Chapter 7 The Sim Lab
The Sim Lab
Maxwell
Competence is an aphrodisiac.
He is failing. And it is absolutely infuriating.
"You are tearing the intima," I announce, stepping out of the shadows.
Jax jumps. The needle driver slips in his hand, snagging the silicone flesh of the mannequin.
"Jesus, Max!" Jax spins around, dropping the instruments on the tray. "Do you have a stealth mode? You move like a vampire."
"My soles are Italian rubber," I say, walking into the room.
The Sim Lab is a windowless vault, dimmed to a deep twilight blue by the monitors.
The only real light is the surgical spot trained on "Stan"—the High-Fidelity Patient Simulator who replaced “Bob”, the previous tragically fated simulator. It highlights the sheen of sweat on Jax’s neck, the way his scrub top clings to his broad shoulders.
"I’m practicing," Jax says, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks frustrated, flushed. "That vessel repair the other day... you said my technique was sloppy."
I look at the silicone pad. It is a mess of jagged stitches. It lacks rhythm.
"You are treating the vessel like a canvas tent," I observe, stepping closer. "Vascular anastomosis requires finesse, Jax. Not force."
"In the field, we stapled things shut," Jax grumbles. He picks up the needle driver again. "I’m a carpenter. You’re the watchmaker."
"Precisely."
I watch him try again. His grip is too tight, veins popping in his forearm. He is fighting the instrument.
"Stop," I command. My voice drops an octave. "You are developing muscle memory for failure."
I take off my white coat, folding it neatly over a chair. I roll up my sleeves, exposing my forearms.
"Move."
"You’re going to do it for me?"
"I am going to teach you. Stand in front of the tray."
He steps back into position.
"Pick up the driver."
He does.
"No," I say. "Your grip is too distal. You have no leverage."
I step up behind him.
It is a tactical error. Or perhaps a tactical surrender. I am instantly enveloped in his heat. He radiates warmth like a furnace, smelling of spicy deodorant, antiseptic soap, and the distinct musk of a man who has been working hard.
"Relax your shoulders," I murmur.
I reach around him. My arms bracket his, trapping him against the table. I place my hands over his. They are massive compared to mine, rough with calluses, warm and dry.
Jax takes a sharp inhale. His back hits my chest—a wall of solid muscle.
"Max..." his voice is a warning, or perhaps a plea.
"Focus on the needle," I say, though my own focus is narrowing dangerously to the friction of our bodies. I press my chest firmly against his back. "Loosen your grip. The instrument is an extension of your fingers. Don't choke it."
He leans back, settling into me. I can feel the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his ribs against mine.
"Like this?" he whispers.
"Yes."
I guide his hand. Supinate. Pronate. It is a dance.
"Enter the tissue at ninety degrees," I say, my mouth right at his ear. I watch the goosebumps rise on the sensitive skin of his neck. I fight the urge to bite him right there.
We drive the needle through the silicone. It slides perfectly.
"Pull through."
We pull the thread.
"Again."
The rhythm takes over. Drive. Turn. Pull.
But the air in the room has changed. It is thick, heavy. Every time he exhales, his body shudders against mine. I can feel the tension in his glutes, the shifting of his weight.
"You have good hands," I admit softly, my fingers tightening over his knuckles. "They are just... heavy."
"Heavy?" Jax asks. He turns his head. His nose brushes my cheek. His breath is hot on my skin. "Is that a diagnosis?"
"It is an observation."
I do not step away. Instead, I slide my hands up his forearms, tracing the intricate ink of his tattoos, feeling the ridge of a scar on his wrist.
"Where did you get this?" I ask, my thumbs circling the pulse point. His heart is hammering, a tachycardia I can feel vibrating through his skin.
"Convoy ambush," Jax says, his voice rough, wrecked.
"And this one?" I touch a burn mark near his elbow.
"Cautery pen. Trying to seal a bleeder while the Humvee was doing sixty."
"You are a map of disasters," I whisper.
"And you remain pristine," he counters, his voice dropping to a growl.
He drops the needle driver. It clatters metal-on-metal onto the tray.
Jax turns in my arms.
We are chest to chest now, pressed against the edge of the simulation table. Jax looks down at me, his hazel eyes blown wide, the pupils swallowing the irises. The playfulness is incinerated. There is only hunger left.
"You’re driving me crazy, Max," he says. "You come down to my office. You bring me coffee. You wrap me in cashmere. And now you’re grinding against me in the dark."
"I am not—"
"You are."
He grabs my waist—his grip bruising, possessive—and hoists me up onto the edge of the sturdy stainless-steel table. He shoves the plastic tray aside with a crash. He steps between my thighs, spreading them wide, slotting his hips firmly against my heavy centre.
The contact is electric. Through the layers of fabric, I can feel how hard he is.
"Teach me," he growls. "Come on, Professor. Tell me what I’m doing wrong."
He kisses my jaw, his stubble scraping against my skin—a glorious, abrasive friction.
"Jax," I gasp.
"Tell me."
I grab his face and kiss him. This isn't the angry collision of the supply closet.
This is a devouring. I open to him immediately, our tongues sliding together, wet and desperate.
He tastes of coffee and mint. I explore his mouth with surgical precision, mapping the ridges of his palate, the chip in his tooth.
Jax groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and echoes in mine. He pulls me closer, grinding his hips upward. The friction against my erection is maddening, a precise pressure that makes my vision swim.
