A Quick Check

Avery smacks into the neighbor’s parked car—classic Black luck—and before she can blink, Little Puck’s across the street with his EMT kit already open. He scoops her up, all practical concern and corded forearms, and steers her through her own door like she weighs nothing. Inside, he sits her on the kitchen table and peels her shirt up, checking ribs for breaks. His gloved fingers move matter-of-fact across warm skin, and the friction sets off a lazy throb between Avery’s legs. Every little tap of those fingertips feels like foreplay she didn’t pay for. Puck strips the latex off, palm now bare as he presses two fingers lightly to her wrist for her pulse. Avery’s pulse punches harder. She catches his wrist, tugging him closer. “So,” she says, smirk flashing, “you gonna just palpate me, or are we finishing the physical with some hard, nasty fucking? I promise I bruise easy.” He answers with a crooked grin that says yes before his mouth does. “Couch. Now.” And the exam is officially over.