Anya's composure shattered like glass under a hammer. She stood there for one last trembling second—glasses askew, blouse hanging open, hand still buried between her thighs—then let out a broken, "Shit… that's why… I didn't want any male patients… I knew this would happen…" The words came out half sob, half confession, her voice cracking on the last syllable as the last thread of her professionalism snapped.
She didn't walk so much as stumble forward, shedding clothes like they burned her skin. The white coat hit the floor first in a crumpled heap.
Then the blouse—buttons popping free as she yanked it over her head. Her bra followed, black lace flung aside without ceremony, revealing small, firm breasts capped with dark, painfully erect nipples that jutted forward like they were begging for attention.
