Chapter 17 #2
What it says, sent to 347 patients including Pastor Morrison, Coach Griffith, and my eighty-seven-year-old grandmother: "This is a reminder from Largo Waters Family Medicine that you're due for your annual wetness exam. Please call to schedule. We look forward to getting you wet."
I read it three times.
"Jessica."
No response.
I push back from my desk and stride out of my office, through the waiting room, past the front desk. Her chair is empty. The computer screen shows the sent folder. Three hundred forty-seven messages. Delivered. Read. Probably screenshot and shared across every group chat in Largo Waters by now.
My phone buzzes again. Unknown number: Is this some kind of new alternative medicine thing? Because I'm interested.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Take a breath. Then another.
She's going to be devastated.
Jessica, who's already convinced she's a walking disaster. Who spent last night in tears over a filing system. Who's trying so desperately to prove she's not worthless.
She's going to think this is the final straw.
I need to find her.
Now.
The supply closet door is closed. That's wrong. It's supposed to be propped open. Has been propped open for years because the lock sticks and I once trapped a nurse inside for forty minutes.
I push it open.
Jessica is huddled on the floor between shelves of gauze and boxes of latex gloves, knees pulled to her chest, shoulders trembling with silent sobs.
Every instinct I have roars to life.
"Jessica."
"I saw it." Her voice is raw. Stripped. "After I sent them all. The autocorrect. Wellness to wetness. Exam to..." She hiccups. "I tried to send a correction but I just made it worse and now everyone thinks you're running some kind of..."
She dissolves into fresh sobs.
Words have never been my strength. Comfort has never come easily. But standing here watching her break apart over a mistake anyone could have made...
I step into the closet and close the door behind me. The space is small. Cramped. There's room for the two of us if we don't mind touching.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor across from her, my scrub-covered knees almost touching hers.
She looks up, startled. "What are you doing?"
I don't answer. Just sit. Present. Still.
"Aren't you going to yell at me?" Her voice breaks. "Fire me? Tell me I'm the worst employee you've ever had?"
I think about it.
"Probably," I say. "Later."
A wet laugh escapes her. Then another sob. Then she's crying again, face buried in her hands, whole body trembling.
I reach out and wrap my fingers around her ankle. The only contact I can manage in this cramped space. Grounding. Gentle.
Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her pants. Her pulse flutters against my palm, rabbit-quick and terrified.
"Breathe," I say. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
She tries. Fails. Tries again.
"Focus on my voice. Nothing else. Just breathe."
Slowly, the trembling subsides. Her breathing evens out. The tears stop flowing, leaving tracks down her cheeks that catch the dim light from the single bulb overhead.
She looks at me. Brown eyes swimming with exhaustion and shame.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
"I'm not nice."
"You're sitting on the floor of a supply closet when you could be out there doing damage control."
"Damage is done." I shrug. "Town already thinks I'm eccentric. This won't change much."
"I ruined your reputation."
"My reputation is that I'm the grumpy doctor who doesn't smile. A sex text might improve things."
Another wet laugh. This one sounds closer to genuine.
"It wasn't a sex text," she protests weakly. "It was a typo."
"Tell that to Mrs. Whight. She's probably already printed t-shirts."
Jessica groans and tips her head back against the shelf. A box of cotton balls wobbles. I reach up to steady it, and suddenly I'm leaning over her, one hand braced on the shelf above her head, the other still wrapped around her ankle.
Close. Too close.
Her scent floods my lungs. Brown sugar and floral notes, sweet and devastating. It's stronger now, amplified by her distress, by the tears still wet on her cheeks, by the way her body is pumping out pheromones that scream omega in need of comfort, omega hurting, omega alone.
My alpha responds before my brain can intervene.
A growl rumbles low in my chest. Possessive. Protective. Feral. The kind of sound I've spent my entire adult life suppressing because it feels too raw, too honest, too much.
Her eyes snap to mine. Wide. Startled. Her pupils dilate until the brown is nearly swallowed by black.
"Pedro." My name comes out breathless. Not afraid. Need.
Distance would be smart. Professional boundaries would be appropriate. Every single reason this is a terrible idea runs through my head in rapid succession.
My body refuses to listen.
My hand slides from her ankle up her calf. Slow. Deliberate. Mapping the curve of muscle beneath soft fabric. Her skin is warm even through the material. I can feel her pulse hammering beneath my palm, feel the fine tremor running through her.
