It was the last hour of the day and I was kept busy through the remaining appointments. Gradually, the noise from the waiting room outside died away – the nervous coughing; the shifting around on seats that were never meant to be the height of comfort; the occasional involuntary moan.

My boss had gone for the day, but I offered to clear up the room for him. The equipment just needed a wipe down with the sterilising wipes, some patient records to be re-filed, a swift brush over the floor - then I was free to lock up and go home.

I was washing around the sides of sink when I felt the prickle at the back of my neck. When I turned around, I knew who I’d see.

He filled the doorway. He leant casually with one hand against the frame, the muscles bunching on his upper arm. It was a hot day and many people had left off their jackets, but I didn’t remember him wearing one in the first place, just a white cotton vest. In the waiting room, his bare, tanned shoulders had been a visual oasis in the middle of striped dress shirts and pale pink dresses – his skin, glinting with sweat under the fluorescent lights. I could see now the vest was creased around his waist but tight where it counted - right across his pecs. They were muscled, and hard: they strained the fabric across his chest. His nipples were tight button buds under the white jersey. I imagined that my fists could hammer on those muscles all day and never get an answer.

Except the one he wanted to give.

I cleared my throat. I resisted the urge to ogle up at him, but he was a good six inches taller. “If you need to make another appointment, the girls can book you in tomorrow morning. We’re closed now.”

He didn’t even seem to be listening. His eyes were dark, set into a wide face and around a nose that had probably seen a fair share of action outside any boxing ring. His mouth was wide and looked greedy and it was…

Grinning.

“You wear that thing for a joke or something?” His voice was slightly hoarse, maybe from too much smoking, maybe from the dry air in the surgery. Certainly not from nervousness. His eyes raked up and back down my chest. Maybe they rested for a second longer than necessary at my crotch. I was glad the hem of my overall reached down to my hips.

I was suddenly, instantly hard. I felt my palms clench into a fist, then open out wide as if surrendering.

I bit back the whimper that begged to be released.

“It’s my uniform,” I said. It was a white polyester tunic, short sleeved, zipped down the front. Okay, so it was never going to be on the cover of GQ as this season’s must have, but it served its purpose. “It’s what I wear at work.” My voice sounded barely more than a whisper. The white, sterile walls of the room took its echo and swallowed it dead.

He shrugged, his whole upper body tensing then relaxing with the movement. The vest rode up on his body, exposing a small band of a belly that looked just as tanned and just as taut. His free hand came around to hug at the front of his jeans. He wore them fairly loose around the hips, though maybe that was less to do with fashion than to give enough comfort for thighs that looked strong enough to crush my hand if I dared to slide it in between them. I imagined sliding on warm sweat up towards his crotch, my fingers tangling in the hairs of his groin, the skin of my palm stretching wide to consider the impossibility of reaching around the thick cock I knew was swelling up there…

“You can keep it on,” he said, his voice breaking into a dream that was making me sweat - very, very sweetly.

“Huh?”

He took a step inside the room. His eyes flickered over the couch in the middle of the floor, currently set upright in its usual seating position. “Keep the dress thing on when I fuck you. If that turns you on. Gets you hard.”

What the fuck?