4. Athena
ATHENA
Nathan is about to fuck me, and I can’t think straight.
That fact sits feverishly in my body, making every breath feel too shallow and every thought feel half-melted at the edges.
I’m standing there in my scrubs, already flushed from kissing him, already trembling from the way he’s been touching me, and he looks at me like a man who has finally decided to stop denying himself something he’s wanted for far too long.
It should be illegal for anyone to look this good while undressing a woman. His hair is a little mussed now from my hands, dark silver at the temples and unfairly distinguished everywhere else.
His jaw is shadowed with stubble that has already left my skin sensitive in the best way, and those storm-gray eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, pinned to me with such focused hunger that my thighs nearly press together on instinct.
His tie hangs slightly loose, the collar of his shirt open at the throat, and the controlled chief-of-surgery look I know so well has been cracked open just enough to reveal the man underneath.
A silver-fox fantasy dragged into real life and standing two feet away from me with his hands already on my body.
He hooks one finger under the V-neck of my scrub top and looks down at it, then back at me. “These have been in my way for a while.”
The line is so dry, so him, that a breathless laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
“Then do something about it,” I whisper.
His mouth shifts, not quite a smile, more like approval finding a home. “That’s better.”
He steps in close again and his hands move to the hem of my scrub top, lifting it slowly, baring my stomach inch by inch.
Cool air skims over newly exposed skin and I suck in a breath.
He peels the fabric upward like he intends to memorize what’s underneath, his gaze dropping with it, taking in every revealed inch with a concentration so intense it makes me feel naked long before I actually am.
When the top clears my ribs, his palms flatten briefly against my sides.
“Arms up.”
I obey so fast it’s embarrassing.
His eyes flick to mine. “Eager.”
“Observant,” I shoot back weakly.
He slides the top over my head and drops it somewhere behind him without looking, then goes still for half a second.
I’m wearing a bra under my scrubs, practical and plain and not remotely designed for this kind of moment, and somehow the way he looks at me in it makes me feel more exposed than if I were fully bare.
His gaze lowers over the cups straining around my breasts, the slight flush already rising across my chest, the way my breathing is too fast to hide.
“Jesus,” he says softly.
That alone nearly does me in.
He reaches up, skims the backs of his fingers over the swell of one breast, and I arch into it like I have no pride left at all. His thumb traces the upper edge of my bra, slow enough to feel cruel. When I shiver, he chuckles darkly. “Sensitive already?”
I nod.
“Use your words.”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
The name slips out before I can second-guess it, hot and humiliating and exactly right.
His eyes darken instantly. “That’s my girl.”
I swear my knees nearly buckle.
His hand closes around the back clasp and opens it with humiliating ease, then he draws the straps from my shoulders one by one and peels the bra away.
The second my breasts are bare his whole expression changes, hunger sharpening into something lower and rougher, reverence laced with possession.
He looks like a man standing in front of something he has imagined too often and now gets to touch for real.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
His hands come up slowly, broad palms cupping the weight of me, thumbs stroking across the outer curves before gliding inward.
The first brush over my nipples makes me gasp and grip his shoulders hard enough to wrinkle the fabric of his shirt.
He watches my face while he toys with me, rubbing and rolling and teasing until my head tips back and my mouth falls open helplessly.
“That feels good?” he asks, though he clearly knows.
“Yes.”
“Good.” His thumb circles again, slower, firmer, and I make a sound I absolutely did not mean to make. “Let me hear it.”
His mouth closes over one nipple before I can answer.
The sensation shoots through me so hard my back hits the wall. Heat floods low and immediate. His tongue works me with devastating patience, licking, suckling, drawing me deeper into the sensation while one hand keeps shaping the other breast, massaging, pinching just enough to make me writhe.
“Daddy—”
He groans against my skin at that, the vibration nearly unbearable. “Again.”
“Daddy, please.”
He releases me with a wet sound, then flicks his tongue across the neglected nipple as if he can’t resist evening the score. “Please what?”
I’m going to die in this room or office or whatever liminal space this is between professional ruin and the best night of my life.
“Anything,” I breathe.
His gaze lifts to mine, predatory and pleased. “Careful.”
Then he drops to his knees.
