Chapter 5 Mia
Mia
Ijolt awake with a gasp, my body on fire.
The sheets are twisted around my legs like desperate hands, damp with sweat and something else.
For a moment, I'm disoriented, the dream still vivid behind my eyelids—Sebastian's mouth on my neck, his hands gripping my hips, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and there's an insistent throbbing between my legs that makes me press my thighs together.
"Fuck," I whisper to the empty room, my voice hoarse like I've been screaming. Maybe I have. The clock on my nightstand tells me it’s still thirteen minutes before my alarm goes off. I flop back against the pillows and squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes the images sharper.
Sebastian's dark eyes, burning as they travel down my naked body. Those large hands sliding up my thighs as he whispers filthy promises against my skin.
"No, no, no," I groan, throwing an arm over my face.
This cannot be happening. I'm not some hormone-crazed teenager fantasizing about her teacher.
I'm a damn doctor, a professional, and Sebastian Walker is my boss.
My impossibly gorgeous, brilliantly infuriating boss who looks at me like I'm a particularly annoying puzzle he can't solve.
I kick off the sheets and sit up, running my hands through my tangled curls.
The movement sends a pulse of awareness through my breasts, my nipples still tight and sensitive from the phantom touch of dream-Sebastian's mouth.
Between my legs, I'm wet and aching, my body clearly not getting the memo that the man it's craving was completely imaginary.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I pad toward the bathroom.
The tiles are cold beneath my feet, grounding me slightly as I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat.
Steam begins to fill the small space, fogging the mirror until my reflection is nothing but a blurry suggestion of red hair and pale skin.
I step under the spray and close my eyes, letting the water cascade over my face, down my neck, between my breasts.
It feels good, too good. Each droplet is like a tiny caress, and my skin is still hypersensitive from the dream.
I reach for the soap, determined to wash away this ridiculous arousal, but as I slide the bar across my collarbone, down over my breast, my nipple tightens beneath its path.
"This is pathetic," I mutter, but I can't seem to stop my hand from continuing its journey downward, over the slight curve of my stomach and farther between my thighs.
I should stop. I really should. But my fingers have a mind of their own, slipping through my wetness to find my clit that's been throbbing since I woke up. I gasp as I make contact, my knees nearly buckling at the jolt of pleasure that shoots through me.
The warm water pounds against my back as I brace my other hand against the tile wall and rest my forehead against my forearm. Sebastian's face forms behind my closed lids, that stern mouth curved into a hint of a smile, those dark eyes watching me come undone.
"Fuck it," I breathe, giving in. My fingers circle slowly at first, then faster as my breathing quickens.
In my mind, it's Sebastian's hand between my legs, his long fingers teasing, exploring, and claiming.
I imagine the weight of his body pressing me against the shower wall, his mouth hot on my neck, his voice in my ear.
I slide two fingers inside myself, curling them just right as my thumb still works in tight circles. The pressure builds low in my belly, a coiling tension that winds tighter with each stroke. Water runs down my face, between my parted lips as I pant, racing toward the edge.
I gasp as the first wave hits, my body clenching around my fingers. "Sebastian." His name echoes off the shower walls as I come. My hips jerk against my hand as waves of pleasure pulse through me until my legs tremble and I have to press my whole body against the tile to stay upright.
Reality rushes back as the last aftershocks fade. The water is starting to cool, and I'm standing in my shower, calling out my boss's name while I get myself off. Fantastic. Really professional, Mia.
I quickly finish washing, scrubbing my skin like I can erase the memory of what just happened, of the fantasy that felt far too real. As I step out and wrap a towel around myself, my reflection in the now-cleared mirror shows flushed cheeks and bright eyes that betray everything I'm trying to deny.
I blow-dry my hair with unnecessary force, as if the heat and noise can chase away the lingering images of Sebastian's hands, his mouth, his eyes. By the time I'm dressed in my scrubs I've almost convinced myself that I can face him without blushing like a teenager.
And when I grab my keys and messenger bag, I make myself a promise: today, I will be nothing but the consummate professional.
I will wow Sebastian Walker with my medical brilliance, not my sexual fantasies.
