Every breath, every hesitation, every tremor in June’s hands got cataloged in high-definition perpetuity.
If she aborted the inspection now—mid-procedure, with Ross standing naked, fully erect, and clearly aroused—she’d be handing her detractors the exact ammunition they’d been waiting for.
The whispers would start before the shift even ended: June cracked under pressure. June couldn’t handle a routine physical. June lost her nerve in front of a new guy.
Credibility wasn’t just important here; it was everything.
So she stayed.
Her mouth was dry.
Her pulse thundered in her ears so loudly she barely heard the soft hiss of the ventilation system overhead.
She lifted her eyes—just long enough to et Ross’s gaze.
He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken.
But the way he watched her... it was calm, patient, almost gentle in its intensity. No mockery.
No gloating. Just that steady, unblinking focus that said he saw every crack in her armor and wasn’t judging.
He was simply waiting.
It made the heat in her belly twist tighter.
She exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled.
Then she reached.
Her right hand closed around the base of his cock.
Fifteen inches.
The reality of it slamd into her harder than the number itself.
Her gloved fingers couldn’t et all the way around; there was a gap, a deliberate space between thumb and forefinger even at the thickest part.
He was fever-hot, the shaft rigid and pulsing under the thin nitrile like it had its own heartbeat.
A single, fat vein ran along the top, standing out in stark relief, and when she gave the slightest experintal squeeze, it jumped against her palm—alive, demanding.
A fresh bead of pre-cum welled at the slit, slow and glossy, sliding down the flared ridge of the head in a thin, shining trail.
She watched it happen, srized, feeling her own core clench in helpless echo.
She didn’t stroke. Not yet.
She simply held him—testing the impossible weight, the impossible girth, the impossible reality of having him in her hand.
The skin was velvet stretched over steel, so hot it almost burned through the glove.
She could feel every subtle throb, every minute twitch, as though his body was answering questions she hadn’t dared ask aloud.
Only then did her left hand move.
She cradled his balls—full, heavy, drawn up tight in the chill of the inspection room.
They filled her palm completely, warm and slightly textured with fine, dark hair.
She rolled them gently at first, feeling their weight shift, then tightened her grip—firm, deliberate, clinical in theory but anything but in practice.
She squeezed with slow, searching pressure, as though checking for hidden objects, for irregularities, for anything that would justify lingering.
Ross sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
The sound was quiet, almost swallowed, but it arrowed straight through her.
She told herself it was procedure.
She told herself she was being ticulous.
She was lying with every ragged heartbeat.
From there she worked thodically downward, forcing her hands to behave like instrunts of inspection instead of weapons of torture—against herself.
Inner thighs first: the skin there was softer, warr, dusted with hair that rasped faintly against her gloves.
She traced the long muscles, feeling them flex and release under her touch.
Behind the knees—sensitive hollows that made his legs twitch involuntarily. Calves thick and corded.
Ankles. Arches of his feet. Between his toes.
Up the backs of his thighs again, slower this ti, thumbs dragging along the crease where leg t ass.
She mapped every inch.
Every scar. Every freckle. Every place where his skin flushed hotter than the rest.
By the ti her hands returned to his hips, her arms were trembling—not from exertion, but from the sheer effort of not sliding her fingers back up, not wrapping both hands around that monstrous length and stroking until he spilled over her gloves.
She rose slowly, deliberately.
Her face was level with his sternum now.
Close enough to feel the radiant heat pouring off him in waves.
Close enough to sll him again—that maddening cedar-salt-musk cocktail now sharpened with raw, animal arousal.
She stepped back.
One asured pace.
Then another.
The empty air between them felt colder than it should.
She peeled the gloves off with shaking fingers—slowly, one at a ti—and dropped them into the biohazard bin.
The soft thump sounded obscenely loud in the silence.
"Inspection complete," she said.
Her voice ca out rough, frayed at the edges.
She didn’t look at his face. Didn’t look at the thick, glistening erection still standing proud between them. Didn’t dare.
She turned.
She crossed the room on legs that felt like glass.
She punched her code into the keypad—fingers numb, twice fumbling the last digit.
The lock disengaged with a tallic sound that sounded like rcy.
The door hissed open.
She stepped through.
Only when it sealed shut behind her—only when the corridor swallowed her and the caras were finally, montarily, out of sight—did she allow herself to lean against the wall and breathe.
A huge, shuddering exhale.
Relief flooded her first—sharp, dizzying.
But beneath it, darker and hungrier, sothing else uncoiled.
Because she had touched him.
She had held fifteen impossible inches in her hand.
She had felt him pulse, felt him leak, felt him react.
And now the mory wasn’t just burned into her mind.
It was carved into her bones.
She knew—with a certainty that terrified and thrilled her in equal asure—that the next ti the caras rolled, touching might not be enough.
Not even close. June’s day refused to end quietly.
The rest of her shift passed in a haze of practiced motions—signatures on forms, clipped radio check-ins, the sound of shuffling papers being read left and right and the constant updates of news and more.
She moved through it all like soone underwater, every action deliberate and slow, as though speed might crack the fragile shell she’d built around the mory.
But the mory had teeth.
It bit her again and again, always in the sa place: that single, searing second when she’d been eye-level with Ross’s cock.
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