Chapter 13
NINA
Yet another policy change at work. We’re being forced to take two fifteen-minute breaks a day.
If I didn’t know it was Art who was behind it, maybe I would be grateful for the time off my feet, the way everyone else seems to be.
Instead, I wish I could be doing something.
Just eating a snack sitting down is a luxury none of us are used to. I keep expecting someone to jump out and tell me off for sitting down when I could be helping.
“Management wants to meet with you,” says Terry with his characteristically cheery grin, sitting down with a sigh of contentment.
The union has been riding high with all the free wins Art is handing them. I’m happy for them, but at the same time, I still don’t know what Art’s endgame is.
Until I figure it out, I’ll be suspicious as hell.
Art is a businessman. He’s not burning money on my colleagues and I unless there’s something in it for him — and it must be something big, given that he’s spending literal millions on this old hospital.
“I don’t want to meet with management,” I say automatically. My tone is dripping with resentment.
Terry’s brow furrows and he runs a hand over his bald head. “It didn’t seem like a bad thing. Have you had issues with them?”
Then I realize my mistake. I can’t think of a good reason that an employee at Middlefield would be mad at management right now.
The childcare for Ava has been an absolute lifesaver, we’re having healthy lunches provided at work, and they increased our annual leave to four weeks. Even the patients are benefiting with better equipment and more staff, cutting down wait times.
In the past month, this hospital has gone from being run into the ground, to probably being one of the best employers in the state.
“Don’t worry about it,” I cover. “Just not a good time.”
“They said it was urgent,” Terry continues, now looking a little too interested in my reluctance to meet with the management.
I bet he did.
I don’t want to meet with Art. But Terry is looking at me expectantly. I’ve got to go somewhere.
Which is how I end up walking out of the break room and into the stairwell. I take a seat on the stairs and try to imagine how long my fictional meeting with management should take.
I only realize my mistake when I hear his voice behind me.
CCTV cameras. I’d bet good money that getting constant access to Middlefield’s CCTV was part of the deal. Art was always a “knowledge is power” guy. It would explain how he keeps showing up exactly as I’m clocking off my shift.
“You’re getting a pay raise,” he drawls, coming to rest above me on the stairs.
“Stop it.” I jump to my feet.
“Stop providing one of our best doctors with the pay she deserves?”
“I am a junior fucking resident, Art. Stop trying to do whatever it is you’re doing. It’s not going to work.”
He raises his eyebrow. “It already is working, Nina. You’re getting a pay raise, like it or not. And to thank me — and you will fucking thank me — you’re attending tomorrow night’s fundraising gala as my date.”
In his dreams.
“Can’t. I have a child to look after, remember?”
“The preschool staff will stay late for childcare of any staff members attending the gala.”
“I won’t accept the pay raise. I’ll tell the bank you’re money laundering, which you probably are.”
He laughs at that and I don’t let the sound warm me. I don’t care if he thinks I’m funny.
“You took the other pay raise I gave you.” He reaches for a stray strand of hair, and I grab his hand. I need him to stop touching me. Instead, he folds his fingers over mine and holds my hand.
“That was for everyone. This is…”
“Just for you? Yes.” Art leans forward, inches from my face, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re our best employee.”
“No, I’m not, Art.”
“Last time I checked, I own this hospital. So if I say so, you are.”
“I don’t want your charity. It’s too little, too late.”
Art’s pulls his head back from mine, the playfulness gone from his eyes.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why?” I let go of his hand. “Did you think you could buy me? That the poor, destitute single mother would be grateful if you threw some cash her way?”
“I already did buy you, Nina. Don’t you remember our deal?”
“None of that is legal.” I roll my eyes. “I was a terrified 20-year-old and you blackmailed me into a relationship with you. Then you fucked me over.”
“I don’t remember there being much blackmail involved.” He quirks an eyebrow, his voice softening again.
Did I practically jump at the chance to fuck Art, that first time? And then many times after that? Yes. Fine. I couldn’t believe that he would want me, that it could feel this good to be with someone, that I could be appreciated in that way.
But the audacity of this man, that he thinks he can storm his way back into my life without asking for forgiveness, without apologizing.
“Sure, split hairs about the definition of blackmail. That will save you.”
“You knew who you were stealing from, Nenoka. The price was this.” He gestures between us. “You’re mine.”
“Not anymore.”
His eyes flash at the challenge.
As if he wants to prove the contrary, his lips are on mine with crushing force. I don’t stop him.
“Fuck you,” I gasp, the bittersweet feeling of kissing him consuming all of me again. This time I want so much more than just a kiss, my hands already running over Art’s torso.
