Desmond
She walked into my office, the door barely cracked, and I knew before she spoke that this wasn't going to be a polite conversation. I straightened, trying to summon calm. Tried to keep the pulse steady behind my ribs. “This isn't a good time,” I said, measured.
Her eyes didn't waver. Her voice was tight. “Then stop doing things that make it worse.”
Heat skittered down my spine. Damn it. I hated that she could do that without touching me, hated that my heartbeat betrayed me in a way she probably felt. She crossed the room, deliberate, purposeful, a storm I could neither stop nor ignore.
“You shouldn't be here,” I said. Tried to keep my voice firm. Tried to draw a line. Tried to stay professional.
“You don't get to decide that,” she said. And just like that, the line evaporated. “You don't get to defend me in hallways and not tell me.”
I clenched my jaw. I wasn't defending her. Not in the way she thought. But that truth didn't sound good, not to her, not to me. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
“Bullshit,” she spat. And it slammed into me harder than any trauma room, harder than any crisis I'd ever walked into.
I exhaled, counting in my head. One… two… failing before I even reached three. “I corrected unprofessional behavior.”
“At my expense,” she said, stepping closer. Her intensity pressed at me, demanding acknowledgment, demanding surrender. “You risked my reputation without even asking me.”
I moved closer, trying to reclaim space, trying to reclaim reason. “I shut down a man who was undermining you.”
“And you don't see how that looks worse?” She challenged, the fire in her eyes close to matching that of her hair. “Don’t you think people will notice when you step in like that?”
I should have said nothing. I should have turned away. I should have enforced every professional boundary I still had left. Instead, I let the words out, rough and honest. “I don't care what they notice.”
Her chest rose and fell against the air between us. “I care,” she whispered.
I dropped my voice to a low, ragged edge. “That's why I didn't tell you.” Silence slammed into the room. Thick. Full. Every second I spent restraining myself, restraining desire, restraining care, seemed to be pressing into me from all sides.
“You don't get to protect me by keeping me ignorant,” she said.
“I wasn't protecting you,” I admitted. “I was protecting myself.”
Her breath hitched. I could feel it, smell it, and I was halfway undone. “From what?” she asked.
“From wanting you,” I said. My voice sounded foreign and dangerous. “From making this worse than it already is.” The door clicked shut behind her. I didn't care. Couldn't care.
“You don't get to say things like that,” she whispered, stepping closer, hand brushing against me. “Not after everything.”
“I won’t apologize,” I muttered. “Not for defending you. Not for standing up for you. Not for putting—”
And then she reached for me with full force. And all my restraint shattered like glass. Hands tangled, mouths colliding, the desk becoming a barrier and a playground all at once. I cursed under my breath, half fury, half relief, losing all control I'd ever prided myself on.
“This is a terrible idea,” I muttered, because I wasn't lying.
“You already tried being good,” she breathed against my jaw. And she was right.
Her words hung between us, a challenge I couldn't ignore.
My hands gripped her waist, pulling her against me even as my mind screamed to stop.
She tasted like frustration and fire, her lips bruising mine with the force of everything unsaid.
I backed up, my calves hitting the edge of my office chair, and we tumbled into it together, the leather creaking under our weight.
"We can't," I growled, even as my fingers yanked at the hem of her scrub top, shoving it up just enough to expose her skin. Her bra was simple, white, practical — nothing at all like the chaos she unleashed in me.
I palmed her breast through the fabric, thumb circling her hardening nipple, feeling her arch into my touch.
"Shut up," she hissed, her hands fumbling with the tie on my scrubs.
The hiss of the bleached fabric echoed entirely too loudly in the quiet room.
She didn't wait for permission, didn't hesitate.
Her fingers wrapped around my waistband, tugging it down, and then she was fishing out my cock, already hard and throbbing from the heat of her anger pressed against me.
I groaned, low and ragged, as she stroked me once, twice, her grip firm and unyielding.
"Anya..." My voice cracked on her name, the age between us feeling like a chasm and a magnet all at once.
She was young, brilliant, everything I shouldn't want, but here she was, straddling my lap in my goddamn office.
“Have you been with anyone since?” She breathed against my ear, hand stilling around my dick. “Have you fucked anyone else, Doctor Vaughn?”
“Fuck no,” I rasped, pressing my lips against her racing pulse point. “I’ve never been with anyone like you, Volkov.” My hips bucked, just barely, into her palm. “And certainly not since the last time.”
“Good,” she said, her breath hot against my neck as she shifted, hiking down her scrub pants and panties just enough on one side.
No time for finesse, no stripping down. Just raw need.
She positioned herself over me, the tip of my cock nudging against her slick entrance, and sank down slowly, inch by inch, clenching around me like a vice.
Fuck. The stretch, the heat — it hit me like a punch.
I gripped her hips, fingers digging into the fabric of her pants, holding her steady as she bottomed out.
She was tight, wet, her body taking me despite the barriers we both knew we should keep up.
“This is insane,” I muttered, my head falling back against the chair, but my hips bucked up anyway, driving deeper.
She started moving then, rising and falling with a rhythm that matched her fury — sharp, demanding thrusts that made the chair roll slightly on its wheels.
Her hands braced on my shoulders, nails biting through my shirt, and she rode me hard, her pussy sliding up and down my cock, coating me in her arousal.
Each drop sent jolts through me, the friction building fast, too fast.
