She lets out a short breath and looks away from me, but I see her turning it over, deciding whether what I said is enough or whether she’s going to keep pushing.
She decides to let it go. For now.
When she looks back at me, the fury is still there, but underneath it, she’s made a decision, and her chin comes up. She does that when she wants something and won’t reach for it herself.
I’ve been watching her do it for weeks, and we still haven’t crossed that line. We haven’t done much of anything since the night I fingered her in this hospital, because I’ve been waiting for her to tell me she’s ready.
But right now, with her in this locked room, in her hospital, with nowhere else to be, I decide we’re done waiting.
I take another step toward her. She doesn’t back up. “Tell me to leave.”
“You need to?—”
“Make sure you mean it, Polina.”
But she’s already looking at my belt. Her hand moves before she can say it again, and she tugs me toward her by the leather.
“We are not doing this here.” She pulls me closer as she says it.
“In your hospital?” My mouth twists into a grin. “You sure about that, Doctor?”
“Tell me that again.” I watch her hands work my buckle.
When she doesn’t, I slide my hands across her hips and to her ass before I lift her onto the table. The involuntary squeak she makes goes straight through me. Her legs open, I step between them, and she’s already got my belt undone and is working the button of my trousers.
“Someone is going to hear us,” she whispers.
“Then you’re going to have to be very quiet.” I find the waistband of her scrubs and push them down to the floor along with her underwear. Then, I drop to my knees before she can register what’s happening.
“I want you shaking and silent, Doctor.” I kiss her inner thigh. “Think you can manage both?”
She’s fucking soaked.
She gasps as my tongue finds her clit, and her thighs clamp around my head. I take my time with it. I’ve been thinking about this since the night she kissed me and closed the door in my face. Long, slow strokes of my tongue, learning where she’s most sensitive, where she tries to muffle herself and fails.
“Soaking wet.” I drag my tongue slowly. “In your own hospital. Does that turn you on?”
“Shut up.” It comes out ragged. “Just do it.”
She tastes sweet and hot and distinctly her, and I know this will be the thing I think about at the worst possible times, in the worst possible places. There’s not a damn thing I can do about that now.
I slide two fingers inside her and feel her clench tightly around them, slick and hot as I curl them forward and find the spot that makes her hips buck hard off the table.
“God,” she breathes before she claps her hand over her mouth.
I pull back just enough to look up at her. Her scrub top is still on. Her face is flushed and furious and wrecked. She’s biting her palm, looking down at me with desperate, furious eyes.
“There you are,” I murmur, like I’ve found something sacred.
“You don’t have to be good in here. Not with me.”
I hold eye contact and add a third finger. She’s falling apart on my fingers in her hospital and trying desperately not to let me see it. I intend to make sure she can’t hide it.
“You’re supposed to be quiet,” I remind her.
A cart rattles past the door. Voices. Close. Her eyes flare and she freezes—then she grinds down harder like the danger flips a switch.
“Then stop doing that,” she grits out from behind her hand.
