by Callie Hart
Still. It aches.
I brush my hand slowly over her hair, tucking it back. I casually flick out my tongue, stroking the shell of her ear with it as I exhale. Sloane shivers against me, her own breath catching in her throat. “St. Peter’s is a big place, isn’t it? Surely there’s a secluded spot you could hide a bed?” I whisper.
“What do you mean? Hide the kid out of sight and treat her off the books?”
“Mmm. If she really needs the treatment, seems like the best option to me.”
“It’s not that simple, Zeth. The legal implications are…” She trails off as I probe her ear a little deeper with the tip of my tongue. “The legal implications are dire. I could get into so much trouble. I could…I could lose my job. Worse than that, I could be arrested. I’d have to steal from the hospital again. I—” She can’t continue any further, because I’ve started kissing and biting at her throat. We both already know this option, hiding the little girl, is a foregone conclusion. One she had already made before she even texted me. She just wanted to hear me say it.
I am the devil standing on her shoulder, after all. I am her dark prince, leading her down paths she would never walk alone. Once upon a time, there may have been an angel standing on the other shoulder, but that guy is long gone now. And it wasn’t me who scared him away. Sloane chased him off all by herself. She liked the darkness. She liked the shadows and the adrenalin. Now breaking the rules and chasing down another thrill is all that’s left for her.
“Stop, Zeth. God, please…I have to go back inside in a minute. If you carry on doing that—”
“You’ll want me to fuck you?” I growl into the delicate curve of her neck. “You’ll want me to push your legs open and guide my fingers into your cunt. Don’t you want me to see how wet you are, Sloane? Don’t you want my fingers slick with you?”
“Fuck.”
“You said you had two hours until this guy shows up. It’s not going to take that long to move the kid into the basement.”
“I have other patients, Zeth. The hospital’s barely running as it is. I can’t—”
I smirk.
“What are you smiling about, you evil bastard?” She jabs me in the ribs, pretending to be mad.
“Well…” I rub my hand on her leg, my smile growing. “You say one thing with your mouth, angry girl, but your body is speaking an entirely different language.”
She looks down at herself and notices what I noticed just a second ago—that her legs are already spread wide open, the tight, professional black pencil skirt she wore to work instead of her scrubs riding up her bare thighs.
“Damn it,” she hisses.
“Mmm.” I trail my fingers lightly over her smooth skin, my blood surging around my body faster and faster. It’s shocking that I can even feel it moving through my veins at all; seems to me the majority of my blood is circulating primarily around my rock solid cock and nowhere else. “You’ve been working non-stop for days. You haven’t slept properly since you got sick. You should be kinder to yourself,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “Or at least let me be kind to you. To your pussy specifically.”
She gives me a doubtful look. She wants me just as much as I want her, which is a fucking lot. I can tell by the way her full lips are even more swollen than usual. Her cheeks were already flushed when I sat down next to her, but now they look like they’re on fire, hot to touch. Her shoulders are rolled back, arching her spine, pushing out her breasts so that they’re straining at her pale blue cotton shirt. The swell of her tits is just visible, heaving against the material, and I have a mind to take hold of her clothing and rent it apart so they can spring free. It’s a fucking crime that they’re covered so efficiently right now. I want them bare and naked. I want her nipples peaked and hard against the fresh night air. I want her fingers in my hair, tugging on it hard as I massage her flesh there with my tongue.
My dick is throbbing, painful and demanding as Sloane tilts her head down to look at her bare, spread legs. “I suppose…” she whispers.
It’s all I need. I’m down on my knees before she can utter another word. I shove my way between her legs, ducking down so that she can put them over my shoulders.
“God, Zeth. I think…I think there are cameras out here.”
From my vantage point on my knees, about two seconds away from burying my face in the already wet material of her panties, I send her the faintest of smiles. “Now, now, angry girl. Don’t play games with me. You know it turns you on to think of someone on the other end of that camera, watching you come for me.”
She shudders, her legs pressing a little tighter around my head. Her lips are parted, the faint gleam of her teeth visible in the half-light. “Maybe you’re right,” she says quietly. “Maybe I do. Maybe…maybe you should give them something to see.”
She’s a wicked, wicked girl, and I made her that way. The thought gives me a grim satisfaction. I push her legs open further, sinking lower in between them. She should know better than to tell me I need to put on a show. Putting on a show is one of my favorite things in the whole world. I hook my finger underneath the fabric of her panties, pulling it to one side so that she’s exposed to me. “Lay back,” I tell her.
Sloane licks her lips, easing herself back onto her elbows, her pristine white lab coat draping onto the concrete. It’s going to be filthy by the time I’m finished with her. But then, so will she. “Put your feet here,” I tell her, taking hold of her by the ankles and placing the soles of her pumps onto the tops of my thighs.
With the patience of a saint, I allow myself to slowly lean into her. She’s trembling like crazy, making small, quiet, urgent sounds. Knowing that I have this much power over her is precious to me. Some people might say that thinking this way is toxic. That I’m toxic. But so fucking what? I’ve never given a single shit over what anyone else thinks of me, and I’m sure as fuck not going to start now.
