“What do you want the story to be?”
“Ooh, I get to come up with a story?” I rub my chin. “Your college girlfriend broke up with you because you smelled bad,” I say. “Like, really bad, and everyone made fun of you. And you were so upset you failed an anatomy test, then all your tests that week. You went for a hike to forget your troubles, and you were unfortunately mauled by a bear. Now you have a new lease on life.” I scrunch my nose. “Am I close?”
“Sounds like you wanted me to suffer.” He leans forward. “It’s not an exciting story, really. Lots of therapy. Moving away from home. Maturing.”
“You’re right, that is boring. There was no moment? No near-death experience?”
“Should I be alarmed that you sound hopeful about that?” He smiles at me, flashing his white teeth, and I smile back. “If it makes you feel any better, I felt guilty even in high school about what I was doing. I knew I needed to stop.”
“That definitely does not make me feel better.”
We’re left with this uncomfortable space between us now, an unbridgeable gap filled with past mistakes and anger. I almost think an outlet for all this tension would be good for us. Or maybe I’m just telling myself that.
“There’s a part of me that still wants you,” I say. “I want to know what we’re like together. When you’re done with this rotation, we can stop, consider it examined.”
He swallows. His eyes are intent on my face. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“Have me, then,” he says. He’s facing me fully now, legs spread and expression open.
I peek at the clock. It’s 5:15 in the morning now. We’re still alone, but people will start filtering into the building before too long.
“Right now?” I glance at the door.
His stare is heavy. “No one’s ever in the clinic buildings this early.”
“Who knew that you would have such a rebellious streak?”
I stand and approach him. He watches me, his eyes dark and hooded. I can’t believe what I’m about to do.
I straddle him, lowering down to his lap, and he emits a surprised grunt. My legs trap his on either side. He starts to lay his hands on my waist, but I stop him.
“Don’t touch me yet,” I say. “Please. I want to be in control here.”
He nods, still watching me with his jaw tight.
I lean forward and touch my lips to his. He moves against me, opening his mouth just a little, and we stay like that, just softly pressing our lips together. I pull back.
“I’m going to lose my mind over you,” he mumbles.
My confidence swells so much, it reaches every corner of the room.
When I arch forward again and find his tongue with my own, we tangle together, and I feel the sensuous tease all the way to my fingertips.
I straighten again. His hands are fisted on the arms of the chair. His teeth clench. He looks like the restraint might be killing him, and I’m buzzing, riding high on a cloud of power.
“I still can’t touch you?” His lips pout.
“No.”
I take his lips again, gently at first, and then we’re frenzied. The same mind-melting, addictive adrenaline from our kiss in the parking lot rockets through my veins. He’s kissing like hemight die if he doesn’t, like I’m his oxygen, like he’s pouring all his need to put his hands on me into the single connection of our mouths.
I rock my hips against his, seeking his erection with my pelvis, and his indecent groan turns my insides to jelly. I do it again, rubbing my clit against him as shamelessly as I can, chasing the little sparks of pleasure that dance up my spine.
“Fuck,” he whispers, drawing the word out, his face a mask of apparent agony. I’m so into it I want to frame this picture of him so I can bask in it every day.
I move harder, faster, rolling my hips over his cock until pleasure starts to build. I wrench my mouth from his as I seek some selfish relief. He moves his own hips under me. The tendons in his neck stand out, and his cheeks are flushed. He’s hard and thick. His focus on me is singular, intent.
