moan, finish again with foreheads touching, mouths open against each other’s. The discarded stethoscope rocks gently on the mattress as the women catch their breath, skin cooling in the dim light.