I will solve cases, save lives, and definitely, absolutely not think about what he might look like naked.
"You've got this, Mia," I say to the empty apartment as I head out the door.
The throbbing between my legs as I walk to my car suggests otherwise.
At least it’s stopped when I arrive in the half-full parking lot, early despite my morning.
.. distraction. I sit in my car for an extra minute, hands gripping the wheel as I mentally run through my game plan: be professional, focus on the medicine, don't stare at Sebastian's hands.
Or his mouth. Or the way his forearms look when he rolls up his sleeves.
"You're a doctor, not a teenager," I mutter to myself, grabbing my bag and getting out of the car. "Act like it."
Sierra Mercy looks almost peaceful in the early morning light, the red brick facade warmed by the rising sun. I adjust my messenger bag, take a deep breath of cool morning air, and head toward the entrance with purposeful strides. I can do this. I'll be calm, collected, and brilliant.
"Morning, Dr. Phillips," calls a nurse I recognize from yesterday as I pass through the lobby. I smile and wave, relieved that my first human interaction of the day doesn't involve the star of my shower fantasy.
I'm still congratulating myself on my composure as I round the corner toward the elevators, my mind already shifting to the cases we might discuss today, when I slam directly into what feels like a brick wall in human form.
Strong hands grip my upper arms to steady me, and I'm suddenly engulfed in a familiar scent. My eyes travel up from a broad chest covered in a crisp blue button-down to a strong jaw dusted with stubble and finally lock with the dark eyes that had been burning into mine in my dream just hours ago.
Sebastian Walker.
Of course.
We're pressed together for all of two seconds, but it's enough time for my treacherous body to register every point of contact—his hands on my arms, his chest against mine, his breath warming my face. He's solid and warm and so real that my fantasy version suddenly seems pale in comparison.
"Dr. Phillips," he says, his voice low as he quickly releases me and steps back. His eyes flick over me, taking in my appearance. Is it my imagination, or do they linger for a fraction of a second longer than necessary?
"Dr. Walker," I manage, my voice mercifully steady despite the heat climbing up my neck. "I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where—"
"Clearly," he interrupts, straightening his already perfectly straight tie. "Perhaps save the daydreaming for off-hours."
The unfairness of the comment—when I was actually thinking about work before he appeared—sparks a flare of irritation that cuts through my embarrassment. "I wasn't daydreaming. I was reviewing potential diagnostics for Cheryl's case."
"And?" he prompts, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that makes the fabric of his shirt pull taut across his shoulders. I force my eyes to stay on his face.
"I think we should look at heavy metal toxicity again." The words tumble out. "I know you ruled it out, but dancers often use old theaters with lead paint, and the peripheral neuropathy combined with the GI symptoms is classic for—"
"We tested for lead, arsenic, and mercury," he cuts me off again. "All negative."
"But did you test for cadmium?" I counter. "It's less common but would explain the—"
"Staff meeting. Ten minutes," he says, already stepping around me. "Don't be late."
And then he's gone, striding down the hall with that efficient grace that somehow manages to be both irritating and attractive. I stand there for a moment, trying to process what just happened.
The elevator dings its arrival, snapping me out of my thoughts. I step inside, pressing the button for the fourth floor harder than necessary, as if I can channel my frustration into the small plastic circle.
By the time I reach the diagnostics conference room, I've managed to mostly compose myself. The physical encounter with Sebastian has left me more rattled than I'd like to admit, but at least I didn't completely embarrass myself. That's a win in my book.
Dr. El-Sayed is already seated at the table. She gives me a brief nod as I enter. Dr. Kim shuffles in behind me, mumbling a quiet good morning before taking a seat as far from Naima as possible while still being at the same table. The only one missing is—
"Morning, colleagues," Dr. Langston announces as he strides in, looking like he stepped out of a medical journal photoshoot.
His hair is impeccably styled, his tie matches his eyes, and his smile has that practiced charm that makes me instantly wary.
He takes the seat directly across from me, folding his hands on the table.
"Dr. Phillips, isn't it? I don't believe we were properly introduced yesterday. "