Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
OWEN
I know I’m practically dragging Wyatt through the bar. I know people are looking.
I don’t care.
I need her.
I’m not entirely sure where I’m going, but Wyatt quickly takes charge and pulls me past the bathrooms and through a door at the end of the small hallway. Inside are shelves of cardboard boxes, stacks of napkins wrapped in plastic, extra pint glasses and dishware. There’s a wonky table in the middle with two torn chairs beside it.
“Storage closet meets break room,” Wyatt says, already breathless. She pulls the door shut and clicks the lock. “We’ve probably got about fifteen minutes before Jonah forgets how to use the register and comes knocking.”
I don’t hesitate. In two long steps I’m pressing her against the door, my mouth covering hers.
Immediately I feel the knots of tension in my neck and shoulders begin to loosen.
My day hasn’t been particularly difficult. It was good, even. Just a day of well-child visits where I got to assure a parade of nervous parents that their kids were perfect.
It’s usually my favorite kind of day. But I still couldn’t manage to stave off the tension headache that’s been plaguing me since lunch.
But with one swipe of my tongue across Wyatt’s, something releases. When I thread my fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck, my thumbs stroking her jaw as I kiss her, there’s immediate relief.
I coast along her jawline to her ear, pressing my tongue to the spot just behind it that makes her sigh, then nip at her earlobe.
“The scrubs are a good look,” she says between gasps.
“Yeah?” I keep my mouth on her neck, licking and sucking and pulling all kinds of delicious little gasps from her. I forgot I was even wearing them. I keep extras in my office for when disaster strikes. Today it was a four-year-old who threw up—I caught it with the trash can, but her mother went green at the sight, and I wasn’t quick enough to transfer the trash can to her.
Not a story I intend to tell Wyatt, especially when her palm is exploring the shape of my cock, which is growing harder by the second.
“I never thought I was into the whole ‘playing doctor’ thing, but you’re changing my mind.”
I bite down on her neck and she yelps, then laughs.
“You want an exam, Wyatt?” I growl into her ear. “I’d be happy to check you out.”
I tilt my head and catch the delicious flare in her eyes. So I coast one hand up her torso, letting my thumb linger for just a second on the hard peak of her nipple under her tank top, then travel higher. I drag my fingers along the column of her neck, resting them just below her jaw.
I press, and her pulse jumps beneath my touch. I watch the dusty old plastic clock on the wall over her shoulder, the second hand ticking.
“What are you—” she gasps, but I kiss her again.
“Hush,” I scold her. “I’m counting.”
She stills, her chest barely moving.
“Breathe, Wyatt,” I whisper, enjoying the view of her chest heaving as she tries to breathe normally. When she settles into a rhythm, I count. “Ninety-two beats per minute. Good. Steady. Perhaps a touch elevated. Are you experiencing any…excitement, Ms. Hart?”
Wyatt huffs out a tiny laugh. “Well, a tall, dark, and handsome doctor dragged me to a storeroom to have his way with me, so I’d say yes.”
“Mmmmm.” I can practically feel her pulse in my cock. I release her neck and drop my hand immediately to her thigh, enjoying the goose bumps that rise on her skin as I move my hand beneath her skirt. “You know, there’s another spot you can take a pulse.”
“Oh?” she says, playing along, then moaning when I nudge the hem of her panties and press my fingers into the crease at the top of her thigh.
“The femoral pulse,” I say, finding the flutter of her heart. And then I take my other hand and dip into her panties, taking a swipe at the warm, wet, delicate bundle of nerves. Wyatt’s body reacts immediately, her pulse skittering beneath my touch.
I force myself to pause.
To count.
“One hundred and sixteen beats per minute,” I whisper, still circling her clit and pressing kisses along her jaw. “How high do you think we can get it?”
Wyatt lets out a sound that is somehow both a laugh and a moan, then reaches for the drawstring of my scrub pants. “Enough playing,” she says, dipping into my boxer briefs to wrap her hand around my cock. She squeezes, giving me a rough stroke that pulls a growl from deep in my chest. “Fuck me, Doctor.”
The words nearly have me tearing her panties from her body, but I manage to remember that she’s going to have to finish her shift in this skirt. The thought of her walking around the Half Pint bare is the sexiest fucking thing; it practically drives me to madness.
I quickly drag her panties down her thighs, pausing to lick the mess I’ve already made of her pussy with just my hand. The taste of her coats my tongue, and as long as I live, I know my mouth will always water at the thought of Wyatt Hart.
Wyatt seems equally frantic, stepping out of her black lace panties and kicking them into the corner as she yanks on the waistband of my scrub pants.
“Easy, trigger,” I tease, slowing her down so I can retrieve the condom I stashed in my back pocket.
“You can’t drag a girl into a storeroom and bring her seconds from orgasm and then fault her for getting a little frisky,” she says with a dramatic pout.
“You’ll hear no complaints from me,” I tell her as I roll the condom on. Then I grab her hips and lift, her legs wrapping around my waist as I press her into the door and bury myself inside her in one frenzied thrust.
I have to pause for a moment so I don’t come immediately. The feeling of being inside her, her ankles pressing into my back to pull me in deeper, her breasts heaving—it’s all too much. I can’t believe this feisty, funny, dazzling woman is letting me fuck her. Is letting me have her, even when I know she hates to give any part of herself away.
I don’t take it for granted. Not for a second.
“You counting heartbeats again, Doc?” Wyatt gasps as she squirms on my cock, urging me to move.
“Give me a second, woman.” I give her ass a squeeze. She responds by squeezing her inner walls until I groan. I lock eyes with her, brows furrowed, trying to hide my grin behind a stern look. “You brat. For that I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”
Wyatt just arches an eyebrow as if to say, Don’t threaten me with a good time .
And so I spare her no mercy as I fuck her against the door of the storeroom at the Half Pint. I fuck her until the glasses rattle on the shelf beside us, fuck her until her lips part, her moans mingling with the muffled sounds from the jukebox, fuck her until a flush climbs her chest and settles into her cheeks. I thrust and roll my hips so I catch her clit with every movement, and when I feel her getting close, I reach down and swipe across it with my thumb.
And just as she comes, I watch her eyes flutter shut, watch her disappear inside herself as she falls apart in my arms.
I want to beg, to plead, to will her to open her eyes. I want to see her—really see her—as she comes, want to connect with her as I make her shatter.
Instead, I press my lips to hers, caressing her tongue with mine, tasting her satisfaction, as my own orgasm roars through me.
When my atoms feel like they’ve arranged themselves into human form again, I put her down and watch her eyes flutter open. They’re wide and sparkling, her pupils dilated, and when she’s finally able to focus on me, she bites her lip and smiles.
“Want to go to a concert?”