"We should talk. Before this goes further."
"About what?"
"Safe sex. Medical history. The practical things adults discuss."
He pulls back slightly. Not retreating, just creating space to look at me. "You're very direct."
"I'm a doctor. Too old for games." I hold his gaze. "I'm clean. Even though I haven't been with anyone since David died, I'm on birth control, so pregnancy isn't a concern. What about you?"
"Clean. Tested before discharge. Haven't been with anyone since." His expression shifts. "Haven't wanted anyone. Until you."
He's showing me vulnerability he hasn't offered anyone in years.
"No condoms then. Unless you want them."
"No. I want to feel you."
Heat shoots through me at the honesty. I pull him down for another kiss. Deeper this time. His hands slide under my shirt, finding bare skin.
"Inside," he murmurs against my mouth. "Don't want an audience."
We make it to his quarters. The door locks and his hands are everywhere. My shirt comes off, then my bra. His mouth finds my breast, teeth grazing the nipple hard enough to make me arch into him—then he gentles, tongue soothing where he bit. The contrast sends heat flooding through me.
I work his shirt off. Run my hands over his chest, the scars that mark deployments and damage. He's all lean muscle and coiled strength, warm skin over hard planes.
"Bed. Now."
He guides me backwards until my legs hit the mattress. I sit. He kneels between my thighs, hands working my jeans open. For a moment he just looks at me—really looks—like he's trying to memorize this. Hunger takes over completely.
"Have to taste you first." His voice is gravel and desperation. "Been thinking about this since the first time I saw you."
"Then stop talking and do it."
He strips off my jeans and underwear in one rough motion. His mouth is on me and coherent thought shatters.
He's methodical about it but there's desperation underneath the precision. Tongue and fingers working together, learningwhat makes me gasp, building rhythm. I'm holding his hair, thighs shaking, past caring about noise.
"Christ, you taste good." The vibration of his words sends shocks through me. "I could do this for hours."
"Don't you dare. I want you inside me before I lose my mind."
He adds a second finger, curling them exactly right while his tongue works my clit with devastating focus. The orgasm builds fast and sharp, pleasure coiling tighter until it breaks. I cry out, thighs clamping around his head, muscles pulsing around his fingers. He doesn't stop—keeps working me with tongue and fingers, drawing it out until the pleasure edges into almost too much. When he finally eases back, I'm shaking and oversensitive.
When he pulls back, satisfaction and wonder cross his face.
"Your turn."
I push him onto his back, work his pants open. He's hard and thick, pre-come already beading at the tip. When I wrap my hand around him, he hisses, eyes closing.
"Look at me."
He does. Watching as I take him in my mouth, lips stretching around his thickness. I work him with my tongue, learning what makes him groan—the sensitive spot just under the head, the firm pressure along the shaft. His hands fist in the sheets, knuckles white, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using my hand on what I can't fit. Salt and heat and the weight of him on my tongue. His breathing gets ragged, hips twitching with aborted thrusts he's fighting to suppress.
"Let go. I can take it."
"Don't want to hurt?—"
"You won't. I've got a gag reflex like a medical professional. Trust me."
