5. Leander
Leander
The drive from the Grand Regency to my condo takes eleven minutes. Neither of us says a single word.
My left hand stays locked on the steering wheel while my right rests on the gear shift, the heat radiating off Kara from the passenger seat practically scorching the air in the cab.
She’s staring out the side window at the passing streetlights, her reflection showing her lips slightly swollen and her breathing shallow.
Fuck! She smells so good.
When I pull into the underground garage and kill the engine, the quiet in the car is deafening.
I open my door, walk around to her side, and pull her door open. She steps out into the cool subterranean air, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my pulse thump heavily against my ribs.
I grab her hand, my fingers wrapping tight around hers, and pull her toward the private elevator.
The moment the steel doors slide shut behind us, the remaining thread of restraint snaps.
I turn, pinning her against the mirrored back wall of the elevator cab.
Kara lets out a low, breathless gasp as my hands catch the sides of her face, tilting her head up to meet my mouth.
The kiss is brutal and frantic. Her hands claw at the lapels of my tuxedo jacket, shoving it off my shoulders until it drops to the floor with a dull thud.
I yank the silver clip from her hair, letting the dark waves tumble around her neck, and press her flush against my chest. Her thighs part instinctively, her hands sliding up under my open shirt, her nails digging into the skin over my ribs.
"Keycard," she pants against my mouth, her teeth grazing my lower lip as the elevator chimed for the top floor.
"In my pocket," I growl, my thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw down to her throat.
She reaches down, her fingers sliding into my trousers pocket, grabbing the card, and pressing it against the sensor as the doors slide open directly into my foyer.
We don't make it to the bedroom.
I push her back against the dark wood entryway table, sending a glass decorative bowl clattering across the surface. Kara laughs and pulls my bow tie loose, yanking the studs of my shirt open until the fabric falls away.
I reach down, grabbing the hem of her dress, and hitch it up past her hips. She’s wearing lace underneath, thin and damp against my fingers. I hook my hand into the side of the fabric, tearing it cleanly away, and lift her onto the edge of the table.
She arches into my touch as my hand slides between her thighs. I find her wet and hot, her skin burning against my palm. I slip two fingers inside her, my thumb finding her center, pressing with a steady, firm pressure that makes her thighs tremble against my waist.
"L-Leander..." she breathes out, her hands gripping my arms, her head tilting back against the wall.
"Look at me," I demand, keeping the rhythm steady, watching her eyes open, dark and wide with heat.
She reaches for my pants, unzipping them, her hands warm as she guides me out. From the drawer, I pull out a condom packet and she collects it from me with a sly smirk. She rips it open with her teeth, her fingers slick and unsteady as she helps me roll the condom over my shaft.
I turn her around before she can even catch her breath.
I press her front against the polished wood table, her back arching, her hips lifted toward me. I grab her waist with both hands, my fingers digging into the soft skin above her hips, and drive straight into her from behind.
Kara gasps loudly, her hands gripping the edges of the table as I fill her completely. The tight, scorching heat of her surrounds me, squeezing me so hard I have to stop for two seconds just to keep from losing my mind right then.
"D-Don't stop," she demands, her voice tight, turning her head slightly to glare back at me over her shoulder.
I don't.
I pull back and drive in again, setting a hard, relentless pace that rattles the table against the wall.
The sound of our breathing, the wet slap of skin against skin, and the quiet hum of the condo air conditioner fill the space.
She meets every thrust, pushing her hips back into mine, her heels hooking around my calves to pull me deeper.
I reach around her waist, my hand sliding back down between her legs, finding her again as I drive into her. The combination breaks her composure entirely. Her fingers claw at the wood, her low, guttural moans echoing off the high ceiling.
"L-Leander—right there—d-don't—"
I speed up, my chest heaving, the rhythm brutal and exacting.
Three more hard thrusts and her body clamps around me in a violent, shivering orgasm.
The feeling of her walls pulsing tight around my shaft snaps my remaining control, and with a low grunt, I come hard inside the rubber, my hands holding her hips pinned to the table until the tremors pass.
We stay like that for ten seconds, both of us breathing like we just ran a mile uphill in the dark.
