"Jax, please," I beg, my dignity shattering.
"I’ve got you," he whispers.
He isn't just focused on me. With his other hand, he fumbles with his own scrubs. I hear the zipper, and then he frees himself.
I look down. He is flushed and thick, trembling with strain. The sight of him—unraveled, desperate, animalistic—breaks something inside me.
I reach out. I wrap my hand around his length.
Jax hisses, his eyes snapping open, blown wide and wild. He bucks his hips, thrusting into my palm.
"Max," he warns, his voice strained tight. "Careful."
"Precision is speed," I whisper, quoting my own rule.
I know anatomy. I know exactly where the nerves cluster. I stroke him, matching the rhythm of his hand on me. My thumb circles the sensitive head of his cock, smearing the fluid that beadsthere.
"Fuck," Jax groans, his head thrown back, cords straining in his neck.
We fall into a frantic, syncopated rhythm.Stroke. Twist. Drag.It is exactly like the surgery—a feedback loop of tension and release. I feel every vein beneath the skin of his shaft, every twitch of muscle.
"Look at me," I command.
Jax drags his eyes down to meet mine.
"I have you," I say, tightening my grip.
"Yeah," he chokes out. "Together. Come on, Max. Don't stop."
He speeds up his hand on me, his rough palm agonizingly good. The friction builds—too fast, too intense. The stress of the last few weeks, the fear, the attraction—it all coils tight in my belly, a pressure cooker about to blow.
"Jax," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Now. I’m close."
"Let go," he demands. He kisses me hard, swallowing my cry.
I shatter.
The release is blinding—white light behind my eyelids, a total system failure. I bite his lip, pulsing hard into his hand, ruining us both.
A second later, Jax follows. He stiffens, a harsh, ragged cry tearing from his throat. He pumps into my hand, spilling hot and thick over my fingers and wrist. He shudders against me, his forehead dropping to rest heavily against my bare chest as he rides out the aftershocks.
We stay like that for a long time. The only sound is the hum of the servers and our ragged, wet breathing. The smell of sex—bleach and musk—hangs heavy in the sterile air.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus.
I realize I am shirtless in the Sim Lab. I realize my hand is sticky with his fluids, and his hand is slick with mine.
I pull back, my chest heaving.
Jax is watching me. He looks wrecked—lips red and swollen, hair wild, eyes dark with satisfaction.
"You..." I clear my throat, trying to summon Dr. York. It is difficult when I am half-naked and covered in semen. I reach for a towel from the sink nearby.
"Let me," Jax says.
He takes the towel. He cleans my stomach and my thigh, efficient and surprisingly tender. He cleans my hand, wiping away the evidence of his climax with a reverence I wasn't expecting. Then he helps me button my shirt.
"Why?" I ask quietly, watching his deft fingers work the buttons.
