Chapter 2 #2
The thing was…she had a point. Harper Sutton had my attention without trying to get it.
Deep skin tone, natural hair she wore out and full, or pulled back into a bun or a puff, big brown eyes, and a figure that she clothed in well-tailored designer suits.
More than once I’d caught myself staring, then had to pretend I’d been deep in thought about something other than the shape of her ass cheeks as she walked past my chair.
Sometimes I’d catch myself wondering what she talked about when she wasn’t discussing liability issues or hospital protocols. How different her laugh might be when she wasn’t in professional mode. If those fashionable suits ever came off in favor of something more revealing.
I hated when I gave my mind over to idle fantasy, passing thoughts that were acknowledged then set aside because acting on them would be inadvisable for about a dozen reasons.
I showered quickly, the hot water beating against worn muscles, then changed back into street clothes before heading to the parking garage. As I slid behind the wheel of my Range Rover, my phone buzzed. The face that popped up on screen made me smile.
Talia, my youngest sibling, was technically my half-sister.
My father died not long after I was born, leaving my mother, my two older brothers, and me.
Mom met Walter Ellis when I was in junior high and fell hard.
Soon after, she popped up pregnant with a baby she wasn’t supposed to be able to have.
Even after I left for college and moved out of state, Talia and I stayed tight. We kept tabs on each other every few days and Tuesday evenings was her move because she knew I’d be shooting hoops after work and winding down on my drive home.
I swiped to answer the call, then started the engine so her voice would come through the car speakers. “What’s up, kid?”
Talia scoffed. “Every damn week, I gotta remind you that I am an adult. You alive?”
“Barely,” I replied, not even masking my fatigue. “Long day and I just got off the court.”
“Who won?”
I frowned, centering my face in the screen. “You wanna ask me that shit again? I ain’t no loser.”
“My bad, damn. I was just making conversation.”
“You need to come correct in your small talk. What’s goin’ on witcha?”
“Just heading home. And I know it’s late. Shut up in advance.”
I laughed, throwing the vehicle in reverse and pulling out of the space, then heading north toward my neighborhood. The city lights blurred past my window.
“What I look like yelling at you about leaving work late and I’m also leaving work late?”
“At least you had a fun excuse,” Talia replied. “I had work, work, and more work.”
“We celebrating your promotion yet?”
Talia also worked in healthcare, more on the patient support side, and had recently been pursuing a senior position.
“Nah, not yet. I’m still thinking about what you said when we talked last week,” she said.
I flexed my hands on the steering wheel, recalling our conversation the week before. “What are you hung up on?”
She blew a stream of air through her teeth.
“I’m the one implementing the cuts that I know are coming.
I know they’re looking at a reduction in patient navigation services—the people who actually help patients figure out their bills, their insurance, their options.
I’m the one that’s gonna take the heat.”
I understood that tension, the gap between what made sense on paper and what actually would fly in real life. “I mean, yeah. But when that’s all over, you have the chance to revamp your department. You can’t fix the system from the outside, Tal.”
“It doesn’t sound like I would be fixing it from the inside either. I’d feel like I’m part of the problem, like they want someone to be the face of these changes they’re making. I don’t know if I want to be that face.”
A car cut me off and I hit the brakes harder than necessary. “Then don’t take it,” I said, after talking myself out of flipping them off.
“Which leaves me in this role that feels like a dead end. I was hoping this promotion would be a way to move up.”
I couldn’t argue with her assessment and her desire for upward mobility. But I’d also played the game to get where I was and kept playing to stay here. I covered my ass like it was my full-time job and performed well enough that no one could question my competence.
In theory.
Traffic thinned as I left downtown behind. My neighborhood was fifteen minutes out, quiet streets and houses with yards. I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand.
“Look, take the job or don’t, but whatever you decide, make sure it’s because you chose it, not because you feel like it’s your only way out.
You’re too good to let them make you feel like you gotta be the heavy.
And don’t sign on for that kind of weight on your shoulders without a whole lot of money. You feel me?”
She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “Felt. I’ll think about it some more. They want to know my decision by Friday.”
“Don’t overthink it. It’s right or it’s not.”
“Says the man who overthinks everything.”
I grinned, tilting my head so I was in view of the camera. “That’s different. Me overthinking stuff keeps people alive.”
She laughed, and I could hear her relaxing. “Okay, trauma surgeon,” she said, her tone moving into more teasing and less stressed. “What’s up over that way?”
“Man…same shit, new day,” I said.
My role in Talia’s life was to be a sounding board, not to burden her. We’d talk about this case, my meeting with hospital administration and the threat to my reputation as a surgeon, but not until well after it had been resolved.
I pulled up to my house, a modest two-story home I’d bought when I was recruited to Ridgeway Medical. Three bedrooms, a small but nice yard on a quiet street. It was just enough for me, no matter how many of my friends and family tried to strong-arm me into renting them a room.
