🔥 The Annual Checkup 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Nurse’s Niece

Thank You for Reading! 💜

You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the pulse checks, the locked office doors, the glove snaps, the guest room tears, the kitchen floor anatomy lessons, the stethoscope heartbeat exchange, and a woman who spent forty-one years being the nurse only to discover she needed a patient of her own. Thank you for giving Nadia and Casey’s story a chance. This exclusive chapter is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

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⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit FF sexual content including full role reversal, medical kink (stethoscope, blood pressure cuff used as wrist restraint, nitrile gloves, thermometer, penlight), praise kink, D/s dynamics, orgasm delay, possessive language, multiple orgasms, and emotional intimacy. This scene was too explicit for retailer publication. Reader discretion advised. Intended for adults 18+ only.

✨ BONUS CHAPTER: The Annual Checkup ✨

A Nurse’s Niece Exclusive — Set one year after the epilogue.

Casey

I planned it for three weeks.

Nadia was the planner in this marriage — the woman who laid out instruments on desks with surgical precision, who set the lighting and the music and the terms before I’d even crossed the threshold. She was the architect. The choreographer. The attending physician who ran every encounter with the calm authority of a woman who’d spent twenty years managing chaos.

Tonight was my rotation.

I came home from my clinical shift at St. Catherine’s at six — still in my fitted navy scrubs, my own stethoscope around my neck, the one with the engraved bell that said For my best patient. —N. I’d worn it through twelve hours of rounds, and every time the metal swung against my chest, I thought about tonight. About what I’d set up in the office before I left this morning. About the look on her face when she walked in.

Nadia was in the kitchen. Reading glasses on, journal article spread across the counter, a glass of wine at her elbow. She looked up when I came through the door — the sweep, head to toe, the assessment she couldn’t turn off and I never wanted her to. Her gaze lingered on my scrubs, the stethoscope, the way the navy fit me now that I’d grown into my clinical body.

“Dr. Lopez,” she said. Low. The voice that made rooms smaller. “How was the rotation?”

“Informative. I learned several new techniques I’d like to practice.” I set my bag down. Didn’t take my scrubs off. Didn’t remove the stethoscope. “I need a patient.”

Something shifted behind her glasses. The reading-at-the-counter Nadia dissolved, and what remained was the woman underneath — alert, curious, the first tremor of arousal darkening her eyes.

“The office,” I said. “Now.”

She set down her wine glass. Stood. Followed me down the hallway without argument, because that was the deal we’d made — we took turns, and when it was my turn, she surrendered the way I surrendered for her. Completely. No clinical distance. No managing the situation.

I opened the office door.

I’d prepared the room that morning before my shift. The reading chair reclined flat, covered with a fresh towel. The desk lamp on its warmest setting. The piano playlist. And on the desk, arranged with the same meticulous precision she’d taught me: nitrile gloves in her size. A blood pressure cuff. A digital thermometer. A penlight. And a clipboard with a single sheet of paper that read:

PATIENT: Nadia Patel-Lopez
PROVIDER: Dr. C. Lopez
PROCEDURE: Annual Physical — Comprehensive
NOTES: Patient has history of emotional avoidance, clinical detachment, and reluctance to be examined. Provider recommends thorough assessment with extended hands-on evaluation.

Nadia read the clipboard. Her throat moved — a swallow, visible, the kind of involuntary response she’d have cataloged in me as “significant arousal indicator.” Her gaze lifted to mine.

“Annual physical,” she said.

“You’re overdue.” I took the clipboard from her. Set it on the desk. “Clothes off. On the chair.”

“Casey—”

“Dr. Lopez.” I held her gaze. Steady. Certain. The gaze she’d taught me — the one that said I’m in charge and you’re going to let me be. “Clothes off. Chair. Now.”

The sound she made was quiet and involuntary and I felt it in my spine. She undressed — slowly, deliberately, watching my face for reactions the way I watched hers. The silk cami over her head. The linen pants sliding down. She stood in front of me in nothing but her underwear, and I looked at her — the body I’d been mapping for a year, the compact athletic frame, the scar on her thumb, the shoulders that held everyone else up and rarely let anyone hold them.

“Everything,” I said.

She removed the last piece. Stood bare. Forty-two now — the birthday had been last month, celebrated with cake and Simone’s mandatory no-details toast — and more beautiful than the day I’d arrived on her porch with shaking hands. The confidence of a woman who’d learned to be seen. The vulnerability of a woman who still found it terrifying.

“Chair,” I said. Softly this time. Because I could read her, the way she read me, and what I saw was a woman who wanted this and needed the gentleness of being told.

