His mouth lowers to my throat, brushing the air above my skin, not quite touching, but those almost-kisses somehow hotter than the real thing.
I tilt my head back, offering him my chest, and his thumbs slip under my cleavage, tugging my dress and bra down until mybreasts spill out.
He bends to lick and lap at my nipples immediately, his warm tongue teasing as he squeezes the swell of my breasts. When I look at him he drags his hands away and plants them obediently on the table, like he's reminding himself of the rules he's already breaking.
I close my eyes, rubbing my foot against him, feeling his scrubs tent under the pressure—his arousal unmistakable, sparking mine to life. His breath thickens against my skin, and for a second, I forget everything—the hospital, the emotional pain, the reason I came.
Then his teeth graze my nipple before he closes his mouth around it and he sucks much harder—just how I like it.
The shock bolts straight through me and my eyes open on a gasp, my head snapping down to him—and that's when I catch the movement beyond the window. White coats passing on the other side of the hospital. Not that far. Too close actually. I frown.
"No. We're not doing this, Ben," I snap, pulling back and dropping my foot from his crotch. I shove my breasts back into my dress and bra, covering myself as fast as I can. "We're not having sex in your office."
I glare at him, even though I'm mostly angry at myself for letting it get this far.
Ben stills, breath heavy and restrained, but he doesn't say anything.
"You didn't even close the shutters," I reprimand, handpointing at the window. "You want to lose your license? We've already screwed up enough things."
His eyes flick to the glass behind his back, stuck on it for a breath. He exhales, the sound rough around the edges, and straightens.
"Alright. You're right," he says flatly, almost defeated.
I watch him walk to the window, staring out like the dark might give him an answer before he pulls the shutters down.
I arch a brow at him, pointed.
He gives me half a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and lifts his hands in mock surrender. "Don't worry. Nothing will happen. I get it, I can't touch you."
When my expression doesn't change, he opens them again and gives a tired flick toward the window, as if to underline the point. "Happy?"
It doesn't make me feel happy. Not even close.
For a beat, we stare at each other, two weeks of impossible pain written all over our faces.
Then the silence starts to thrum—slow, low, electric.
His gaze trails down the line of my throat, to my chest he's just claimed, and my breath catches.
His hands curl restlessly.
My eyes drop to the shape pushing at his scrubs, jutting forward so blatantly that I can't look away.
He catches it, and his jaw flexes.
I barely catch my lip, about to bite it when—
One second, one stride, and he's on me, his hand fisting in my hair, his tongue crashing against mine in a devastating stroke.
He shoves my skirt up, pushes my thong aside, and his thumb runs over my folds—firm, pressing, like he’s reminding my body exactly who it belongs to.
When he feels how wet I am, his fingers coated in my arousal, a low rumble breaks out of him.
He circles me—cautious and reverent at first, like he’s checking whether I’ll really let him. Then his fingers rest there, hot against my entrance, and he looks up.
"Tell me to stop," he warns, breath ragged. "Or I'll take you like you're still mine."
I don’t stop him. I couldn’t if I tried.