Ms. Patricia always left the porch light on when she came to clean. She was a no-nonsense Caribbean woman who called me either “Cole, dear” or “young man” depending on how much I’d irritated her that week.
Inside, the house smelled like a deep clean and the remnants of something savory. My mouth watered as I counted the hours since I’d had the Tuesday special in the cafeteria.
A note lay on the counter, written in Ms. Patricia’s careful cursive. I heard the curl of her tongue and the lilt in her voice as I read it:
I made stewed chicken with rice and vegetables. It’s in the fridge. Just heat it up and enjoy. And Cole, dear, I need your items to add to the grocery list. I’ll be shopping tomorrow and you’re a picky boy.
—ms p.
In the fridge, I found the glass dishes.
The chicken sat in a dark, seasoned sauce, the rice fluffy beside it, the vegetables cooked down and tender.
The smell hit my nose first—thyme, garlic, something with heat.
I liked to cook when I took the time, but Ms. Patricia cooked for me far better than I cooked for myself.
I heated up a plate in the microwave, grabbed a bottle of water, and carried both into my home office. The room was big enough for a desk, a bookshelf, and a leather desk chair. I sat down, pulled up the hospital system on my laptop, and logged in, going straight for my notes.
The file loaded slowly, page by page. I ate while I read, methodically working through the case. The intake notes from the ER. The ultrasound images. The decision to proceed under emergency protocol—it was all noted according to policies and procedures.
My surgical notes were clean, detailed. Every decision warranted, every rule followed.
I took a long pull from the bottled water and stared at the screen. What could the family be questioning, six weeks after Earl Greene’s death?
And why didn’t it feel like the hospital was backing me up?
I drew down the lid of my laptop and rubbed my thumbs across closed eyelids. The food had been good—Ms. Patricia’s cooking always was—but my stomach felt heavy, weighed down by more than food.
I tried not to dwell on my meeting in the morning, but my mind kept looping back to Banks’s offhand remark:
She’s fine as all hell.
With a tired exhale, I stretched out, body slouched low in my chair, and relaxed my thighs until they fell open. I slid my hand over my abs and then lower, past the elastic of my sweats, to the insistent warmth beneath.
A long, slow breath left my lungs as I allowed myself a brief moment of disconnect from everything except the tingle of anticipation that had crept in and refused to leave.
I let the images come. Not the sterile flashes of Harper walking around the administration wing or through the halls of RMC, but the Harper Sutton I could only see in my fantasies.
I’d never seen her outside of work context, but I was good at filling in the blanks and details—like what her sexy, sultry voice sounded like when she wasn’t being professional.
I let the fantasy spiral, let my carnal nature indulge in thoughts of what it would feel like to have all of her limbs wrapped tight around me, her body responding to mine.
What she would sound like as her climax approached.
How she would beg for more, harder, faster, deeper, not in the measured cadence of a work conversation but a ragged cry torn from her throat as she clung to my shoulders, the better to grind and rut her warm center against me.
I’d been working myself in a slow, methodical rhythm, but as the images took hold, my grip tightened and my pace quickened until I was chasing release with desperate urgency.
My wrist flicked and tightened as I sped up. Flames spiraled up from my groin. My breaths were harsh, my hips thrusting, not even pretending to be anything but an animal in that moment.
The vision of her, head thrown back, eyes narrowed in lust, mouth open, hips rolling against me, was so vivid that I was panting her name audibly, the sound ricocheting off the walls and hard surfaces of my office.
Harper…yeah… fuck…that’s it…ride it…ride me hard baby…Harper…sssshitttt…Harper…Harper…I— fuck, I’m comin’…Harperr—
I arched in the chair, jaw clenched, thighs quivering as I pumped at a frantic, frenzied pace. I let go only when I couldn’t hold back anymore, shuddering as I soaked the inside of my sweats, plastering sticky heat over my fist.
The force of the climax left me momentarily stunned, my pulse a dull roar in my ears.
For a moment, I sat with my head angled back against the leather chair, my eyes shut and my palm gripping my dick like I’d been choking it.
Aftershocks rippled through my body until every muscle gradually unclenched.
The fantasy still hovered at the edges of my mind, Harper’s name ricocheting like a burned-in afterimage.
Did I really just jack off to a daydream about a woman who might be directing my career implosion?
Yeah. And it was honestly the release I needed.
I stood, snatching a handful of tissues from the box on my desk, and mopped up as best I could, then headed upstairs. A half-hour later, I rolled into bed, set my alarm, then settled in, listening to the silence of the house.
I told myself I liked it this way, that I craved peace and being able to hear myself think.
But…
What if I could roll into bed behind a tall, leggy, thick, sexy woman who had just ridden the fuck out of me and was ready for more?