"You are a map of disasters," I whisper.
"And you remain pristine," he counters, his voice dropping to a growl.
He drops the needle driver. It clatters metal-on-metal onto the tray.
Jax turns in my arms.
We are chest to chest now, pressed against the edge of the simulation table. Jax looks down at me, his hazel eyes blown wide, the pupils swallowing the irises. The playfulness is incinerated. There is only hunger left.
"You’re driving me crazy, Max," he says. "You come down to my office. You bring me coffee. You wrap me in cashmere. And now you’re grinding against me in the dark."
"I am not?—"
"You are."
He grabs my waist—his grip bruising, possessive—and hoists me up onto the edge of the sturdy stainless-steel table. He shoves the plastic tray aside with a crash. He steps between my thighs, spreading them wide, slotting his hips firmly against my heavycentre.
The contact is electric. Through the layers of fabric, I can feel how hard he is.
"Teach me," he growls. "Come on, Professor. Tell me what I’m doing wrong."
He kisses my jaw, his stubble scraping against my skin—a glorious, abrasive friction.
"Jax," I gasp.
"Tell me."
I grab his face and kiss him. This isn't the angry collision of the supply closet. This is a devouring. I open to him immediately, our tongues sliding together, wet and desperate. He tastes of coffee and mint. I explore his mouth with surgical precision, mapping the ridges of his palate, the chip in his tooth.
Jax groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and echoes in mine. He pulls me closer, grinding his hips upward. The friction against my erection is maddening, a precise pressure that makes my vision swim.
"Max," he pants, breaking the kiss to bury his face in my neck. He sucks a bruise into the soft skin there. "I need to see you."
His hands are frantic, tearing at the buttons of my shirt.
"We are in the Sim Lab," I say breathlessly, my head falling back.
"Cameras are off. Maintenance mode."
He rips the shirt open, pushing it off my shoulders. The cool air of the lab hits my skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his palms running down my chest to my stomach.
"You’re beautiful," he whispers, his thumbs dragging over my nipples, making them harden instantly. "So perfect. So clean."
"I am not a statue, Jax."
"I know." He leans down, his tongue swirling over my sternum,tasting the salt on my skin. "I can hear your heart. It’s racing."
"Sympathetic nervous system response," I diagnose weakly, my fingers tangling in his hair.
"Let’s see if we can flatline your logic."
His hands go to my belt. The buckle clinks. The zipper rasps—a loud, tearing sound in the quiet room.
I should stop this. I am the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. But when his hand slides inside my boxers, wrapping around me, logic evaporates.
I arch my back, a sharp hiss tearing through my teeth. His hand is rough, calloused, the friction exquisite against my smooth skin. He gives a firm squeeze, testing the weight of me.
"So hard," he murmurs, stroking rapidly. Pre-cum leaks onto his thumb, slick and hot. "You like this? Being messy?"