I love that she obeys me.
I love that she gives herself over to me with perfect, unquestioning abandon.
I love that she trusts me.
I love that she loves me.
I know how hard it is for her to let go and hand me the reins, which is why I cherish moments like these. It’s more than sex. It’s more than lust. It’s everything.
My tongue finally finds its mark, and Sloane’s body jumps on the concrete loading dock like she just got electrocuted. “Oh, shit, Zeth. Oh my god.” Her hands run up her own body, until she’s cupping her breasts through her shirt. There’s nothing more enjoyable than watching a woman who knows how to press her own buttons. As I work my mouth over her pussy, growling with pleasure at the taste of her, and the texture of her on my tongue, I watch her touching herself, stroking her fingers against the skin of my neck, over her lips, sliding up under her button-down shirt so she can reach the swell of her perfect tits under her bra as well.
If giving head was a martial art, I’d be a black belt. No, scratch that, I’d be a motherfucking grandmaster. I know exactly how to work the tip of my tongue over Sloane’s clit to make her body lock up tight. I know precisely how to use the flat of my tongue, sliding up over her pussy to massage the sensitive bundle of nerves in a long, broad stroke, in order to make her pant and moan.
“Damn it, Zeth. Oh, shit, you’re going to make me come!”
Like I said: Motherfucking Grandmaster.
I curl my arms up underneath her thighs, so I can grip her better by the hips, and that’s when I push my tongue inside her. She tastes so fucking good. I could be stranded on a desert island, and Sloane’s pussy could be the only thing available for me to eat, and I’d be the happiest, most well fed man in the existence of human kind. She grabs hold of me by the hair, grinding up into my face, and I almost lose my shit.
She’s close. I can tell by how wet she is and the frantic, erratic note in her voice when she moans. I want to make her come with my mouth—it obliterates her every time when I do—but a large part of me, an eight inch long, rock solid, de
manding as fuck part of me, wants very much to be inside her right now.
She whimpers as I rock back, leaving her laying there on her back with her legs wide open. “Patience, angry girl.”
It takes me less than a second to unzip my pants and free my cock. Sloane watches me through half closed eyes; the first two buttons of her shirt are undone, and her tits are free, the cups of her bra pulled down to expose her creamy, smooth skin, and her peaked nipples. “Bad, bad girl,” I tell her. “Look what you’ve done.”
She closes her eyes, head rocking back, and I give myself half a heartbeat to take in the sight before me. Has a man ever been as lucky as this before? The woman in front of me is laid wide open, soul bared, waiting for me to do whatever the fuck I want to her, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I take her. I’m not gentle as I slide myself into her slick, wet heat. I thrust as hard as I can, because I know how much she fucking loves it when I do. She winds her arms around me, pulling me to her, digging her fingernails into my leather jacket. I can feel them through the thick, tough material, so she clearly means business.
God, her pussy feels so good. I’ve fucked her mouth and I’ve fucked her ass, but nothing is ever as good as her pussy. Our bodies fit together with a kind of precision that blows my mind. Our physiology doesn’t lie; we were made for each other.
I hit her g-spot, and Sloane lets out a raw, broken cry that pierces me like a goddamn spear to the chest. She’s so close. I am, too. The rising feeling of euphoria inside me is something I can pull away from if she ever needs more time, but right now she’s teetering on the brink and I’m going to have to quit slamming myself into her if I want her to hold out any longer.
I’ve teased her enough, though. I want to feel her coming all over my cock right now. I have to feel it, like I have to breathe air. It’s more than a desire; it’s a necessity. I bite down on her collarbone as I ride the wave that comes rushing at me. Sloane bucks upward, her hips pressing urgently against mine, and then she’s screaming out into the dark, her hands clawing at me as she comes.
Heat blooms inside me, spreading its fingers over me, through me, over the backs of my thighs and my buttocks, chasing up my back, sending a riot of pins and needles prickling up the back of my neck, over my scalp. Sloane shakes, her breath coming in short, sharp blasts as I push into her one last time.
“God,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, barely audible above the racket my crazy heartbeat is making in my ears right now. “That was…intense.”
She opens her eyes, looking up at me, and I see myself reflected there. I see an endless, improbable, imperfect future stretching out before me. If it were perfect, this life Sloane and I have signed up for together, then neither one of us would survive it. We both need a little chaos to fuel our fires. We both need a little unpredictability and a little turbulence along the way. Just knowing that we can handle whatever is thrown at us is enough for me, though.
“I need you to do something for me, Sloane.”
She looks half drunk from the fucking I just gave her when she blinks up at me. “What?”
“Don’t you dare fucking clean yourself up when you go back inside.”
Her eyes widen. “I have dirt all over my clothes, Zeth. I can’t go back onto the ward looking like this.”
“Get changed by all means. Brush your hair if you have to,” I tell her, pinching her ass lightly between my index finger and my thumb. “But don’t you dare clean away my come, angry girl. I want you to go back to work, knowing that I’m still inside you. I want you to be able to feel me between your legs. Promise me right fucking now.”
She nods slowly, letting out an unsteady breath that makes my balls ache. “I promise,” she says.