"Max," he pants, breaking the kiss to bury his face in my neck. He sucks a bruise into the soft skin there. "I need to see you."
His hands are frantic, tearing at the buttons of my shirt.
"We are in the Sim Lab," I say breathlessly, my head falling back.
"Cameras are off. Maintenance mode."
He rips the shirt open, pushing it off my shoulders. The cool air of the lab hits my skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his palms running down my chest to my stomach.
"You’re beautiful," he whispers, his thumbs dragging over my nipples, making them harden instantly. "So perfect. So clean."
"I am not a statue, Jax."
"I know." He leans down, his tongue swirling over my sternum, tasting the salt on my skin. "I can hear your heart. It’s racing."
"Sympathetic nervous system response," I diagnose weakly, my fingers tangling in his hair.
"Let’s see if we can flatline your logic."
His hands go to my belt. The buckle clinks. The zipper rasps—a loud, tearing sound in the quiet room.
I should stop this. I am the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. But when his hand slides inside my boxers, wrapping around me, logic evaporates.
I arch my back, a sharp hiss tearing through my teeth. His hand is rough, calloused, the friction exquisite against my smooth skin. He gives a firm squeeze, testing the weight of me.
"So hard," he murmurs, stroking rapidly. Pre-cum leaks onto his thumb, slick and hot. "You like this? Being messy?"
"Jax, please," I beg, my dignity shattering.
"I’ve got you," he whispers.
He isn't just focused on me. With his other hand, he fumbles with his own scrubs. I hear the zipper, and then he frees himself.
I look down. He is flushed and thick, trembling with strain. The sight of him—unraveled, desperate, animalistic—breaks something inside me.
I reach out. I wrap my hand around his length.
Jax hisses, his eyes snapping open, blown wide and wild. He bucks his hips, thrusting into my palm.
"Max," he warns, his voice strained tight. "Careful."
"Precision is speed," I whisper, quoting my own rule.
I know anatomy. I know exactly where the nerves cluster. I stroke him, matching the rhythm of his hand on me. My thumb circles the sensitive head of his cock, smearing the fluid that beads there.
"Fuck," Jax groans, his head thrown back, cords straining in his neck.
We fall into a frantic, syncopated rhythm. Stroke. Twist. Drag. It is exactly like the surgery—a feedback loop of tension and release. I feel every vein beneath the skin of his shaft, every twitch of muscle.
"Look at me," I command.
Jax drags his eyes down to meet mine.
"I have you," I say, tightening my grip.
"Yeah," he chokes out. "Together. Come on, Max. Don't stop."
He speeds up his hand on me, his rough palm agonizingly good. The friction builds—too fast, too intense. The stress of the last few weeks, the fear, the attraction—it all coils tight in my belly, a pressure cooker about to blow.
"Jax," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Now. I’m close."
"Let go," he demands. He kisses me hard, swallowing my cry.
I shatter.
The release is blinding—white light behind my eyelids, a total system failure. I bite his lip, pulsing hard into his hand, ruining us both.
A second later, Jax follows. He stiffens, a harsh, ragged cry tearing from his throat. He pumps into my hand, spilling hot and thick over my fingers and wrist. He shudders against me, his forehead dropping to rest heavily against my bare chest as he rides out the aftershocks.
We stay like that for a long time. The only sound is the hum of the servers and our ragged, wet breathing. The smell of sex—bleach and musk—hangs heavy in the sterile air.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus.
I realize I am shirtless in the Sim Lab. I realize my hand is sticky with his fluids, and his hand is slick with mine.
I pull back, my chest heaving.
Jax is watching me. He looks wrecked—lips red and swollen, hair wild, eyes dark with satisfaction.
"You..." I clear my throat, trying to summon Dr. York. It is difficult when I am half-naked and covered in semen. I reach for a towel from the sink nearby.
"Let me," Jax says.
He takes the towel. He cleans my stomach and my thigh, efficient and surprisingly tender. He cleans my hand, wiping away the evidence of his climax with a reverence I wasn't expecting. Then he helps me button my shirt.
"Why?" I ask quietly, watching his deft fingers work the buttons.
"Why what?" He does the cuff buttons, smoothing the fabric.
"Why did you... let me take control?"
Jax looks up. He smiles. It’s a soft, crooked thing, entirely disarming.
"Because you hate being left out of the process, Max," he says. "And I figured you’d want to verify the output personally."
I stare at him. My chest aches, a different kind of tachycardia.
"You are..." I search for a word. "Impossible."
"Yeah, well." He fixes his own clothes, tucking himself away. He hops down, picks up the needle driver, and places it back on the tray. "Class dismissed?"
I slide off the table. My legs feel like jelly. I feel unmoored, but anchored at the same time.
"Class dismissed," I agree.
I grab my white coat. I put it on, buttoning it up, hiding the disarray. I am Dr. York again. The Ice King.
But as I walk to the door, I can still feel the ghost of his hands on me. The armor is compromised.
I pause at the threshold.
"Jax?"
He looks up from the tray.
"Your technique," I say, my voice steadying. "It was... adequate."
Jax grins, wicked and knowing. "High praise, coming from you."
I walk out into the hallway. I make it to the elevator before I realize I am smiling.
And I realize something else.
I am in trouble. Serious, catastrophic trouble.