Doctor's Orders

by Deanna Ashford

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Also by Deanna Ashford

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Helen Dawson is a dedicated doctor who has taken a short-term assignment at an exclusive private hospital that caters for every need of its rich and famous clients. The matron, Sandra Pope, ensures this includes their most curious sexual fantasies. When Helen forms a risky affair with a famous actor, she is drawn deeper into the hedonistic lifestyle of the clinic. But will she risk her won privileges when she uncovers the dubious activities of Sandra and her team?

  This story of naughty nurses getting busy behind the screens will set temperatures soaring!

  About the Author

  Deanna Ashford is the pseudonym of an author of historical, romantic and erotic fiction.

  She is the author of Barbarian Prize, Doctor’s Orders, Templar Prize and Wild Kingdom, all available from Black Lace.

  By the same author:

  Savage Surrender

  Wild Kingdom

  Doctor’s Orders

  Deanna Ashford

  ‘I’ve always had a thing about lady doctors,’ said Duncan.

  ‘Have you?’ said Helen, with a wry smile on her face. ‘So you like to see women in positions of authority?’

  ‘They fascinate me,’ he confessed.

  ‘And would you like to be dominated, Duncan?’ As his expression told her all she needed to know, Helen realised she was playing with fire. He was her patient, and he was supposed to be recovering.

  Chapter One

  DR HELEN DAWSON was the friendliest and most even-tempered senior registrar at St Matthew’s Hospital – a crumbling NHS edifice situated in a run down area of London, close to the Docklands development. It was most unusual to see her in a bad mood, and the two nurses, gossiping outside the entrance to Laburnum ward, looked up in amazement as Dr Dawson strode past them, her full lips set in a tight angry line.

  Helen Dawson was far too involved in her own problems to even notice the surprised glances from the various members of staff she passed as she marched determinedly up the stairs to the second floor. One of Helen’s decisions regarding a patient’s treatment had been overruled by Professor Max Fenton, the senior consultant in charge of her department. It wasn’t the first time Max Fenton had done this to her, and she intended to get this matter sorted out once and for all.

  Max Fenton’s office was in the west wing, located in the Byron Suite, the private part of the hospital. Soon the scuffed linoleum floors and peeling cream paint disappeared, to be replaced by thick grey carpet, pink wallpaper and soft lighting. Helen usually noticed the difference, frustrated by the constant lack of adequate funding in the NHS, but today she wasn’t conscious of the change in her surroundings as she strode past the office of Professor Fenton’s secretary, Ella Carter.

  ‘You can’t go in, Dr Dawson,’ Ella said agitatedly. ‘He left orders not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Damn his orders,’ Helen muttered under her breath as she ignored Ella and strode into her boss’s office.

  Max was seated behind his large mahogany desk, sifting through a pile of papers. The morning sunlight streamed through the window just behind him, and his steel grey hair looked almost white in the bright light. Max had only recently returned from a medical conference in Southern California and the deep tan he’d acquired made his eyes appear even more startlingly blue.

  ‘Dr Dawson?’ Max Fenton said coldly. ‘Just what do you think you are doing, barging in here like this?’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Helen replied, trying to contain her fury. She knew that Max wouldn’t appreciate an unseemly outburst. Sometimes, Helen thought, Max was just too damn controlled. ‘I have to speak to you right now.’

  ‘What’s so important that it can’t wait a few hours?’ Max enquired, removing his steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘I told Ella that I wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances. I’ve a lot of work to do and I’m due at the TV studios by one at the latest.’

  As well as carrying out all his medical duties, Max Fenton was a regular presenter on a high-profile medical programme that dealt with all aspects of women’s health. His good looks and charm, coupled with his medical expertise, had gained him a legion of female fans. Because of this his private practice had increased to almost unmanageable proportions. Nevertheless, Helen didn’t begrudge Max his success; he still remained true to his origins, often working long hours to see as many NHS patients as possible.

  ‘You overruled my decision and refused treatment to Laura Marchant,’ Helen challenged.

  ‘I did,’ Max Fenton confirmed. ‘I happen to think that cosmetic surgery won’t solve Laura Marchant’s problems. She’d be better off if we referred her to the psychiatric department. We can only treat the most needy on the NHS and you know how limited we are by this year’s budget. If she is really desperate to have the surgery she can find the money to pay for private treatment.’

  ‘That’s a pretty hard-nosed attitude,’ Helen retorted. ‘Frankly, I don’t agree with your diagnosis. She’s my patient and Laura doesn’t need a psychiatrist, she just needs the surgery. Her financial circumstances would never allow her to find enough to go private. I want you to reconsider, Max.’ Laura had aroused a sympathy in Helen that totally outweighed logical medical considerations.

  ‘Helen, you’re a brilliant doctor, but you’ve still a lot to learn. You should never allow emotion to take precedence over your medical judgement,’ Max said, leaning back in his chair and subjecting her to a penetrating stare.

  Helen’s skin prickled under his gaze. Max was just too attractive for her peace of mind and she fancied him like crazy, but she wouldn’t let that get to her. She was determined not to let him sidetrack her in any way. She would keep her mind focused on the matter in hand. ‘In our line of work I think that sometimes we have to do just that,’ she countered defiantly.

  ‘You’re too self-opinionated at times.’ Max looked her up and down with a slow sensual precision that, despite all Helen’s outward control, made her heart beat faster.

  Someone had once told her that in order to retain command of a situation like this, one should try to imagine the other person clad only in his underwear. However, the thought of Max dressed only in a brief white pair of Calvin Klein’s served to have the opposite effect and unsettled her even more. He was tall and slim with the muscular physique of a swimmer or long distance runner. Visions of his long limbs, tanned a deep golden brown, with only a sliver of white cotton covering his bulging crotch, crowded into her mind. Helen swallowed, her mouth going suddenly dry as she was overcome by a multitude of obscene thoughts.

  She tried to concentrate on her patient’s problem. But it became even more difficult to focus her attentions when Max smiled at her and said in a soft, mesmerising tone, ‘I think we should continue this discussion undisturbed, don’t you, Helen?’

  Max walked over to the door, and turned the key in the lock, while Helen watched him in silence, feeling aroused, yet also apprehensive. Max generated a multitude of conflicting emotions inside her whenever they were together. She was attracted to powerful men. They acted like an aphrodisiac on her senses, and she found a perverse pleasure in being controlled by them. Max had somehow sensed that when she had come to work for him, and he often took advantage of that fact.

 
Today was clearly no exception, she thought, as he moved to stand in front of her. The thin white cotton of his shirt clung to the firm contours of his chest and slim waist. She glanced downwards, seeing the proud shape of his cock half-concealed by the soft pleats of his grey trousers. She suppressed a shiver of desire, wanting to fling herself into his arms and beg him to fuck her. Max was the dominant partner in all aspects of their private and professional relationships, but for once she was determined to fight the hold he had over her, and insist on having her own way. ‘My decision to treat Laura Marchant should stand. You gave me full control over the clinic, didn’t you, Max? What gives you the right to countermand my decisions when it suits you?’

  ‘You’re so arousing when you’re feisty, Helen.’ Max chuckled. ‘Perhaps I should countermand your decisions more often.’

  He leaned towards her and his warm masculine odour, a heady mixture of pheromones and expensive cologne, filled her nostrils. Helen’s nipples grew taut against the thin cotton of her dress, and the heat between her thighs increased, her panties dampening, the moist gusset stretching tightly against her swollen pussy lips. ‘This is serious, Max,’ she said curtly, anger and arousal sending a rush of colour to her pale cheeks.

  ‘Even if I did agree to operate on Laura Marchant the results we could achieve would be minimal. She’s not going to turn into a raving beauty overnight,’ he said, with a trace of cynicism. ‘Reading your reports, I’m certain that her problems run far deeper than just her physical appearance. In the circumstances, don’t you think our limited resources would be more efficiently employed elsewhere?’

  ‘I don’t think we should always consider cost,’ Helen argued. ‘If we did that, most medical advances would never be made.’

  ‘In some instances you may be right, Helen. However, on the subject of Laura Marchant, I’ve yet to be convinced.’ Max glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes. Go ahead, find a way to persuade me to change my mind.’ He sat back against his desk, looking at her expectantly, his gaze focusing pointedly on the upper swell of her breasts, which were revealed by the low scoop neckline of her brief cotton dress.

  The room was deathly quiet, a cocoon of luxury protecting them from the noise of the busy hospital. For a moment Helen faltered – Max was playing games – and she knew exactly what he expected her to do next. Fighting her need for him, she shook her head. ‘No, Max, not this time . . .’ she murmured.

  ‘I’m not making you do anything you don’t want to do, Helen, you know that,’ he purred. ‘Go ahead, offer me any number of credible reasons why we should operate on Laura Marchant.’ He paused. ‘However, to quote an old adage, don’t actions always speak louder than words?’

  Helen looked at his hands resting on the desk. They were slim, with long graceful fingers. Beautiful hands that were capable of carrying out the most intricate miracles of surgery, yet also able to take her to the very peak of pleasure. She couldn’t deny that she wanted him touching her right now. Her knees felt weak as she let her imagination run riot. ‘You’re a bastard, Max.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have me any other way.’ Ice-blue eyes challenged hers.

  ‘Damn you,’ she muttered, not giving herself time to think of the consequences as she shrugged off her white coat. She pulled impatiently at the buttons running down the front of her short cotton dress. Her fingers, usually so agile and precise in their movements, fumbled awkwardly with the tiny fastenings. The front of her dress parted to reveal full breasts, slightly over-generous for her slim frame, then her narrow waist and the faintly rounded curve of her belly. Underneath Helen wore only a pair of brief, white lace panties that barely covered the tangle of pale blonde curls at her groin. ‘Is that convincing enough?’ she challenged.

  Max remained silent, his cool gaze seeming to caress every inch of her exposed flesh, and she shivered, feeling goosepimples form on her skin. Helen hated herself, hated the pleasure she found in such submissive behaviour, but at this moment in time all she wanted was Max. Her body ached with longing as Max stepped forwards and gently cupped her left breast in his hand.

  ‘Very,’ he murmured, pinching her nipple. Helen gave a soft moan as he pulled at both her teats until they grew into fat pink cones. ‘What would your male patients think,’ Max added in a throaty tone, ‘if they knew how little you were wearing under that white coat.’ Hooking his fingers under the lacy sides of her panties, he pulled Helen close. ‘Perhaps you should be assigned to the male impotence clinic?’

  ‘That’s not a very professional comment,’ Helen countered, all too conscious of the blatant boldness of Max’s erection which pressed enticingly into her stomach.

  ‘I dropped all pretence of professionalism the moment you chose to invade my office, Dr Dawson,’ Max said. ‘Now all I want to do is fuck you until you beg for mercy.’

  He spun Helen round, forcing her back against the desk, caging her with his arms. The rolled wooden edge of the desk dug into her thighs, just below the curves of her buttocks. Max picked up a small silver paper knife and sawed through the lacy strip that held her panties together. As the lace fell away to reveal the full beauty of the pale-gold curls guarding her sex, Max gave a ragged groan. Jerking Helen close, he held her, grinding his engorged penis sensuously against her stomach.

  ‘Why do I always end up giving in to you,’ Helen said breathlessly as Max bit hungrily at her full breasts, flicking his tongue over the hard points of her nipples. A delicious coil of lust uncurled in the pit of her belly, and her quim grew even wetter as Max pushed his tongue into her mouth, voraciously exploring the moist interior.

  ‘Because you enjoy it.’ Max caressed her back, his fingers tracing the line of her spine and the gentle curve of her buttocks. He stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, just brushing her pubic curls and she trembled in anticipation, desperate for him to invade her sex. As Max’s teasing fingers slid between her pussy lips, thrusting deep inside her, Helen gave a soft, pleasure-filled sigh.

  Taking hold of her wrist, Max pressed her palm against his groin. Helen could feel the hardness of his prick, straining eagerly at the confining fabric of his trousers.

  ‘Fuck me,’ she begged, pulling down the zipper tab. ‘Fuck me now, Max,’ she added pleadingly as his stiff, naked cock reared from the opening.

  ‘Greedy bitch,’ he grunted as he pushed her down on to the desk, impatiently shoving the piles of books and papers on to the floor. The polished wood felt cold and slippery against her buttocks as Max pulled her thighs wider apart and thrust his fingers further into her, his knuckles roughly grazing her sensitive G-spot, arousing her senses to a fever pitch. Leaning forwards he cruelly squeezed her left nipple until Helen squirmed with excited, painful pleasure.

  Max looked down at her quim. Moisture glinted on the pale curls of her pubic hair which delicately framed the rosy slit of her sex. ‘So pretty,’ he grunted, replacing his fingers with the hot hardness of his prick. He thrust into her with one smooth stroke that seemed to penetrate the very depths of her vitals as the root of his shaft rammed against the sensitive tip of her clitoris. Immediately, Helen wanted to lift her legs, twine them around his narrow hips, but as always Max retained control. Digging his fingers into the soft skin of her thighs, he held her body motionless as he continued to pound into her.

  Helen surrendered to Max’s passion as his thrusts became faster, deeper, forcing her upwards, towards the brink. His thick root nudged repeatedly against her clit until the intense sensations overwhelmed her. Helen felt her interior muscles tense around him, spasming out of control as she came in a sudden rush of ecstasy.

  After, she lay there, wide-eyed and silent, the strength drained from her body, while Max, breathing heavily, his brow dotted with perspiration, pulled away from her and wiped the scent of her from his cock with a handful of tissues. He pushed his semi-erect organ back inside his trousers and looked down at her. She still lay limply, spread-eagled across his desk, her tangled blonde hair fanning out across th
e dark polished mahogany.

  ‘You’ve convinced me,’ Max said, smoothing his ruffled grey hair. ‘If you wish it, Laura Marchant can have her operation.’

  ‘Sometimes I almost hate you,’ she said breathlessly, refusing his extended hand as she sat up.

  ‘I know you don’t mean that.’ Max smiled teasingly as he watched her climb from his desk, totally naked, her hair falling in tangled strands around her shoulders. ‘If only your patients could see you now. Their prim Dr Dawson, a sexy seductress.’

  ‘I look a mess,’ she said, her voice trembling as Max bent to retrieve her dress.

  ‘Unfortunately, your panties are beyond repair.’ Max picked up the ragged scraps of lace, stuffed them in a manila envelope and threw it in the waste paper bin.

  ‘You’re costing me a fortune in underwear,’ Helen complained half-jokingly.

  ‘Then allow me to buy you some new undies. I know a delightful little shop in Mayfair that has the most erotic garments I’ve ever seen. Consider it, if you like, an early Christmas present.’

  ‘In June?’ She gave a soft, uneasy laugh. ‘You know that I don’t feel comfortable letting you pay, Max.’ It was bad enough that she let him hold sway over practically every other aspect of her existence.

  ‘How can you be so stubborn about some things, and so acquiescent on other occasions,’ Max murmured. ‘You’re a contradiction, Helen.’

  ‘That’s what you like about me, Max,’ she remarked, struggling to do up the buttons of her dress.

  ‘Helen.’ Max pushed her hands aside and fastened the buttons as though she were a helpless child. ‘You’re too bloody independent,’ he said, tenderly kissing her. ‘You’re also intelligent and very beautiful. You could be successful in anything you tried to do. Why, when I’ve offered you the occasional spot on the programme to help supplement your income, do you always find some reason to refuse?’