A groan of frustration tears from my lungs as I scrub those same hands over my face, trying to erase images that won'tdisappear. It's useless. Mia has gotten under my skin, into my blood. And I have no fucking idea what to do about it.
Except that I do.
I know exactly what to do about it—nothing. She's my fellow. My subordinate. Under my supervision and evaluation. The power dynamic alone makes anything beyond professional interaction completely unethical, not to mention potentially career-ending for both of us.
I stand abruptly, needing movement, needing something to break this spiral of want and restraint and want again. The bedroom suddenly feels too small, too close, too full of a bed I'm desperately trying not to imagine Mia spread across.
I need a shower. A cold one. And if that doesn't work, I'll need to handle this the old-fashioned way, because there's no chance in hell I'm getting any sleep tonight with Mia Phillips haunting every corner of my mind.
The shower spray hits my back with enough force to sting, but it's not nearly cold enough to do what I need it to do. I turn the knob further, gritting my teeth as the temperature drops. The shock of cold water against my overheated skin should be enough to kill the hard-on that hasn't subsided since I left Mia's apartment. It's not. If anything, it’s worse. I press my forehead against the tile wall and close my eyes, which is a mistake. Behind my eyelids, all I see is Mia, looking up at me with those green eyes, her lips parted as she says my name.
Fuck it. The cold shower isn't working. I twist the knob back toward hot, surrendering to at least this small comfort if not the larger temptation. The water beats down on my shoulders, loosening muscles tight with tension as I mechanically go through the motions. Soap. Shampoo. Rinse. The routine should be calming. Should reset my mind back to its usual ordered state.
It doesn't.
With each pass of the soap over my skin, I imagine different hands. Smaller hands, with long fingers that would press and explore with the same curiosity she brings to everything else. I shut off the water with force, shoving open the glass door and grabbing a towel from the heated rack.
Terrycloth slung low on my hips, I pad into the bedroom and pull on a pair of black briefs. Then I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, and stare at my hands again.
These hands that have performed surgeries. Diagnosed the impossible. Held lives in their literal grasp. And all they want to do right now is touch Mia Phillips.
I close my eyes, and it's like she's here in the room with me. The scent of her citrus shampoo. The freckles scattered across her skin like constellations I want to map with my tongue. The way her pulse jumped in her throat when I got too close.
"Enough," I mutter to the empty room, but it's a lie. It's nowhere near enough. I'm hard again, painfully so. I try to remember the last time I wanted someone this badly, with this much raw, unfiltered need.
I've spent years building walls around this part of myself. The part that wants more than the occasional nameless encounter. The part that craves not just physical release but the kind of surrender that comes from absolute trust. The part that wants to control, to dominate, to possess.
And here I am, breaking apart over a woman I barely know. A woman who works for me. Who challenges me at every turn. Who looked at me tonight like she could see straight through every defense I've built.
I give in with a groan that sounds like surrender even to my own ears. Shoving my briefs down my thighs, I take myself in hand, gripping my cock at the base and squeezing hard enough to hurt. The pain is grounding, a counterpoint to the pleasure that surges through me at the first stroke.
Behind my closed eyes, Mia takes shape. Not the Mia from tonight in her sleep clothes, but Mia naked and spread across this very bed. Her wild red curls a stark contrast against the dark sheets. Her green eyes wide and dark with want as I kneel between her parted thighs.
"Don't move," I hear myself whisper to the fantasy. "Not until I say you can."
I stroke myself slowly, methodically, the way I'd touch her if she were really here. Taking my time. Building the pressure. Making her wait for it.
In my mind, she writhes beneath me, desperate for more, but my hand on her throat keeps her still. Just enough pressure to remind her who's in control. Just enough to make her pulse jump beneath my palm.
"Please," imaginary Mia begs, her voice breathy and desperate. "Sebastian, please."
"Not yet," I tell her, and myself, slowing my strokes even as my body screams for release. "You'll come when I say you can come. Not before."
Pre-cum slicks my palm as I imagine sliding into her, feeling her envelop me inch by agonizing inch. Her back would arch, those perfect tits lifting toward my mouth. I'd take a nipple between my teeth, biting just hard enough to make her gasp.
My strokes grow faster, harder, matching the rhythm of my imagined thrusts. In my fantasy, Mia's eyes go wide as I hit that spot inside her, the one that would make her see stars. Her hands would grip my shoulders, nails digging into skin as she gets closer to the edge.
The fantasy shatters as my own orgasm tears through me, violent and unexpected in its intensity. I come with a strangled groan, spilling over my fist and onto the sheets beneath me. For several heartbeats, I can't move, can't think, can only feel the aftershocks rippling through my body.
Reality crashes back slowly. The empty room. The silence. The mess I've made of my perfectly ordered bed. Of myself.
I stand on shaky legs, stripping the sheets from the mattress with mechanical efficiency. They go straight into the washer down the hall, along with the towel from earlier. After I clean myself up in the bathroom, I’m back in the bedroom, remaking the bed with fresh sheets. Everything back in its place, as if nothing happened.
Except it did. And I know, with a certainty that terrifies me, this won't be the last time.
Pulling on a pair of sweatpants, I head for the living room, where the floor-to-ceiling windows show the city spread out like an electric sea below. I’m not delusional enough to expect to sleep. Not after what just happened. Not with the ghost of a fantasy still lingering in the corners of my bedroom. Instead, I grab my laptop and sink into the black leather couch.
I should be reviewing patient files. Should be preparing for tomorrow's cases. Instead, my fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before I open a browser and do something I never do—check social media.
