“Don’t lie to me,”
I should push him back, duck under his arm, walk out, and send someone else to handle this.
Instead, I grab the front of his T-shirt with both fists and pull his mouth to mine.
The kiss is a detonation. His lips crash into mine, and the groan he makes—a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest—vibrates through my every nerve.
My back is pinned to the wood, and his good hand slides to the side of my throat, where he presses his thumb into my pulse point. I bite his lower lip, and he growls, and the sound shoots straight to my clit.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I let him in, tasting him and pulling him closer by the fabric bunched in my fists. He wraps his injured arm around my hip, and I feel him wince from the strain, but neither of us stops.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe, and his forehead drops against mine.
“Tell me to walk away, Doctor.”
“And I will.”
I don’t. I can’t.
Something in his eyes catches fire. He hooks his arm under my thigh, lifts me off the ground, and sets me on the counter beside the sink. Medical supplies rattle as my ass hits the surface, and I wrap my legs around his waist to pull him between them.
The second our bodies meet, I feel how hard he is. My scrubs are thin, and his T-shirt and drawstring pants are no real barrier. The friction when he rolls his hips into mine drags a moan from me that I couldn’t have held back with a gun to my head.
“Fuck,” he whispers into the curve of my throat, lips dragging a hot path below my ear. “You have no idea how long I’ve held back.”
“Look at me.”
My eyes lock on his. Something in his gaze goes feral—then steady.
I dig my nails into his shoulders and grind into him. The pressure of his cock through the thin layers of fabric hits where I need it, and the pleasure spikes hard enough to make me see stars. He rocks forward again, and I arch to meet him, pulling him closer with the heels of my feet hooked behind his thighs.
He hisses through his teeth. A sound of pain, not pleasure, and for a second, the surgeon in me surfaces. “Your side?—”
“I don’t give a damn about my side.” He takes my face between both palms and kisses me so deeply that I lose track of where I am. When he pulls back, his breathing is ragged. “Don’t you dare ask me to stop.”
The pleading in his voice undoes me. A man who commands rooms without speaking and threatens people through sheer presence just begged me like I hold something he can’t take by force.
His fingers drop from my throat to trail down over my breast. I suck in a breath when he drags his thumb across my nipple through the scrub top. He does it again, slower, rolling the stiff peak between his thumb and forefinger until a whimper slips from me. Then he keeps going, down my stomach, past the waistband.
“Tell me what you need, Doctor. I’ll give it to you.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not guessing with you.” His mouth brushes my ear. “Use your words.”
“Touch me. Now.”
The order shocks me more than it shocks him. He stills for half a second. Savoring the fact I said it out loud.
When his fingers slip under the elastic of my underwear, my hips jolt. He’s kissing my neck, grazing his teeth along the spot where my pulse pounds, and when he finds me soaked, the groan he lets out sinks into my skin.
“Jesus Christ, Doctor,” he rasps. “You’re this wet for me?”
I can’t form words. His middle finger drags through my folds, slow and thorough, and my thighs clench around his hips. He circles my clit, and the sensation is so intense that I have to grab the edge of the counter to stay upright. My head tips back, and I let out a low moan.
He watches my face while he works me, and the look in his eyes is close to reverence. Like he’s committing every reaction to memory. Like I’m something he means to keep.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “You’re… so damn beautiful.”
