My hands slide under her sweater, palms flat against warm skin, and she shivers at the contact. The soft wool bunches as I push it higher, revealing the lace edge of her bra. She's beautiful, all curves and softness, and I want to worship every inch of her.
"Wyatt," she whispers when I cup her breast through the delicate fabric, thumb brushing over the peak until she arches into my touch.
The sound of my name on her lips, breathless with want, nearly undoes me. I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs, and she wraps her legs around my waist to pull me closer.
This angle brings us flush together, and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes. She rocks against me, a soft moan escaping when I trail kisses along her collarbone. Her hands fumble with my belt, desperate and clumsy with need.
"Please," she breathes, and I don't know if she's begging me to stop or continue.
Before I can ask, the clinic's front bell chimes, followed by a man's voice calling out urgently.
"Doc Sinclair? My dog's been hit by a car!"
Emmy freezes in my arms, eyes wide with alarm. We stare at each other for a heartbeat, both breathing hard, the spell shattered by reality crashing back in.
"I have to..." she starts, scrambling off the counter.
"Go." I step back, giving her room to move, though every instinct screams at me to pull her back into my arms.
She smooths her sweater down with shaking hands, tries to finger-comb her hair into some semblance of order. But there's no hiding what we were doing. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed, and she looks thoroughly ravaged.
"How do I look?" she asks, panic edging her voice.
"Like you've been kissed senseless," I say honestly.
She groans, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "He'll know. Everyone will know."
"Emmy." I catch her hands, pulling them away from her face. "Breathe. You look fine."
Not true. She looks beautiful and thoroughly kissed and like everything I want but can't have. But she also looks professional enough to handle whatever emergency waits in the front room.
"Doc? Please, he's bleeding bad!"
She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and transforms back into Dr. Sinclair. "I'm coming!"
She hurries from the storage room, leaving me alone with the scent of her perfume and the ache of unfinished desire. I button my shirt with unsteady hands, trying to pull myself together before I have to face whoever's out there.
When I finally emerge, Emmy is already kneeling beside a golden retriever on the examination table, her hands gentle and sure as she assesses the damage. The dog's owner hovers nearby, face pale with worry.
"He's going to be fine, Mr. Garcia," she says, her voice calm and reassuring. "The leg's broken, but it's a clean break. We can fix this."
She moves with practiced efficiency, preparing medications, explaining procedures, completely focused on her patient. The only sign of our encounter is the slight tremor in her hands and the way she carefully avoids looking at me.
I should leave. Give her space to work, to pretend the last twenty minutes never happened. But I find myself lingering, watching her work, marveling at the way she can compartmentalize, switch from passionate woman to skilled veterinarian in the space of a heartbeat.
"I'll need to keep him overnight," she tells Mr. Garcia after setting the leg. "For observation. You can pick him up tomorrow afternoon."
After the man leaves, promising to return with treats for the retriever, silence settles over the clinic. Emmy busies herself cleaning instruments, her movements sharp and efficient.
"Thank you," she says finally, not looking at me. "For understanding. About the emergency."
"It's what you do."
She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "The foal's medication is ready. You can pick it up at the front desk."
The dismissal is clear, but I don't move. "Emmy."
"Don't." She holds up a hand, finally looking at me. "Please. I need to think. About all of this."