“Fuck me,” Art agrees.
With one hand he grabs my ass, while the other slides under my panties. The friction against my clit combined with his mouth on my neck, the way he’s breathing hard too, rolling his hips against me so that I can feel how hard he is, makes me come apart in record time.
I grip his arm and lean back against the banister.
He lets out a groan between those unfairly beautiful lips. “That’s it, Nenoka. Give it to me. Soak my hand.”
I shudder against him, absolutely helpless to stop myself from riding this wave of pleasure while he plays with me like this.
“I hate you,” I gasp as he keeps the pressure on my clit until I’m letting out helpless, needy whines, another orgasm half-building inside me. “Anyone could walk in right now.”
He nods. “Do you want me to stop?”
I shake my head. The risk of being discovered makes it more exciting. Although just the feeling of being touched by Art after being deprived for so long is already making my head spin.
He’s familiar, but not. I want to relax into his touch, but he’s rougher, more possessive, more desperate. Like he’s missed me the way I’ve missed him. Which makes no fucking sense.
When I’m spent, shuddering against him, he lies me down on the stairs, strips away my scrubs and bathes my pussy with his tongue.
The rough feeling of his stubble against my inner thighs, his hot breath everywhere, and his groan when he tastes me, all of it coalesces in me bucking my hips, my thighs wrapped around his head, while he devours me.
Only when I’ve orgasmed a second time, drenching his face, does he finally unbuckle his pants.
Fuck.
I’d let myself forget his cock, and my eyes go wide when I see it again. It springs to attention, like he’s been aroused just from the taste and feel of me.
It’s not just the size that’s incredible. Art’s cock is as pretty as the rest of him. One thick, prominent vein to trace along the underside. A flared, thick head that I long to wrap my lips around. Smooth, velvet soft skin. And the very top is already wet.
I can hate him all I want, but I can’t hate this cock.
I bring a finger to swipe a drop of his pre-cum. He eyes me with fiery intensity and pulls me in for a kiss.
“What?” I ask him, but he just shakes his head.
“Bend over.” His voice is husky and rough.
He kisses my neck as he pushes me forward, bracing himself against the banister. I feel the size of him, as he runs the head through my juices. Just the gentle brush of it against my sensitive folds has me moaning.
“Tell me I can, Nenoka. Even though anyone could walk in. Even though we’re in the middle of your workplace.”
“Just fuck me, Art.” My voice is desperate, but he sounds just as bad. We’re ruining each other and we both know it.
He sinks into me with a low groan. I gasp at the sensation of fullness. I’m drenched, but I still have to consciously relax and slow my breathing to take him.
“Fuck, that cunt,” he groans.
He works his cock in and out slowly at first. I bend forward to take him, gripping the banister for support.
“I want to see you while I fuck you for the first time in five years, Nenoka. While I make that pussy remember what it feels like to belong to this cock.”
I gasp with need as he drives in deep, then whine when he pulls out completely. I was almost…
“I know, shh, it’s okay. Come here.”
He spins me around so that I’m facing him.
But there’s no way, with our height difference, that Art can fuck me standing up. It’s just not logistically possible.
Art pushes me so that my back’s against the wall for support. His hand grips my ass and he lifts me onto his cock. I wrap my legs around his hips and he thrusts, pushing me back against the wall. Only him and the wall are holding me up.
At this angle, there’s no way to escape his size, no way for me to take him shallower.
All I can do is slide deeper onto his huge cock and let him bounce me up and down.
“That’s it, Nenoka, fuck you’re taking me so well now,” he praises me as I let out a sob of need.
I cling to Art’s broad shoulder, feeling his muscles flex as he pumps in and out of me.
“Do you like to be fucked like this, Nenoka? In the stairwell of your work?” He thrusts deep and hard. “Like a slut who wanted to get dicked down in the middle of the workday?”
“Fuck you,” I gasp. “This was your idea, not mine.”
He drives in harder. “Maybe it was. But who’s already cum twice and is about to again?”
I hate him.
I hate that he’s right, because the second he brings the heel of his hand to my clit, I cum again. His hands on my waist are the only support as my body shakes and spasms with the force of my orgasm.
He kisses me through it, and right when I think that I can’t take it anymore, that I’m about to tap out, he lets out a low groan and finishes inside me.
We both pause for a moment, looking at each other. Normally, we would kiss, but what is this?
Art’s not overthinking it like I am.
He bends down and captures my mouth with his.
When I look up at him, he’s smiling at me. Yet his voice is a possessive growl.
“Mine.”
The money for the pay raise lands in my bank account later that day, with an inappropriate emoji.
Asshole.