"One more," he says against my ear once I stop shaking, and I should protest because my nervous system is already filing workers' comp claims. But then he's pulling out—the loss makes me whimper—flipping me onto my stomach and sliding back in with a groan that tells me his control is finally fracturing.
"Zane—"
"Up," he commands, pulling my hips until I'm on my knees, face still pressed to the mattress, and this angle should be illegal. Actually illegal. Should require a permit, safety briefing, and a full gynecological consultation. He's so deep I swear I can feel him in my throat, every thrust pushing little "uh, uh, uh" sounds out of me that I'll be embarrassed about later when I'm not busy having my internal architecture renovated.
His pace now is desperate, one hand on my hip, the other sliding around to touch my clit, and I realize with crystal clarity: I'm going to come again. This man is going to murder me with orgasms, and my obituary is going to be embarrassing. "Local nurse dies of excessive orgasms, family mortified, funeral attendance limited due to secondhand embarrassment."
"Can't—too much—my neurons are unionizing—" But my body disagrees, already climbing toward something that feels catastrophic.
"Yes you can," he growls, and I can hear his control finally breaking, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Come with me. Now, Lena. With me."
"I—fuck—this is—my medical license is weeping—"
"Good girl. Let go. Give me everything."
The third orgasm arrives like a natural disaster—inevitable, devastating, reshaping the landscape of my entire existence. I'm aware that I'm sobbing his name, that my body is clenching around him hard enough to probably cause circulatory issues, that he's coming too—his cock pulsing inside me as he groans my name like a prayer and a curse combined. For a moment we're just two disasters creating something beautiful in the wreckage, our bodies writing epic poetry in a language that predates words but definitely includes "oh fuck" and "please" and "never stop."
We collapse in a tangle of limbs and terrible decisions, both breathing like we've run marathons in lead vests while solving complex medical equations. The music's still playing, something about being taken to church, which feels appropriate given I just found religion in the worst possible way. Every muscle aches, that good post-sex soreness that saysyou're going to need ibuprofen and lies tomorrow.My inner thighs are trembling, my core muscles feel like I've done a thousand crunches with poor form, and between my legs is a sweet ache that throbs in time with my heartbeat like a medical warning I'm choosing to ignore.
Twenty minutes later, after we've cleaned up (and he's watched me walk bow-legged to the bathroom with a smirk that made me flip him off while secretly planning our next terrible decision), he's in my kitchen wearing just boxers, making eggs while I watch from the doorway wrapped in a sheet like some kind of post-coital disaster toga. My coffee maker—my most stable relationship—is gurgling away, and there's something surreal about watching this dangerous man be domestic in my space.
The morning light catches the scars on his back, the tattoo that runs down his ribs, the way his hands—hands that have definitely killed people—crack eggs with surprising gentleness. My heart does something complicated that my medical training can't diagnose, something between arrhythmia and emotional attachment disorder with a side of Stockholm syndrome.
"You're staring," he says without turning around.
"I'm processing," I correct. "There's a half-naked biker gang member making breakfast in my kitchen after rearranging my internal organs. My life has become a very specific category on PornHub that requires age verification and a warning about unrealistic expectations."
He plates the eggs, hands me coffee in my favorite mug—the one that says "I've Got 99 Problems But A Differential Diagnosis Ain't One"—and the domesticity of it all feels more intimate than the sex. This is dangerous territory—the soft morning-after moments that make you forget why this is a catastrophically bad idea.
We end up back in bed with breakfast, and I'm scrolling my period app while he reads something on his phone. The little red prediction dots mock me like evidence at a malpractice trial. Ovulation window: optimal. Chance of pregnancy during ovulation: approximately 30%. My uterus is basically running a fertility clinic while my brain files for bankruptcy.
"You okay?" he asks, and I realize I've been staring at my phone like it contains nuclear launch codes.
"Just checking my... schedule." I minimize the app before he sees the fertility window that's basically screaming 'DANGER, YOU RECKLESS DISASTER, YOUR EGGS ARE DOING THE MACARENA.'
He sets his phone aside, showing me his Instagram. "You liked a photo from eight weeks ago," he accuses, showing me a sunset I captioned "Even disasters can be beautiful."
"You stalked back," I counter, showing him my recent likes on his posts. "That photo of your hands on motorcycle handlebars? You can see I liked it three times before unliking it because my thirst was showing."
"Academic research," he says, mimicking my earlier excuse.
"Very thorough academic research into your... manual dexterity."
We're just debating whether shower sex counts as hygiene or hedonism when there's a knock at my door. Not a knock—a violent pounding that suggests someone with an agenda and possibly a weapon.
"Ignore it," Zane says, his hand already sliding down my stomach with intent.
But then a voice: "Open up! I know he's in there. I saw his bike."
My blood turns to ice. His entire body goes rigid against me, and for the first time since I've known him, I see actual fear in his eyes.
"Fuck," we say in unison.
My entire nervous system is composing a requiem while my rational brain calculates escape routes. Between my legs, I'm still throbbing from him, still feeling the ghost of his presence, and the contrast between that sweet ache and this sharp fear creates a cognitive dissonance that makes my vision blur.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear Miguel's bike.
Chapter twenty-six
