Three dots appear. Vanish. Return.
Sloane: You were the one who said "Sure, take the job, nurse." Actions. Consequences.
Me: Didn't realize the consequence would be my dick suffering cruel and unusual neglect three days a week.
Sloane: Pretty sure that's not in any medical journal. And it definitely didn't suffer last night.
Me: You sure? Might have to conduct a study. N=1. Symptom: constant ache. Cause: wife not in my lap. Conclusion so far? Patient requires immediate, repeated hands-on treatment. Preferably with your pussy around my cock.
I can almost see the eyeroll.
Sloane: I have five charts and a med pass between me and lunch. Behave.
Every line she types, I hear in her voice. Soft, wry, so fucking tired.
My thumb hovers.
Me: What are you wearing?
Another pause.
Sloane: Scrubs. Obviously.
Me: Under the scrubs, sweetheart.
The three dots sit there longer this time. My body tightens as I wait. Then my phone pings. Image received. I open it and suck in a breath.
She's in the staff bathroom, angled just enough to keep the room anonymous. Scrub top hitched up, teeth catching her lower lip, other hand holding the waistband low. Black lace. A hint of skin. The barest shadow of the curve between her thighs.
I'm rock hard. Fast. Fuck.
She'd kill me if I said it out loud, but I doubt she understands what she does to me when she looks like that. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks pleased with herself.
Sloane: This is your fault. You were filthy last night. Now I can't stop thinking about it.
The edges of the room narrow until the phone screen is all I see. Yesterday, her thighs were around my head. The way she whispered I love the way you feel, the words slipping out before she could catch them.
"Knox?" East says. "You just went somewhere fun in your head. Want to share with the class?"
"No," I say, shoving back from the table. "Class is dismissed."
Nash snorts. "He's going to the hospital."
"Get it, vice!" East crows. "Leave her able to walk just enough to finish her shift. I've got five bucks on her limping."
I flip him off and head for the door, already texting.
Me: Don't move. I'm bringing you food. And when you get off, I'm taking that lace off with my teeth.
Her reply comes quick.
Sloane: You're going to get me in trouble.
Me: Only kind of trouble I want you in is the kind where you're moaning my name. Lunch in 30.
I shove my phone in my pocket and push into the sunlight. Halfway to my bike, a voice cuts through.
"Hey, vice." Frankie's leaning against the side of the building, cigarette dangling between two fingers, eyes sharp beneath her dark fringe. She must be on a break. Her shop's two blocks over, but she shows up here whenever she needs air, caffeine, or to stare into the void as though it owes her money. "Got a minute?"