The sight of him kneeling in front of me while I stand half-undressed in my scrubs would be enough to wreck me even if he didn’t immediately start stripping me further.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my scrub pants and he glances up first, just long enough to hold my gaze while he unties them.
The slow pull of the drawstring sounds absurdly loud in the room. I can hear my own heartbeat.
“Step out,” he says.
I do.
He drags the pants down my legs along with my underwear, bunching both at my ankles, then lifts one foot and then the other so he can remove them completely.
The move is so efficient, so controlled, so practiced in handling bodies without ever making the touch feel clinical, that I actually moan at the sheer competence of it.
His mouth twitches. “You liked that.”
“You did that on purpose.”
“Yes.”
I’m standing naked in front of him now except for my shoes and socks, and he runs his hands up the backs of my calves, over my knees, along my thighs, not skipping a single inch, until his palms settle high and firm. He spreads my legs with slow pressure and looks at me with open appreciation.
“Look at you.”
My face burns.
“Don’t hide.” His thumb strokes the inner thigh. “You’ve wanted this too long to hide now.”
I don’t. I can’t. I stand there shaking while his eyes move over me, while his hands keep me open, while the sheer shamelessness of being seen like this by him makes every nerve in my body spark alive.
Then his mouth finds me.
I cry out instantly, one hand flying to the wall, the other dropping into his hair because there is simply nowhere else to put all that feeling.
He doesn’t ease into it. He begins with intent, knowledge, a kind of focused hunger that tells me he has thought about this too, imagined it too, wanted it badly enough to arrive already knowing he was going to take his time making me lose my mind.
His tongue moves through me with wicked precision, broad and then pointed, teasing and then pressing harder, and every time I start to get used to a rhythm he shifts it just enough to make my knees weaken again.
He holds my thighs apart with both hands and eats me like he means to prove a thesis, like somewhere deep in that silver-haired head of his is the absolute conviction that no one has ever touched me properly before and he is here to correct the error.
“Oh my god—”
“No.” He doesn’t stop, only glances up, his mouth still wet on me, eyes half-lidded and devastating. “Who?”
The correction alone makes my stomach clench.
“Daddy,” I gasp.
“That’s right.”
Then he goes back to it harder.
My head falls against the wall. He licks into me like he’s starving, then slows to drag the tip of his tongue exactly where it makes me shake, then seals his mouth around the most sensitive place and sucks until I nearly sob.
The sound that leaves me is raw and helpless and so far past modesty I don’t even recognize myself in it.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs against me. “Give it to me.”
I’m already close. Humiliatingly close. Every nerve feels bright and oversensitive. My thighs are trembling against his shoulders, my fingers tangled in his silver-threaded hair, and each quiet word of praise drops straight into the deepest, neediest part of me.
“So pretty when you fall apart.”
“Daddy—”
“Yes. Use it.”
The approval in his voice shatters something.
My orgasm hits hard and sudden, tearing a cry out of me as my legs threaten to give out.
He keeps me upright with both hands gripping my thighs, keeps his mouth on me through every violent pulse of it, milking it until I’m gasping and twitching and trying to squirm away because it’s too much.
He lets me.
Eventually.
When he rises, his face is flushed, his mouth wet, his expression a ruin of self-control. He kisses me before I can catch my breath, and tasting myself on him feels so obscene and intimate that another wave of heat rolls through me immediately.
“You’re evil,” I whisper.
His hand slides up my spine. “And you love it.”
I do. God, I do.
My eyes drop to the front of his trousers and this time there is no pretending patience.
I reach for him, hands clumsy with urgency, and he lets me undo him, watching my face the whole time with that same infuriating steadiness.
When I finally push his trousers and briefs down enough to free him, my breath catches.
He is gorgeous. Thick, flushed, already hard enough to make me ache at the sight alone.
“Still with me?” he asks.
I nod too fast.
His hand cups my jaw. “Words.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good girl.”
I sink to my knees before him.
He goes very still.
The angle is obscene and perfect; me naked at his feet, him towering above me with his shirt half-open and his tie loose and his silver fox composure hanging on by a thread.
I look up at him through my lashes and watch his jaw tighten when I stroke him once, slowly, getting a feel for his weight in my hand.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath.