What Your Mama Gave You.

He hadn’t meant to linger in the clinic after hours. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, though under it was something sweeter, chemical and strange. He noticed the door click shut behind him and turned, startled, to find her standing there—smiling with that mix of warmth and cruelty she always carried.

“Do you know why I put you on the schedule tonight?” she asked, twirling a syringe between her fingers.

He shook his head, ears flat, already uneasy.

“I used to be in love with your mother,” she said plainly, as if commenting on the weather. “She was my professor in pharmacology. Brilliant. Beautiful. Untouchable. By the time I worked up the courage to say anything, I found out she was married and had a kid almost my age, and of course she was too old for me.”

She stepped closer, eyes glinting. “But then I met you. Same face. Same laugh, even. I thought maybe I’d be able to like you. But you’re a boy.” Her lip curled slightly. “And I don’t like boys.”

He backed toward the counter, heart pounding. “That’s not my fault—”

“Exactly,” she cut him off, raising the syringe. “It’s not your fault. But it’s not your choice, either.”

The prick came swift and merciless, and within moments heat flushed through his veins. His breathing grew shallow. He clutched his chest as it swelled, tender flesh pressing against his palms. Hips flared, thighs thickened, his waist cinched in. When he staggered to the mirror on the wall, he nearly collapsed.

LATER:

He was outside, evening air cool against his bare shoulders, the hum of voices and music spilling from the terrace. A party, crowded and alive. He stumbled into the light, every eye turning his way. He wanted to die. Everyone could see. Everyone would know! They would want him. Lust after him. Oh god!

The nurse slid in close beside him, a glass of wine in hand, her arm snug around his waist. “Mmm. No wonder I had to do this,” she purred, loud enough for him alone. “You’re your mother’s image. Beautiful. Amazing tits too.”

He flushed, tugging at the too-tight dress she’d forced him into, breasts straining the sheer fabric. Across the way, two men in dark suits were watching him, one already smiling, the other raising his glass in silent toast.

The nurse leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “So here’s your choice. You can come with me—” she pressed her thigh against his, “—or you can see what it feels like to let a gentleman appreciate you instead.”

His pulse raced. He hated the way his body thrilled at both options, the way heat pooled low in his stomach.

And that was the worst of it: he really did have a choice. But no choice that let him be what he had been before.

And the worst part was the way his own body shivered, a heat he couldn’t control rising in him as if part of him wanted her approval, wanted her touch, even as his mind screamed that this wasn’t him at all.