Chapter 9 #2
“You can’t say shit like that. We’re at work,” I hiss, but I can’t help the grin tugging at my lips.
He shrugs, finishing his sandwich in two bites. “We’re in my office. Who’s going to know.” He opens his salad, shovels a big bite into his mouth. His mouth works—chewing, licking his lips—and my mind wanders.
“Watching you eat might be my new favorite hobby,” I murmur, mesmerized.
He arches a brow. “That’s because you know what I can do with my tongue and lips.”
Oof. My nipples pebble, and I shift in my seat.
My brain conveniently conjures up the image of him and that woman—Casey—but my body doesn’t care. Not right now. I just want his hands on me.
“You gotta stop turning me on,” I mutter. “My nipples are already sensitive. They’re a constant distraction when you’re around.”
He sets his food down, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Show me.”
I stare. “What, now?”
He beams. “Yeah. I want to see my handiwork.”
This man.
For a moment, it’s easy to forget the photo, the note. But it’s there, a tiny blade of grief under all this tension.
Slowly, I shimmy my scrub top up and unclip my bra, letting it fall open.
My breasts spill free, and the relief is instant—no more chafing, no more pinching.
The cool air hits my sensitive nipples, and they tighten harder.
I moan softly, running my fingers over the aching buds and the jewelry that always keeps them a little too alive.
“Oh God,” I whine, lightly pinching them. “They ache so bad.”
“Want me to make it better?” His voice drops, dark and hot.
“Yes, please,” I breathe.
“So polite. How can I resist?”
He circles the table, dropping to his knees and gently nudging my thighs open. “So fucking gorgeous,” he whispers. His palms cradle my breasts, thumbs sweeping over the sensitive piercings—his handiwork—sending sharp, delicious jolts straight to my core.
He leans in, kissing one nipple, then the other. His mouth is hot, the stubble on his jaw scraping deliciously against my skin. I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair.
“Whenever I see these, they take my fucking breath away,” he says, reverent. Since he pierced them they’ve been ultra-sensitive. He trails his mouth across both breasts, licking and softly biting, leaving me gasping.
My hips rock, desperate for more, needing pressure, needing release.
He pauses to grab his water bottle, takes a swig, then latches onto one nipple.
The shock of cold water in his mouth makes me cry out, my body jerking in response.
He does the same to the other, and I buck helplessly, seeking that final push.
“Can’t wait to pierce your clit next.”
God, I want that too, more than anything. The thought of my clit pulsing all the time, of it throbbing and needing constant friction, has me breathless.
I lift my hips and he yanks off my scrub bottoms and panties in one go, sneakers and all, then drags my hips to the edge of the couch.
Two fingers drive into me, curling and pounding as his thumb grinds against my clit.
His mouth latches onto one nipple while his free hand tugs at the piercing in the other.
Instantly, my orgasm rips through me. My back arches, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as I try to keep the scream from bursting out.
I shudder through the aftershocks and open my eyes to find his dark ones fixed on me.
He brushes a knuckle down my thigh. “Better now?”
I manage a nod.
“Good. Playtime’s over. Let’s go.” He slaps my thigh and heads for the bathroom.
I move quickly, unhooking the IV and putting myself back together. I’m still lacing up my sneakers when he steps out of the bathroom, face relaxed—but the hard bulge in his pants says otherwise.
“You’ve got your color back.”
“An epic orgasm will do that,” I shoot back, unable to hide my grin.
He chuckles and reaches for my arm. “Let me take out your cannula.” His hands move efficiently, stripping the tape and sliding the needle out, pressing down to stem the blood.
As he works, he shifts slightly, adjusting his scrubs.
My eyes flick down, catching the thick swell straining against the fabric, hard as steel.
“You can’t go out there like that,” I tease.
He shakes his head, a low groan in his throat. “We don’t have time.”
“Let me take care of it,” I coax, my tone jovial. He checks my arm, the small bandage neat and tidy. “I’ll be quick,” I promise, giving my voice the sweet lilt that I know he can’t resist.
“I’ve already been gone for too long.”
“You’ll be distracted, come on.”
His lips twitch in a grin. “Okay. Drop your scrubs and pull open your panties.”
I quickly unlace the drawstring of my scrubs, tug them over my ass, and peel the front of my panties down while he frees his cock. God, it’s beautiful—thick, hard, veins standing out, the head flushed and slick. My mouth waters at the sight, but I know he won’t let me have it there. Not now.
He rubs the tip along my clit, slow and deliberate, each stroke making me whimper. Then he drags it through my folds, back and forth, gathering my wetness until he’s glistening with it. My hands hold my panties, and I’m trembling, biting my lip to keep from begging for more.
It only takes a minute, maybe less, before he positions the head at the edge of my panties and comes. Hot and thick, it spurts across my slit and pools into the gusset, soaking me with him. His jaw slackens, eyes locked on the mess he’s made.
“Fuck,” he groans.
I don’t wait for him to tell me. I pull my panties into place, the wet, sticky heat of him snug against my folds. It’s filthy, and it’s perfect. I love it—the weight of it, the way it claims me. I know he wants me to feel it for the rest of the shift. To be owned by him, to carry him with me.
“That’s my girl.” He sighs, tucking himself into his pants.
He kisses me, slow and sweet, like we’ve done this a hundred times… and maybe we have. My chest tightens at the tenderness in it.
“Let’s go save some lives, Gigi,” he says, lines at his eyes and mouth eased.
And just like that, we’re back in the real world—seamlessly, as if I’m not walking out of his office with a literal load in my panties and a heavier load on my heart.