5. Sam
FIVE
Sam
I get home after one. My body’s exhausted after eleven hours on my feet. We had two emergency traumas, one combative patient with a needle phobia, and zero patience. I should be unconscious.
But my brain won’t shut off. It's the kind of wired that doesn’t come from caffeine or adrenaline.
It comes from a text.
In Palm Beach next week for board meetings. Dinner?
Just that. No punctuation. No emojis. Just my mysterious, fleeting neighbor being exactly as confident and composed over text as he was in person.
I read it twice when it came in. Then a third time. I haven’t opened it again since. Not because I’m not tempted, but because I am. I was too busy to think of what to say back.
I tell myself not to overthink it. I’m just curious. That’s all. About the man who showed up out of nowhere and ruined my ability to function like a normal human being for a full week.
Instead of sleeping, I change into a tank top and climb into bed with my laptop. I tell myself I’m just answering emails, checking schedules. Normal things.
Instead, I type his name into the search bar.
The first sip of my Citrine sleepy-time juice floods my mouth with spicy ginger and earthy kale. It delivers a jolt that matches the electricity still coursing through my body whenever I think of Cole.
"Let's see exactly who you are, neighbor," I say to my computer.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, typing his name. The search results populate instantly. Cole Houston. Houston Enterprises.
I click the first link, a Forbes profile from last year.
"Houston Enterprises," I whisper, scanning the article. "Real estate development and acquisition. Assets totaling... Wow. This guy is the shit."
The number makes me choke on my juice. I quickly calculate zeros in my head, confirming what I'm seeing. Not millions. Billions. With a B.
My stomach does a little flip as I scroll through photos of him at charity galas, business conferences, and one particularly striking image of him standing on a yacht in Monaco.
His tailored suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly, that jawline even more pronounced as he gazes toward the camera with those piercing blue-gray eyes.
The same eyes that looked up at me from between my thighs.
Heat crawls up my neck. I gulp more juice, like the room temperature liquid might extinguish the fire his memory ignites .
I grab my phone and text Arden.
You won't believe who my beach hookup is. COLE HOUSTON. Yes, THAT Houston. The real estate mogul. Google him!
I stare at my phone, waiting for the bubbles that don't appear. Right. Tuesday night. She mentioned something about a sports star and a potential scandal breaking.
She's either deep asleep or deep into work. Either way, she isn't answering me now.
Back to my laptop. I scroll through more articles, learning about his ruthless business tactics and the empire he's built from supposedly nothing.
"Self-made billionaire," one headline declares.
Another calls him "The King of Commercial Real Estate in Manhattan."
He was inside of me. I'm feeling dizzy with the revelation.
I click on image after image, articles, interviews, drinking in information about this man who walked up from my beach and into my life. The way he carries himself in every photo, confident and detached, is so different from how he looked at me, with raw hunger in his eyes.
My body remembers his touch with embarrassing clarity. The way his hands gripped my hips. How his mouth knew exactly where to go.
I slam my laptop closed, suddenly aware I'm breathing too fast.
For a second, I lay there. Staring at the ceiling, willing my pulse to slow down.
It doesn’t.
I turn onto my side, then my back again. Flip the pillow. Toss the sheet off, pull it back on. My legs are restless, my brain won’t quit, and my body is thrumming like it’s still under his hands.
The clock on my nightstand glows 3:17 AM. It's bright, judgy. Unforgiving.
It's not the pillow's fault, or my position, or the sheet on or off. It's the memory of Cole's hands that keeps me awake, the ghost of his touch haunting my skin.
I close my eyes, and there he is, the intensity in his gaze as he watched me, the confident path his fingers traced.
My breath catches in my throat. The sheets tangle around my legs as I shift again, a warmth building low in my belly that has nothing to do with the Florida heat.
I guess I need a little help with sleep. I let out a shaky breath as my hand slides down, for the second night in a row.
Give myself just a little help, just enough to chase the edge off and turn off my brain.
The first brush over my center sends a jolt through me. I’m already soaked.
I draw small circles, my breath hitching with every pass. I tease myself like he did, dragging it out, building the ache until I’m squirming. My thighs squeeze together, chasing more friction, more pressure.
I press harder, rubbing faster, my breaths coming shallow and sharp. I raise my knees, press my feet into the bed, and lift my hips.
