"Perfect," she lies, still pulsing around my fingers. "Just need sleep."
She hangs up and immediately slaps my chest. "You absolute—"
I kiss her again, swallowing her protest, tasting her fury and shame and want all mixed together.
"You just came while talking to your brother," I remind her against her lips. "On your medical equipment. In your sanctuary."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I should."
"But you don't."
She pulls back, and there are actual tears in her eyes. Not from sadness—from intensity, from the impossibility of this, from orgasm that was as much betrayal as it was pleasure.
"I need to clean up," she says, looking at the exam table like it's committed treason.
"Let me help."
"You've done enough."
But I'm already grabbing the antiseptic wipes, helping her sanitize the table with the same precision she uses to save lives. There's something intimate about it—cleaning up the evidence of our disaster together.
Her phone buzzes. Another text from Miguel.
Miguel:I know you're with him. His bike's outside. I'm coming in.
The blood drains from her face. "Your bike—"
"Fuck."
"He'll kill you."
"Let him try."
"This isn't a joke!" She's panicking now, shoving me toward the back door. "Go. Now. Please."
I cup her face, forcing her to look at me. "This isn't over."
"It has to be."
"No. It doesn't. And next time? You're going to say it. You're going to admit you're mine."
"There won't be a next time."
I smile, dark and certain. "There's always a next time with us, angel. We're too broken to quit."
I slip out the back just as Miguel comes around the front, but I don't go far. I wait in the shadows, listening to her lie to her brother, protecting me even as she probably still has my fingerprints on her soul.
My phone vibrates.
Angel:He's gone. Don't come back.
You still wet from coming on my fingers?
Angel:I'm a disaster.
