Chapter 39 #2
I close my eyes, rubbing my foot against him, feeling his scrubs tent under the pressure—his arousal unmistakable, sparking mine to life. His breath thickens against my skin, and for a second, I forget everything—the hospital, the emotional pain, the reason I came.
Then his teeth graze my nipple before he closes his mouth around it and he sucks much harder—just how I like it.
The shock bolts straight through me and my eyes open on a gasp, my head snapping down to him—and that's when I catch the movement beyond the window. White coats passing on the other side of the hospital. Not that far. Too close actually. I frown.
"No. We're not doing this, Ben," I snap, pulling back and dropping my foot from his crotch. I shove my breasts back into my dress and bra, covering myself as fast as I can. "We're not having sex in your office."
I glare at him, even though I'm mostly angry at myself for letting it get this far.
Ben stills, breath heavy and restrained, but he doesn't say anything.
"You didn't even close the shutters," I reprimand, hand pointing at the window. "You want to lose your license? We've already screwed up enough things."
His eyes flick to the glass behind his back, stuck on it for a breath. He exhales, the sound rough around the edges, and straightens.
"Alright. You're right," he says flatly, almost defeated.
I watch him walk to the window, staring out like the dark might give him an answer before he pulls the shutters down.
I arch a brow at him, pointed.
He gives me half a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and lifts his hands in mock surrender. "Don't worry. Nothing will happen. I get it, I can't touch you."
When my expression doesn't change, he opens them again and gives a tired flick toward the window, as if to underline the point. "Happy?"
It doesn't make me feel happy. Not even close.
For a beat, we stare at each other, two weeks of impossible pain written all over our faces.
Then the silence starts to thrum—slow, low, electric.
His gaze trails down the line of my throat, to my chest he's just claimed, and my breath catches.
His hands curl restlessly.
My eyes drop to the shape pushing at his scrubs, jutting forward so blatantly that I can't look away.
He catches it, and his jaw flexes.
I barely catch my lip, about to bite it when—
One second, one stride, and he's on me, his hand fisting in my hair, his tongue crashing against mine in a devastating stroke.
He shoves my skirt up, pushes my thong aside, and his thumb runs over my folds—firm, pressing, like he’s reminding my body exactly who it belongs to.
When he feels how wet I am, his fingers coated in my arousal, a low rumble breaks out of him.
He circles me—cautious and reverent at first, like he’s checking whether I’ll really let him. Then his fingers rest there, hot against my entrance, and he looks up.
"Tell me to stop," he warns, breath ragged. "Or I'll take you like you're still mine."
I don’t stop him. I couldn’t if I tried.
I grip the table and my legs betray me, parting wider for him like a silent invitation I can't take back.
His jaw locks, pupils blown, and he sinks two fingers deep into me in one, decisive thrust and curls them against my front wall.
A broken gasp tears from my throat. He's finally in me again...
His other hand locks my jaw, keeping my eyes on his as he starts working his fingers into me with a sharp rhythm, nothing tentative about it now.
Pressure coils low in my belly as he thrusts deep, shaking my legs with the shock of it.
"You're clamping on me like you're trying to trap me, baby," he says.
I am... I want to trap you forever... I want more of you...
As if he knows what I’m thinking, he yanks his fingers free and pulls them through his mouth. His hands clamp on my ass and he snaps me to the edge of the table.
My hands move on their own, shoving his scrubs down so hard I scrape his skin in the rush.
"Jesus..." he hisses when my nails catch him but steps closer anyway like he needs the sting.
He's barely out before he drives into me—desperately, fiercely, the clawing need to reclaim what we've lost making the table shake with us, our mouths moving in a tangle, tongue and teeth and barely a breath, and god I missed him, I should stop this, but I missed him and I don't want to and I won't.
I bite his lip—not hard enough to bleed, but enough to tell him I’m still angry, enough to make his breath break against my mouth.
He growls into the kiss, the sound almost grateful and kisses me harder, like an apology disguised as hunger.
Then he tosses my hands over his neck to hold onto his cock, and his grip on my ass hooks in, hauling me up off the table.
My legs fling over his arms as he straightens with me, the new sharp angle hitting that spot that rips a loud cry from my throat. A low, ragged sound tears out of his chest in response.
I clutch his neck as he holds me suspended, his massive arms jerking me down onto him with a force that knocks the air out of me. I'm seconds away from breaking open on him when—
A sharp knock slices through the air.
We seize in place for a beat, every muscle locking at once. Then his head whips toward the door, and he looks at it like he’s only now realizing where we are—that the door isn't locked and we're both beyond exposed. He doesn't respond.
I'm still in the air, tightening around him as he throbs, desperate for the next thrust he's holding back, but I bite my heat back and look toward the window in panic.
Did someone see us? No one is looking at us. But what if that one person who did see us is now behind the door?
The knock comes again, louder this time, followed by a muffled female voice, "Doctor Bellini? I saw the lights are still on. Are you there?"
My eyes shoot wide just as Ben curses low beneath his breath.
Instead of answering, his entire body goes rigid, his muscles pulled taut as I feel him pulse, each twitch warning that he's too close.