She lay back on the chair. Naked on the leather, the towel soft under her skin, the amber light painting her in gold. I stood over her — fully clothed, scrubs and stethoscope and clinical authority — and the power differential was absolute and consensual and exactly the reversal we’d been building toward since the first night she’d laid me on this chair and changed my life.

I snapped the gloves on. One. Two. The sound cracked through the office. Nadia’s breath caught — the same catch, every time, a Pavlovian response to a sound I’d learned to wield like an instrument.

“Let’s begin,” I said.

I started with the penlight. Shone it in her eyes — left, then right — watching the pupils constrict and dilate. “Reactive,” I murmured. Clipped the light to my pocket. Then I took the BP cuff from the desk.

But I didn’t put it on her arm.

I took her right wrist. Pressed her hand above her head against the chair. Wrapped the BP cuff around her wrist — snug, tight, the Velcro sealing with a rasp that made her eyes widen. Then I inflated it. Not to diagnostic pressure — just enough to constrict. Enough that the cuff gripped her wrist like a hand, pinning it to the chair’s headrest.

“Casey—”

“Dr. Lopez. And that’s a restraint, not a reading.” I took her left wrist. Pressed it beside the right. Held both in one hand while I tightened the cuff to encompass both wrists. The inflation bulb dangled. Her hands were pinned above her head, bound by a blood pressure cuff, and the look on her face — the shock, the arousal, the delicious loss of control — was worth every minute of the three weeks I’d spent planning this.

“If you want to stop,” I said, “you say discharge. Same as always.”

“I don’t want to stop.” Her voice was already rough. Her wrists flexed against the cuff — testing, not resisting. Feeling the constriction. Surrendering to it.

“Good girl.” I watched the words hit her. Watched her eyes close and her lips part and her whole body soften into the leather. A year of hearing me say it and the response hadn’t dimmed. “Now. The examination.”

I placed the stethoscope in my ears. Warmed the bell in my gloved palm — the gesture she’d taught me, the instinct to protect — and pressed it to her chest.

Her heart was already racing. A hundred and ten, maybe higher. I listened — the lub-dub, the systolic surge, the rhythm of a woman who was pinned to a chair by her own blood pressure cuff while her wife stood over her in scrubs and gloves and the same expression of clinical authority that Nadia had invented and I had perfected.

“Significant tachycardia,” I said. I moved the bell — over her left breast, the nipple hardening against the cold metal, her breath hitching. “Heart rate approximately one-fifteen. I’ll need to investigate the cause.”

I traced the stethoscope down her body. Between her breasts. Over her stomach. Each placement clinical in execution, devastating in intent. She arched into the contact — small, restrained motions, her bound wrists limiting her range, and the limitation was its own pleasure. She couldn’t reach for me. Couldn’t direct. Couldn’t control.

She could only take what I gave her.

“Thermometer,” I said. Picked it up. “Open.”

She opened her mouth. I slid the probe under her tongue and held her chin — gloved thumb against her lower lip, the same placement she’d used on me a hundred times. I held her gaze while the readout climbed. Her eyes were black. Blown wide. The pupils eclipsing the brown until all I could see was want.

Beep. “Ninety-nine point four. Elevated.” I set the thermometer aside. “The patient is running hot. I’ll need to perform a focused assessment.”

My gloved hand traced down her neck. Her collarbone. The swell of her breast — I cupped it, rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger the way she’d taught me she liked, and her head fell back and the sound she made was the sound. My sound. The one she only made for me.

I kissed her. With the gloves still on, with the stethoscope swinging between us, with her wrists bound above her head. I kissed her deep and thorough and proprietary, and she opened for me instantly, and the taste of her — wine and want and the particular heat of a woman in full surrender — was a taste I’d been addicted to for a year and would be addicted to forever.

I kissed down her body. Named the landmarks the way she’d taught me on the kitchen floor a lifetime ago. “Sternocleidomastoid. Clavicle. Sternum.” Each word placed against her skin with my lips. “Intercostal space. Rectus abdominis. Linea alba.” Lower. Lower. Her hips were rocking — small, desperate, restrained by the bound wrists that kept her from grabbing my head and directing me where she wanted me.

“Please,” she whispered. Nadia Patel, who commanded trauma bays and never begged, begging. For me. “Casey — Dr. Lopez — please.“

“The patient will receive treatment when the provider determines the appropriate timing.” I pressed a kiss to her hip bone. “Patience is a clinical virtue.”

“I taught you that line.”

“You taught me everything. Including this.”

I put my mouth on her.