I pull back slowly, disposing of the condom in the nearby powder room bin, but when I turn around, I'm still half-hard against my belly. Kara is leaning back against the edge of the table, her dress pushed up around her waist, her hair a wild mess, her chest rising and falling fast.
She looks at me, her gaze dropping to my lap, then back up to my face. A small, knowing smirk touches the corner of her lips.
"Round two?" she asks with a coy smile.
"We're going to the bed," I say, stepping forward and scooping her off the table into my arms.
She wraps her legs around my waist, her arms locking around my neck, kissing me deeply as I carry her down the hallway into the master bedroom. I drop her onto the mattress and strip off the rest of my clothes, grabbing a second condom from the nightstand drawer.
She helps me put it on again, her fingers slower this time, her touch lighter, almost deliberate.
I climb over her, settling between her knees. But instead of taking her fast, I slow everything down.
I press into her inch by inch, watching her face as the head of my shaft parts her skin. Her eyes stay locked on mine, wide, clear, and stripped of all the sarcastic defense mechanisms she wears like armor.
I move inside her with a long, slow rhythm, my hands resting on either side of her head, my fingers tangling into her dark hair. She reaches up, her palm resting against the side of my face, her thumb softly tracing the line of my cheekbone.
Neither of us speaks. The only sound is our steady, synchronized breathing and the soft rustle of the linen sheets. I lower my head, resting my forehead against hers, my lips brushing her temple as I thrust deeper, slower, feeling every ridge of her body holding onto mine.
When she comes the second time, it's a quiet, shuddering exhale against my neck. I follow her seconds later, my body tightening as I spill into the latex, holding her close against my chest until the room settles back into silence.
When my internal clock wakes me at five-fifteen the next morning, the space beside me on the bed is cold.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the dark ceiling. The sheets are tangled around my legs, smelling faintly of her perfume and dark vanilla.
I sit up, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and walk out into the hallway.
The entryway table is cleared. Her clutch is gone. Her torn dress and broken heels are nowhere to be seen. The front door is locked from the inside, the deadbolt turned back into place.
She left.
I stand in the quiet living room for three seconds, letting out a short, cynical breath through my nose. No note, no message, no dramatic morning-after conversation. She just packed her things and vanished into the early morning street traffic.
Smart girl, I think, walking into the kitchen and turning on the espresso machine. It’s cleaner this way.
By seven-twenty, I’m in the surgical locker room at Metro General, sliding my arms into scrubs and tying my mask around my neck.
My mind is completely focused on the floor schedule. Or at least, it’s supposed to be. Every time I pass a mirror or see a dark-haired woman in a blazer near the elevator bank, my eyes flick over instinctively.
I walk into Trauma Bay 2 at seven-thirty-five.
Kara is already there.
She’s standing near the supply counter with a digital tablet in her hand, dressed in a sharp grey pantsuit, her hair pinned back up in that same neat, professional clip she wore yesterday.
You would never guess looking at her that seven hours ago she was naked on my dining table with her hands tangled in my hair.
She looks up when the automatic doors slide open.
Our eyes meet. For two seconds, the air in the trauma bay feels like it loses five pounds of oxygen.
"Dr. Sartori," she greets, her tone completely professional, completely neutral. "Good morning."
"Rossi," I reply, my voice neutral as I walk past her to check the digital tracking board on the wall. "You're early."
"I like to review the night shift incident logs before the morning rounds," she answers, her stylus tapping twice against the screen. "There were two missing consent waivers from the overnight intake."
"Handle it with the floor clerk," I tell her, pulling a fresh pair of nitrile gloves from the box on the wall and snapping them over my hands. "I have a scheduled consultation in ten minutes."
"Already done," she replies smoothly, setting the tablet down on the counter. "I spoke with the clerk at seven-ten."
She acts as if last night was an abstract event that happened to two entirely different people in another zip code.
Two can play that game.
Before I can respond, the wall comms unit near the main door buzzes violently, three sharp tones ringing through the bay.
"Trauma One and Two, incoming ETA three minutes," the dispatcher's voice crackles over the speaker.
"Multi-vehicle accident on the interstate bridge.
Two criticals. Bay One has a thoracic crush, Bay Two is an unrestrained driver, open femur fracture, low blood pressure, severe abdominal distension. "