"The restrictions are temporary. If you demonstrate compliance?—"
"Compliance." Isla spat the word like a curse. "Do you have any idea what compliance costs? Every minute I spend seekingapproval is a minute a patient might not have. Every form I fill out is time I should be spending in the OR. People are going to die because of these restrictions, Marianne. And that blood will be on your hands as much as it would be on mine."
"That's not—" Marianne started, but the words died in her throat.
Because Isla was right. The restrictions would slow her down. The delays could cost lives. Marianne had known this when she presented her report, had rationalized it as an acceptable tradeoff for reduced liability, had told herself that systems were more important than individuals.
But standing here in this dark locker room, looking at the devastation in Isla's eyes, she couldn't remember why any of that had seemed like wisdom.
"I'm sorry." The words came out before she could stop them. "I know that's not enough. I know it doesn't change anything. But I am sorry."
Isla stared at her. The anger in her eyes flickered, shifted, became something else—something more complicated, something that carved lines of grief through her face.
"You want to know the worst part?" Isla's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. "The worst part is that I still want you. After everything. After this. I look at you and all I can think about is how much I want to touch you."
Marianne's breath caught in her throat.
"That night in your office," Isla continued, moving closer still until they were inches apart, "when your hand touched mine. I went home and I couldn't sleep. Couldn't think about anything except what would have happened if we hadn't stopped."
"We stopped because we had to." Marianne's voice was shaking now. "Because this is impossible. Because we're on opposite sides of?—"
"I don't care about sides." Isla's hands came up to bracket Marianne's face, not quite touching, hovering in the space between intention and action. "I don't care about the audit or the committee or any of it. Right now, in this moment, the only thing I care about is you. And I hate that."
"Isla, we can't?—"
"Tell me to stop." Isla's voice was rough, desperate. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk away. I'll pretend this conversation never happened. But you have to say it. You have to mean it."
Marianne should have said it. Should have stepped back, reasserted the professional boundaries that were the only things keeping them both safe. She knew what was at stake. She knew how destructive this could be. Maybe Isla was acting out of anger. Maybe the mutual chemistry was all in her head.
But Isla was so close. Her heat, her presence, the fierce intensity of her desire was overwhelming every rational thought in Marianne's head. She could smell Isla's shampoo, something clean and faintly medicinal. Could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. Could feel the barely-restrained tension in the hands that hovered at her jaw.
"I can't." The words came out broken, defeated. "I can't tell you to stop."
Isla kissed her.
The contact was bruising, almost violent in its intensity. Marianne's back hit the lockers hard enough to rattle the metal, but she barely noticed. Her hands were fisting in the front of Isla's scrubs, pulling her closer, and her mouth was opening under the pressure of Isla's lips like she had been waiting for this moment her entire life.
Every careful structure Marianne had built was collapsing. Every wall, every boundary, every defense was crumbling under the onslaught of sensation. She could feel herself unraveling,years of control dissolving in the heat of Isla's body pressed against hers.
"This is insane," she gasped when Isla's mouth moved to her throat. "We shouldn't—this is?—"
"I know." Isla's teeth scraped against her pulse point, and Marianne's hips bucked involuntarily. "Do you want me to stop? I feel so angry at you, but I feel so hungry for you all at the time. You drive me crazy."
"No. God, no. Don’t stop."
Isla's jacket hit the floor first. Then Marianne's blouse, buttons scattering across the concrete as Isla's impatient hands simply tore it open rather than bothering with the fastenings. The cool locker room air hit her heated skin and she shivered, but not from cold.
"You're so fucking beautiful." Isla's voice was rough as she traced the edge of Marianne's bra with one finger. "I've been thinking about this for weeks. Imagining what you looked like under all those perfect suits."
"The suits are armor." Marianne heard herself say, her voice strange and distant. "Protection."
"I know." Isla unhooked the clasp at the front and pushed the fabric aside. "But you don't need protection from me."
The first touch of Isla's mouth against her breast made Marianne's knees buckle. She grabbed at the lockers behind her for support, the metal cool against her overheated palms, as Isla's tongue traced circles around her nipple before closing over it with a suction that sent sparks straight to her core.
"God." The word came out broken. "Isla, please."
"Please what?" Isla's hands were at Marianne's waist now, fingers hooking into the band of her skirt. "Tell me what you need."