Slow. The way she’d gone slow on me in the guest room the night she cried — not building toward a destination, but dwelling in the terrain. My tongue flat against her, tasting, mapping. She was soaked — had been since the clipboard, probably since I’d walked through the door in my scrubs — and the taste of her arousal was sharp and sweet and I would never, for the rest of my clinical career, use the word “assessment” without thinking of this.

I circled her clit. Slow circles that matched the rhythm of the piano playing from the speaker — sixty-eight beats per minute, the tempo I’d programmed deliberately, the tempo that matched her resting heart rate. I was going to make her come at the speed of her own pulse. The symmetry was poetic. The execution was clinical.

She was a disaster above me. Pulling at the cuff restraint, her arms flexing, the Velcro holding. Her hips rocking against my mouth with increasing urgency. The sounds coming from her throat were unmanaged — gasps and moans and fragments of my name and a broken, repeated “please” that I filed away as the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

I slid two fingers inside her. Gloved. The nitrile smooth and slick, and the feeling of her clenching around my fingers — hot and tight and rhythmic — sent a bolt of arousal through my own body that I managed with the discipline she’d spent a year teaching me.

“Good girl,” I murmured against her. “You’re doing so well. Perfect vitals. Beautiful response.” Her words. Given back. The clinical praise that had started everything — good girl holds still, good girl breathes, that’s my good girl — now flowing in the opposite direction, from student to teacher, from patient to nurse, from the woman who’d been taught to the woman who’d taught her.

She came undone.

The orgasm tore through her with a force that arched her spine off the leather and tore a cry from her throat that rattled the bookshelves. I held her through it — fingers working, tongue gentling, my free hand flat on her stomach feeling every contraction, every wave, every aftershock as her body pulsed around me.

I didn’t stop.

“Casey — I can’t — it’s too—”

“You can.” I pressed harder. Curled my fingers. Found the spot that made her vision white out and held it. “You told me once that I was your best patient. That I could take whatever you gave me. Now it’s your turn. Take it.”

The second orgasm was different — slower, deeper, building from the aftershocks of the first like a wave building from the wake of the one before it. She made a sound I’d never drawn from her — low, guttural, from a place below language — and her whole body went rigid and then boneless and then she was shaking, really shaking, and I withdrew gently and climbed onto the chair and gathered her against me.

I reached up and released the BP cuff. Velcro rasping. Her wrists were red — indented from the pressure, the same marks she’d left on my arm a dozen times. I kissed each one. Rubbed the circulation back. She flexed her fingers and then her hands were in my hair, pulling me down, kissing me with the desperate gratitude of a woman who’d been taken apart and needed to confirm that the person who’d done it was still there.

“Your turn,” she murmured against my mouth. “Give me the stethoscope.”

I pulled it from around my neck. She took it. Put the earpieces in — still lying beneath me, bare and flushed and wrecked — and pressed the bell to my chest, over my scrub top, over my heart.

She listened. Counted. Her lips moving the way they always did.

“A hundred and twenty-two,” she said. “Significantly elevated. I prescribe immediate treatment.”

Her hands went to my scrub top. Pulled it over my head. My bra followed. She sat up on the chair — we rearranged, the familiar negotiation of two bodies in a space built for one — and I was straddling her lap, bare from the waist up, and her mouth was on my breast and her hand was sliding into my scrub pants and—

Her fingers found me. No gloves now — skin on skin, her bare fingers slipping through the wet heat of me. Her thumb on my clit. Two fingers inside, curling, pressing. She knew my body the way she knew the periodic table — every element mapped, every reaction predicted, every compound she could create with the right combination of pressure and timing.

“Good girl,” she whispered against my breast. “My doctor. My wife. My good, brilliant, devastating girl.”

I came on her hand, on her lap, in the office where everything had started. The orgasm rolled through me in the slow, deep waves I’d come to associate with her touch — not sharp, not electric, but tidal. Oceanic. The kind that started in the core and radiated outward until every cell was singing.

She held me through it. The way she always held me. Steady. Sure. Her heartbeat against my ear — descending now, coming down, finding its way back to the number I’d memorized on a kitchen stool a lifetime ago.

Sixty-eight.

Home.

We lay tangled on the chair in the amber light. The stethoscope between us on the leather, warm from both our bodies. The BP cuff on the floor. The gloves in the wastebasket. The clipboard on the desk, the patient chart that read Nadia Patel-Lopez — the hyphenated name she’d taken when we married, the name that meant she was mine and I was hers and the taking-of-names was its own kind of clinical claim.

“Dr. Lopez,” she said. Into my hair. Barely a whisper.

“Nurse Patel.”

“Same time next year?”

I pressed my lips to her chest. Over her heart. Sixty-eight beats per minute, steady and strong and mine.

“Same time next year,” I confirmed. “It’s in the chart.”

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