"You're in distress." The words scrape out of me, rough and low. Alpha voice. Command voice. The one I never use. "Your scent is everywhere."
"What about it?" She's staring at me as if I'm the only thing in the world. As if the mess outside this closet doesn't exist. As if nothing exists except this moment.
"It's making me..." I lean closer. My nose brushes her temple. I breathe in deep and every nerve ending in my body lights up. "Feral."
A tremor runs through her. Her fingers fist in my scrub top, fabric bunching in her grip.
"I can smell you too," she whispers. Her voice wavers. "Pine and mint and something else. Something clean and sharp and it makes my omega want things I shouldn't want."
My hand slides higher. Thumb stroking the inside of her knee in slow circles. "What things?"
"You." The word breaks on a sob. "I want you to touch me. I need to forget everything except this. Except feeling good instead of worthless."
My forehead drops to hers. Our breaths mix in the tiny space between us. I can taste the salt of her tears, smell the desperation rolling off her in waves.
This is the moment. The line I'm about to cross.
"Jessica." Her name is a warning. A plea. My voice has gone deeper, rougher. "If I touch you the way you're asking, I won't want to stop."
"Then don't." Her hand tangles in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp. The bite of pain makes me groan. "Please, Pedro. I need this. Please."
The please shatters what's left of my control.
My hand moves to her hip. Grips hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to anchor. "Tell me exactly what you need."
"Make me forget." Fresh tears spill down her cheeks but these are different. Hot and desperate instead of broken. "Make me feel anything other than worthless and stupid and ruined."
I pull back just enough to look at her properly. To see the way her chest is heaving. The flush spreading down her throat. The glassy desperation in her eyes. Her scent is so thick in this closet I'm drowning in it, choking on it, drunk on the sweetness.
"You're sure?" I need to hear it again. Need her to say yes one more time before I cross this line. "Because once I start, I'm not stopping until you come apart."
"Yes." No hesitation. Her hand tightens in my hair. "God, yes. Please."
My hand finds the waistband of her pants. Fingers hook in the elastic. I pause, giving her one final chance to change her mind, to push me away, to remember all the reasons this is insane.
She lifts her hips.
Permission granted.
I slide her pants down to her knees. Slowly. Watching her face the entire time. Then her underwear. Simple cotton. Already damp. The scent of her arousal hits me and I have to close my eyes and breathe through my nose to keep from completely losing my mind.
When I open them again, she's watching me. Vulnerable. Exposed. Trembling.
"Spread your legs for me." The command comes out pure alpha. Rough and demanding and leaving no room for argument.
She does. As much as she can in this cramped space, knees falling apart, offering herself to me.
I drop to my knees between her thighs.
The concrete floor is hard and cold. I don't care. Don't care about anything except the sight in front of me. Jessica, legs spread, already glistening, her scent so strong it's making my mouth water.
"Pedro." My name is a whimper. "Please."
"I've got you." I press a kiss to the inside of her knee. Gentle. Reverent. "Let me take care of you."
I work my way up slowly. Kissing. Nipping with careful teeth. Tasting the salt of her skin. Her thigh trembles under my mouth. I can feel her pulse jumping, hear the way her breathing has gone ragged and uneven.
When I reach the crease where her thigh meets her body, I pause. Look up at her.
She's watching me with wild eyes. Her hands are gripping the edge of the shelf behind her so hard her knuckles have gone white. Her chest is heaving. A flush has spread across her cheeks, down her throat, disappearing beneath her blouse.
I want to see how far down it goes. Want to strip her bare and map every inch of flushed skin with my mouth.
Later.
I lean in and take my first taste.
Sweet. God, she's sweet.
The flavor explodes across my tongue. Brown sugar and honey and her. I could get addicted to this. To her. I already am after one taste.
My alpha purrs deep in my chest. Satisfied. Possessive. Mine.
I lick a slow stripe through her folds and she gasps. Her hips jerk. One hand flies from the shelf to my hair, fingers tangling, gripping, pulling.
I do it again. Slower this time. Taking my time to learn her. To catalog every ridge and fold. To find what makes her breath catch and her thighs tremble and her fingers tighten in my hair.
"Oh God." Her head falls back against the shelf with a soft thunk. "Pedro, that's... oh..."
I circle her clit with my tongue. Testing. Her whole body jerks.
There.