I kiss him harder, biting at his lower lip. He tastes like coffee and repressed desire. It’s intoxicating.
Maxwell’s hands are in my hair, gripping tight, pulling my head back to deepen the angle. For someone who hates mess, he is getting filthy. He’s grinding against me, hard,desperate.
This isn't making love. This is rage induced lust. This is a week of arguing over tape lines and corn chips and surgical techniques exploding all at once.
My hands find the hem of his scrub top. I shove them underneath. His skin is burning hot. Silk and steel.
He hisses when I touch his lower back, arching into me.
"You’re infuriating," Maxwell mutters, nipping at my jawline. "You are arrogant. You are messy."
"And you like it," I pant, running my hands up his chest.
"I hate it," he says.
He grabs my hand. He pins it to the shelf next to his head. His grip is bruising.
"I hate it," he repeats, looking me dead in the eye.
Then he kisses me again, and this time, there is no holding back.
We are a tangle of limbs and scrubs in the semi-darkness. I’m pressing him into the metal shelving, his leg hooked around my hip. The friction is unbearable. I want to strip him out of these tailored scrubs. I want to see the Ice King melt.
I reach for his waistband.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
My pager.
The sound cuts through the heavy air like a scalpel.
We freeze.
Maxwell’s hand is in my hair. My hand is down his pants.
We stare at each other, chest to chest, panting like we just ran a marathon.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The reality of where we are—Supply Closet 4B, East Wing, St. Jude’s Hospital—crashes down on us.
Maxwell pulls back first.
He stumbles away from me, hitting the oppositeshelf. He looks wild. His hair is messed up. His lips are swollen and red. His scrubs are twisted.
He looks horrified.
"I..." He touches his mouth, as if checking to see if it’s still there.
I lean back against the shelf, trying to catch my breath. My heart is hammering a hole in my ribs.
"Don't," I warn him. "Don't apologize."
Maxwell straightens his scrub top. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it back into its perfect helmet, but it’s hopeless.
"This was..." He clears his throat. The cold mask is sliding back into place, but it’s cracked. "This was a lapse in judgment. Adrenaline response."
"Sure," I say, though my voice sounds wrecked. "Just biology, right?"