"You think you can just... defend me like that?
" she panted, her voice breaking as she ground down, circling her hips to hit that spot inside her.
Her top was still bunched up, bra askew, one breast spilling out now as she moved.
I leaned forward, capturing her nipple in my mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
"I had to," I admitted between licks, my tongue flicking over the pebbled flesh.
"Couldn't let him talk about you like that.
" My hands slid under her ass, partially covered by her pants, lifting her to meet my upward thrusts.
The office smelled like us now — sweat, sex, the faint antiseptic from the hall lingering like a reminder of where we were.
She moaned, low and frustrated, her pace quickening.
"We shouldn't... fuck, we shouldn't be doing this.
" But she didn't stop. If anything, her walls tightened around me, pulling me deeper as she bounced, her thighs flexing against mine.
The chair squeaked in protest, but I didn't care.
The door was locked — or at least I hoped it was.
Anyone could knock, interrupt, but that risk only made her clench harder.
“The door,” she breathed, eyes darting away from me. “Did I lock it?”
Even as she spoke, I felt her walls flutter around me. She could try to play coy, but the knowledge of how dangerous this was only added to the heat.
I thrust up harder, matching her anger with my own, the slap of our partially clothed bodies echoing softly.
"Then stop," I challenged, even as I chased the edge, my cock swelling inside her.
She was so much younger, so full of fire I envied, and it drove me wild, the wrongness of it all fueling every stroke.
"No," she breathed, her head tipping back, eyes squeezed shut as she rode me faster.
Her pussy fluttered, close now, and I reached between us, thumb finding her clit through the shifted fabric of her panties, rubbing in tight circles.
She cried out, the sound muffled against my throat as she came, her body shuddering, milking my cock with rhythmic pulses.
That was it. I followed her over, groaning her name as I spilled inside her, hot spurts filling her up while she kept moving, drawing it out. We stayed like that, panting, her forehead against mine, clothes disheveled but still on, the tension humming between us like it always did.
"This changes nothing," I whispered, even though we both knew it changed everything.
Her body trembled against mine, the aftershocks of her release rippling through her, still gripping my cock in soft, insistent pulses. I was buried deep, spent but not softening yet, the warmth of her surrounding me like a secret we couldn't escape.
Sweat beaded on her skin; her scrub top rumpled, exposing the curve of her ribs and the swell of her breasts. I traced a finger along her side, light, almost reverent, feeling the rapid flutter of her breath.
Anya lifted her head from my shoulder, her eyes locking onto mine — dark and stormy.
“This doesn't fix anything,” she murmured, her voice husky but edged with that fire I'd come to crave.
She shifted slightly, a subtle roll of her hips that made her inner walls clench around me again, drawing a low groan from my throat.
“I know,” I whispered, my hands sliding up her back, under the fabric of her top, palms pressing flat against her bare skin.
She was so alive, so unyielding; her anger was a spark that lit me up from the inside.
I loved it — her defiance, the way she pushed back even now, even with me still inside her.
It made the age between us feel like nothing, just fuel for this pull.
She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine in a kiss that started soft, exploratory, but carried the bite of her frustration.
Her tongue slipped past my teeth, tasting me slowly, deliberately, as if she were claiming something back.
I responded in kind, my mouth moving against hers with a gentleness I hadn't shown before, savoring the salt of her skin, the faint tremor in her exhale.
My fingers threaded into her hair, loosening the ponytail, letting the strands fall around her face like a curtain. She rocked her hips again, slower this time, grinding in languid circles, her pussy sliding along my length with a slick ease that built a new ache in me.
“I didn’t fuck you because I needed your protection,” she breathed against my lips, her hands cupping my face, thumbs stroking my jaw. There was anger there, yes, but threaded with something deeper, something that made her movements tender despite the words.
“I fucked you because it’s impossible for me not to give it.” I admitted, my voice rough with the truth of it. I kissed her neck, open-mouthed and slow, tongue tracing the line of her pulse. She arched into it, a soft moan escaping her, her thighs tightening around my hips.
The chair held us steady, the world outside forgotten. I cupped her ass through her pants, lifting her just enough to feel her shift, then lowering her back down, the motion intimate, unhurried.
She nipped at my earlobe, her breath hot.
“You think you can just... say that? After humiliating me out there?” But her body betrayed her words, pressing closer, her breasts flattening against my chest as she undulated against me.
Her clit rubbed against my pubic bone with each subtle thrust, and I felt her quicken again, the anger melting into a sensual rhythm that matched mine.
I captured her mouth again, deeper this time, my tongue stroking hers in lazy sweeps.
One hand slipped between us, fingers finding where we joined, gently circling her clit once more with feather-light touches.
She gasped into the kiss, her hips stuttering, but she didn't stop moving — slow, sensual glides that had my cock twitching back to life within her.
“Anya,” I murmured, pulling back to watch her face, the way her brows furrowed in that stubborn way, her lips parted and swollen.
She was furious, beautiful, mine in this stolen moment.
“No one gets to talk about a confident, competent, beautiful doctor like that. Not in front of me. Let me make it right.” Not with words, but with this — with the way I held her gaze, the way my free hand caressed her thigh, inching the fabric higher to expose more skin.
She shook her head, but her eyes softened just a fraction, her pussy fluttering around me as she leaned in for another kiss. Softer now, the anger simmering but not boiling over, her movements turning into a dance of quiet need.