Suddenly, the danger and the wanting coil in me so tight I can't tell them apart. A part of me wants me to remove his hands so I can slide on him, for him to finish now, like this, while the world waits on the other side.
Look at you, Emma... Always so reckless... crazy...
"You should put me down," I whisper, barely audible.
"No. I'm hanging on by a fucking thread," he rasps, his jaw flexing. He looks down where we're still fused and takes a sharp breath, instantly pulsing inside me. “You move right now and I’ll come—and it won’t be silent.”
The handle shifts. I gasp under my breath, my pulse spiking. She can't see us like this.
His voice comes out low and commanding, cutting straight through the door: "I'm changing, Lauren. Give me five minutes."
The handle stills.
A beat of silence as we try to swallow our frantic breathing, every heartbeat amplified.
"What happens if she opens the door?" I whisper, voice full of dread.
"Then she sees what she was never meant to see," he breathes. "And I don't care. Though, I do care that she'll see you."
I frown. "You should care about you too, Ben. You'd lose everything you worked hard for if she sees us like this. There'll be no way back."
He shakes his head and lets his forehead fall to mine. "Then I'll lose everything. I don't care if it means I could be with you one more time."
I give him a broken smile and hold him tightly, internally praying, Please, make her go away. Please.
I'll do anything...
“Oh... alright. Sorry,” the woman finally says, and the handle clicks free. Footsteps fade down the hall—and with them, whatever restraint Ben had left.
He throbs with a wild pulse and slams me down onto him in a sharp thrust, groaning through clenched teeth. The air leaves my lungs in a broken cry as the pressure snaps inside me, pleasure crashing up my spine so brutally it borders on unbearable.
He shudders against my neck, and drives me on the table because his legs won't hold him.
He thrusts again and again, the table shaking under me.
It crashes through us at once—two weeks of starvation surging through us in a flooding rush, my body shaking around him, milking him, the vision of him flashing in front of my eyes as he keeps grunting.
For a suspended beat, he stays folded over me, chest rising hard against mine before he pulls out slowly, almost reluctantly.
“Wait, don’t move yet,” he says over his shoulder as he walks toward the basin. He washes himself and I’m left slick with him, the wet heat leaking between my legs—it's thick and there's so much that I stare at it with big eyes.
When he comes back, a damp cloth in his hand, he kneels between my open core. Quiet, focused, he cleans me with a tenderness that doesn’t match what we just did—every touch a promise that he'll take care of me in every way. My heart melts.
When he’s finished, he helps me back into my clothes and presses a soft kiss to my mouth.
He rises… and then pulls the top of his scrubs over his head.
My eyes land on his broad, bare chest. I raise a brow, still a little breathless. "Seriously? You want to risk round two?"
He snorts and nods slowly. "For you, I would."
I shake my head with reprimand in my eyes. "Aren't you freaked out by what we just dodged? What if she actually opened the door? What would happen?"
He takes a slow breath, his mouth twitching before he says, "She'd probably start smoking a cigarette."
I narrow my eyes and smack his chest, but internally I laugh. "You can't be serious for once, can you?"
He licks his lips and his face tightens.
"I can," he says and he reaches for the stethoscope on the desk. He slips the earpieces into my ears, and presses the metal disk to his chest.
Instantly, heartbeat floods me—wild, uneven. The most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
"This is what you do to me, Emma. Everywhere. All the damn time," he says quietly.
I listen to his frantic heart, stunned and speechless.
"I'd rather kill myself than hurt you," he says, his eyes heavy and serious. "You know that, right?"
My face buckles. I put the earpieces away and hold his gaze. My voice comes out firm. "I know, Ben. I... forgive you."
The second I say it, he blinks and frowns, looking at me like he can't believe my words. Like he still doesn't think he deserves it.
"I do," I say, nodding. "I forgive you. I know you'd never hurt me. I know you love me. I never doubted that."
His smile fractures at the edges, but before he can speak, I slide off the table and cross the room for the bag I left by the door.
By the time I turn, he’s back in his chair again, watching me, waiting.
I place it gently on his lap. “Open it.”
A flicker of curiosity crosses his face. He opens the bag, peeks inside, and his jaw loosens. Then he lifts out the tiny baby clothes, something in him breaking all over again.
"Wow..." he breathes, stunned, and looks at me. He swallows hard.
"I went all over town, because I wanted you to give them to Lisa as soon as possible.
I don't know if it's a boy or a girl, but she likes white, and you prefer grey.
" I pull him closer, my gaze unyielding.
"It won't be easy, I'm sure, but we'll make it work.
I love you. Every part of you. Even the ones that grew through someone else.
It's still a miracle, Ben, and I don't want you to think about it any other way. "
He sets the bag on the floor and cups the back of my neck, his grip strong, as if I might slip away if he loosened it.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened in my life," he says, absolutely stunned. "You know that?"
I squeeze his hand once. "I do."
"I'll tell her again," he says without hesitation. "About the divorce. About custody—"
"First," I cut in gently, finger over his lips. "You need to sleep. Come home with me."
He smiles, eyes glassy and tired, but finally full of light. "I want nothing more than that."