Three days later I stood on the front porch of my mother’s house with a bottle of wine in one hand and the ghost of Dr. Lucian Voss’s fingers still buried inside my head.
I had replayed the exam more times than I wanted to admit. The way he’d spread me open under that bright light. The calm, clinical voice telling me he needed to evaluate my orgasmic response. The ruthless precision of his thumb on my c**t while he stretched me with three fingers. I’d come home that afternoon, locked my bedroom door, and made myself come twice more just from the memory. Then I’d told myself it was done. A one-time professional boundary-blurring. Nothing more.
My mother opened the door before I could knock, all bright lipstick and newly dyed hair and the kind of glow that only came from getting thoroughly