My free hand fists the sheet. All I can think about is the heat of his mouth between my legs, the weight of his body pinning mine.
I slip two fingers inside, slow and deep. My lips part in a silent gasp. The stretch burns just enough to make me whimper. I push again, then again, curling just right, the heel of my hand grinding against my clit with every thrust .
He’s in my head, whispering filthy things. Mine. "You like when I touch you like this? Say it."
My hips buck. My legs shake. I bite down on a moan, but it still escapes.
It builds and builds and breaks all at once. I arch off the bed as the orgasm crashes through me, sharp and hot, like a dam finally bursting.
When it fades, I stay still, fingers still buried, skin flushed and damp. My breath comes in slow, uneven waves.
“Fuck,” I whisper, eyes squeezed shut as I picture his face above me.
For a few perfect seconds, everything goes quiet—my mind, my doubts, my fears. Then reality settles back in as my breathing evens out. I stare at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, both satisfied and hollow.
I've never been this person. The one who fantasizes about a man she barely knows. The one who replays every second of a hookup like it meant something more.
I grab my second pillow and slide it between my legs, letting the pressure carry me a little longer.
I'm drowning in hospital responsibilities, fighting to prove I’m worthy of my mother’s legacy. The last thing I need is a distraction like Cole Houston—especially one who sits on the hospital board.
My eyelids finally grow heavy around 4 a.m., and I drift toward sleep with his face still floating in my mind... and the imagined weight of his thigh between mine.
The alarm blares far too soon, yanking me out of a dream where Cole’s hands were finishing what mine had started. I groan, slap the snooze button, and force myself upright.
By the time I drag into the elevator at the hospital parking garage, I’m half-awake at best.
I punch the button for the surgical floor and lean against the wall, grateful for a moment of silence. My hair’s a mess, the circles under my eyes are brutal, and no amount of concealer could make me look less terrifying.
I'm a third-year resident. I should be getting more sleep at this point.
Three hours of sleep. That’s what I get for internet-stalking a billionaire… and everything else.
A yawn escapes as the elevator dings. I straighten my shoulders, mentally shifting into doctor mode despite my exhaustion.
The hospital corridor bustles with the familiar morning rhythm. Nurses are changing shifts, patients are being wheeled from here to there, and the constant beeping of monitors is like white noise.
I'm halfway to the residents' lounge when a familiar lanky figure appears beside me.
"Holy shit, Taylor. You look like you've been up all night."
Kip falls into step with me, his sandy hair still damp from a morning shower. His eyes narrow behind those ridiculous wire-rimmed glasses.
"Well, good morning to you, too."
"Late-night surgery, or something else?"
I roll my eyes, fighting the heat threatening to rise in my cheeks. "I was here until after 1 on an emergency case. Then, when I got home, I couldn't sleep. You know, the glamorous life we lead."
"Right.Coffee? You look like you need life support."
"God, yes. "
We change direction toward the cafeteria. The smell of mediocre coffee and day-old pastries greets us as we push through the double doors. I head straight for the counter to order a latte while Kip grabs us a table after getting black coffee from the self-serve station.
"So," I set down my cup and slide into the plastic chair across from him. "What's on your schedule today?"
Kip glances around before leaning forward. "Never mind that. Heard the latest?"
"What do you mean?"
His voice drops to just above a whisper. "Board's considering major restructuring due to financial pressure."
My sleepy brain snaps to attention. "What kind of restructuring?"
"Word is they're looking at a concierge model pivot." He stirs his coffee without drinking it.
"I don't even know what that means."
"Rich patients, private doctors, exclusive care. It could be good for us if we stay on here after residency."
I frown, mentally calculating what that would mean for our patient demographics. "That's not what this hospital stands for."
Kip hesitates, tugging at his earlobe, his nervous tell. "I guess you're right. Would they even need your mom's wing? I didn't think about that."
I freeze, my mug halfway to my lips. "My mother's wing? They can't just?—"
"It's all just talk right now," Kip cuts in gently.
I take a sip of my coffee, burning my tongue.
"But you do make a good point."
I didn't make a good point. He did. But if we become concierge, would they even need a big hospital, a wing dedicated to children, or to underprivileged communities ?