Preston pushes off the counter. He takes a step forward, forcing me to tilt my head back slightly. He reaches out, hisfingers grazing the stethoscope around my neck, straightening it just like my mother straightened his badge.
The touch burns through my scrub top.
“I lied to her, you know,” Preston says softly.
My heart hammers against my ribs. “About the sushi?”
“About the respect being professional.” His fingers linger on the tubing, close to my collarbone. He drops his voice to a whisper that makes the hair on my arms stand up. “There is nothing professional about the way I respect you, Dr. Silva. There is nothing professional about how much I want to do this.”
I swallow hard. “Do wha?—”
Preston doesn’t wait for me to finish. He surges forward, his hand tangling into the back of my hair, and crashes his mouth onto mine.
It’s not a polite kiss. It’s not tentative. It’s desperate. It tastes like adrenaline and coffee and pent-up frustration. I make a noise in the back of my throat, half-surprise, half-surrender, and grab the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer.
Preston groans against my mouth, his other hand gripping my hip, pinning me against the medication cart. For three seconds, my entire world narrows down to the heat of his body and the slide of his lips against mine. It’s reckless. It’s insane. It’s the best thing that’s happened to me in this building.
“Dr. York! Dr. Silva!”
The voice hits us like a bucket of ice water.
We spring apart violently. I slam my elbow into the cart; Preston stumbles back, looking wild-eyed, his lips swollen and red.
Nurse Brenda comes skidding around the corner, looking frantic. She stops, staring at us. I’m panting. Preston is adjusting his scrub top with trembling hands.
“What?” I bark, my voice cracking.
“Mr. Bromley!” Brenda gasps, looking traumatized. “He got the Magic 8-Ball out again. But he insists he needs to internalize the wisdom.”
Preston wipes his mouth, trying to regain his composure. “So? Don't let him swallow it.”
“He’s not trying to swallow it, Doctor,” Brenda says, her face pale. “He says it’s too big for his throat. He asked for a gallon of lube and he’s currently in the downward dog position.”
Preston stares at her. I stare at her.
“He’s going to…” Preston gestures vaguely towards his backside. “With the ball? The baseball-sized ball?”
“He says the outlook is ‘Bottoms Up,’” Brenda whispers.
Preston closes his eyes. He lets out a long, ragged breath. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful. And he looks absolutely horrified.
“I hate this place,” Preston whispers. “I hate people. I want to go back to the heart surgery. The heart was less… invasive.”
“You love it,” I correct him, my heart still racing a mile a minute, though the mood has definitely shifted from romance to crisis management.
Preston opens his eyes. He looks at Nurse Brenda, then turns his gaze slowly back to me. He lifts a hand, thumb brushing his own lower lip where I just bit him.
“To be continued, Dr. Silva,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “After I prevent a rectally inserted fortune-telling device.”
He winks—a dark, promising wink that sends a fresh wave of heat down my spine—and turns to follow Brenda.
“Coming, Brenda! Tell Mr. Bromley if that ball goes in, the answer is definitely ‘Ask Again Later’ because we are not fishing it out!”
I watch him go, leaning back against the cart because my legs don’t feel entirely steady.
“To be continued,” I whisper to the empty hallway.
And for the first time in my career, I really hope the sequel comes soon.
