"The stupidest," he agrees, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making me bite my hand to muffle the sound. "Tell me to stop. Tell me to pull out."
"Don't you dare," I hiss, pushing back against him, taking him deeper, my cervix practically waving hello. "We're already here. Already stupid. My egg is already doing the backstroke down my fallopian tube. Might as well be thorough."
He groans—this broken, desperate sound—and sets a rhythm that has the shelf rattling, bottles of saline shifting like witnesses to our terrible judgment. His hand comes around to touch me, fingers finding my clit with the kind of precision that suggests he's been thinking about this, planning it, needing it as badly as I have.
"Someone's going to hear," I gasp, but I'm meeting his thrusts now, chasing that edge that's building embarrassingly fast—probably because my body knows it's ovulating and is biologically programmed to make terrible reproductive choices.
"Let them," he growls, and there's something different in his voice—possessive, desperate, like he's claiming me in the most primal way possible. "Let everyone know you're mine."
"Not—fuck—not yours," I manage, but my body is calling me a liar, clenching around him like it's trying to milk his genetic material, which biologically speaking, it probably is.
"No?" He changes angles, hits that spot that makes me see colors that don't exist in nature, and I realize with medical clarity that I'm about to come on his bare cock while ovulating. This is peak reproductive stupidity. "Then why are you letting me fuck you bare in your workplace? On your most fertile day? Why is your body practically pulling me deeper?"
I can't answer because he's right—I am dripping, can feel how wet I am, how easily he's sliding in and out. The sound is obscene, wet and obvious, and if anyone walks by they'll know exactly what's happening. My body is literally designed for this, and it's showing.
"Good girl," he murmurs when I have to muffle another moan. "Take it all. Every inch. Every drop."
The orgasm builds like a fever—slow at first, then everywhere all at once. My cervix actually dips during female orgasm, my brain supplies, designed to help pull sperm toward the egg. Evolution is really not on my side here. I'm biting my hand hard enough to leave marks, my body shaking as it crashes over me, clenching around him in waves that are definitely helping transport his sperm toward my waiting egg.
He follows immediately, pushing deep and staying there, and I can feel him pulsing inside me, filling me with what my medical training knows is approximately 200-500 million sperm, all racing toward my extremely available egg.
We stay frozen for a moment, both panting, the reality of what we just did settling over us like a diagnosis nobody wants to hear.
"We keep not using anything," I state the obvious, feeling him already starting to leak out of me. "During ovulation. This is peak stupidity."
"I know."
"Pregnancy probability just jumped to like 30%."
"I know."
"We're going to do this again, aren't we?"
"Probably this afternoon," he admits, and I can feel him still half-hard inside me, already planning poor decisions.
I spend the rest of my shift hyperaware of his cum inside me—a reminder with every step that my Ph.D. in poor choices is progressing nicely. During my 2 PM patient consultation, I can feel it leaking into my underwear while I explain medication side effects. Mrs. Patterson asks if I'm feeling well during her blood draw. I almost laugh hysterically. I'm a medical professional with approximately 250 million sperm currently swimming toward my egg, calculating whether today's terrible decision will result in eighteen years of consequences. Feeling well is relative.
By 4 PM, the anxiety’s hit critical mass. I excuse myself to the bathroom, lock the door, and lean against the sink like it can hold me up.
My pulse is out of control, my stomach’s doing Olympic-level flips, and every symptom feels like a cosmic joke.
Too early for a test. Too late to pretend nothing happened.
I wash my hands just to have something to do with them while my brain whispers every terrible possibility.
Great. Fantastic. Maybe I’ll start naming the panic attacks after Zane next.
"You okay in there?" Dr. Reyes calls.
"Fine!" I shout too loudy. "Just... having a moment!"
"Take your time. Your patient in room three says you look stressed."
Stressed. That's one word for it.
My phone buzzes.
Zane:Can't stop thinking about how you felt
