Her name came out before I could stop it.
She froze.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
Her shoulders, her hand on the tablet, the line of her throat.
I wanted to ask her to stay.
I wanted to ask her to leave.
I wanted to ask her for a sponge bath just to see if her professional mask would crack. To ask for a massage where my shoulders hurt and watch her eyes darken because we both knew I wasn’t talking about muscles. I wanted to be wicked enough to make her blush and honorable enough to hate myself for it.
I wanted her hands on me.
Not medical.
Not gloved.
Hers.
The thought hit so hot and sudden that my fingers curled into the sheet again.
Next time, some ruined part of me thought.
Next time she comes in, ask.
Make her say no.
Make her say your name.
Make her feel it too.
Then shame slammed the door hard.
Georgia.
I closed my eyes.
Damn me.
“Dylan?” Destiny said.
I opened my eyes.
There was worry on her face now.
Because even angry, even hurt, even trying not to love me, she was still a nurse. Still a healer. Still too good for the mess I kept dragging into her life.
“I didn’t know you’d be assigned here,” I said.
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t have?—”
“What?” she asked softly. “Looked?”