“Good. Now get back inside, before I decide I want to fuck you all over again.”
Chapter Five
SLOANE
I’m a train wreck. Thank god nobody sees me as I hurry through the corridors and dash into the change rooms to grab some scrubs and a fresh lab coat. Fuck, that man loves making life difficult for me sometimes. Or if not difficult per se, then interesting in the least. No doubt he’s smirking that wicked smirk of his as he drives home, congratulating himself on how my heart is likely thrumming in my chest as I strip out of my filthy clothes, my body now sore and aching, tired from the wild sex we just had. And he’s right, it is thrumming in my chest, and my body is sore and aching, and I feel amazing, lit up from the inside out. How the hell am I supposed to get my head back in the game after that? It’s not going to be easy. I intend on keeping the promise I just made to him, so I’m going to be thinking about the wild sex we just had every time I move, sit down or plain breathe. I have to make sure I’m focused at the same time, though. I have a small child to wheel into a basement.
No one says a word as I make my way into Millie Reeves’ room and collect her chart from the end of her bed. Her stats are the same as they were earlier today—her BP is low and her heart rate seems a little erratic at times, but other than that she’s stable. There’s every chance I’m being ridiculous here and the girl would be perfectly fine at home in the care of her brother, but I don’t know. For some reason, there’s a heavy weight in my stomach, sinking through me like a stone, and the thought of releasing Millie from our care makes me anxious. Her brother clearly looks after her very well, but this nagging, bothersome sensation won’t quit. I learned a long time ago that ignoring your gut usually has severe consequences in my line of work. They teach you how to be logical, to work through plausible possibilities and to train yourself to have a scientific brain, as opposed to a brain ruled by emotion, but sometimes you need a little emotion.
I’ve been so distracted by Millie’s chart that I’ve forgotten to check on the patient in the bed. She stirs, the small bump under the covers shifting and then turning into a little girl as her head emerges from the blankets. Her hair is fine, soft strands of silk floating up around her head, charged with static. Huge blue eyes filled with panic fix on me and begin to fill with tears. Her tiny bottom lip wobbles. “Where’s Mason?” she asks.
I clip her chart to the end of her bed again and go and sit beside her on the edge of the mattress. She’s so small, even for her age. Her fingers clasp at the blankets that cover her, clutching them to her fragile frame. She looks like a doll. It breaks my heart that such a delicate, innocent child has to suffer through such pain and worry. “Mason’s coming soon, sweetheart,” I tell her. “He had to go to work, but he promised he would come as soon as he was finished. He should be here in about an hour or so.”
Tears fall from both of her eyes at the same time, racing each other down her cheeks. “He doesn’t normally leave me,” she whispers. “I don’t like hospitals.”
“Ahh, sweetie. You want me to let you in on a little secret?” I lean a little closer to her, smiling a little. I never wanted to work with kids. The peds rotation in med school was challenging to say the least; I could handle most heartbreak you encounter in hospitals, but terminally ill children were just too much for me. As I look at Millie now, I can see the same shadow hanging over her that hung over those little babies, and it feels as though my throat is swelling shut. Millie nods, gripping her blankets tighter.
“I hate hospitals, too,” I whisper.
Her eyes grow even rounder. “But you’re a doctor. You can’t hate hospitals.”
I shrug, looking up at the ceiling. “I like helping people. That’s why I became a doctor. But I don’t like hospitals. You know, my daddy is a doctor just like me. And when I was little, I never saw him. He was always working, always coming home so late, when I was already tucked up and asleep in bed, and I used to get so angry with him for spending all of his time at the hospital. I used to get mad at all the sick people that wanted him to spend all of his time with them instead of me. It took me a long time to realize that he was doing a very important job and that they needed him more than I did. I realized he still loved me, no matter what, and I would
always be his little girl. That never changed how I felt about hospitals, though. I always hated them.”
Millie’s eyebrows climb upward. “Do you hate being here now?”
“No. Not now. I like being here, talking to you.”
With a little wriggle and a grunt, Millie sits up, resting against the mountain of pillows her brother insisted she needed on her bed. “You helped me when I came here earlier, didn’t you? I remember this.” She reaches up and touches me lightly on the arm, pointing at my watch. “It’s very shiny,” she whispers. “I think Mason used to have a watch like that one.”
My watch, an inexpensive copy of a Rolex, is one of my most valuable possessions. It was given to me by one of my very first patients—a woman I treated with ovarian cancer. I’d been an intern at the time, so she wasn’t even my patient, but I’d been the one to diagnose her. The doctor presiding over her case, Dr. Withers, had insisted she had celiac’s disease but back then I’d had the same nagging, uncomfortable sensation that something wasn’t quite right, and I’d investigated further. The tiny mass on her left ovary would have been easy to miss if I hadn’t been looking so hard for it. The woman, Casey, had been so grateful that I’d caught the malignant tumor that she’d come back and brought me the watch a couple of weeks after she’d finished her chemo treatments. She’d looked tired, with large shadows underneath her eyes, but she’d been given the all clear. She was cancer free, and she said she had me to thank for that.
