“Yeah, well, he’s more of a stickler for the rules than I am about certain things.”
“I have a hard time believing that,” Wyatt countered.
“Samuels is more comfortable taking orders than I am.”
“I noticed you have a bit of an issue with authority.”
John snorted, “How could you tell?”
He knew it was a sarcastic statement and asked, “How come you don’t leave? Set up a practice somewhere?”
John reached for his coffee mug. “And what? Grow old and stale in some dungeon of my own making? No, thank you. I like my high-functioning depression, PTSD, and early-onset graying.”
He laughed, biting his lower lip. “Have I mentioned I like your gray?”
John let out a breath, scrubbing his beard, his voice oddly rough. “How old are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“27… this year.”
“Jesus.”
“How old are you?” Wyatt countered.
“47… this year.”
Wyatt whistled but continued to smile.
“Shut up,” John shot back.
“You ride like you're in your prime,” he drawled huskily. “Because you are. And I like riding you… a lot.”
John puffed out an exhale, once more blushing. “You’re going to kill me at this rate.”
“I don’t mind being rode either, just in case you need a break,” Wyatt said slyly, watching the blush turn bright red and his chest heave. Apparently, the good doctor was excited by the idea.
“This can’t happen more than once a week,” John declared abruptly, as though trying to squash the mood.
“Yeah, I get that. My wallet took a beating with this room.” Though he complained about the cost, he couldn’t imagine kissing, tasting, and tonguing John in anything less than expensive sheets and luxuriously large showers.
“I’m paying from here on out,” John said in a non-negotiable tone.
“I can manage.”
“I don’t care. My student loans are practically non-existent, yours aren’t. And I make more than you, so I’ll take care of this. Besides, this is my decision for hotels—not yours. You shouldn’t have to pay for it.”
Wyatt liked this side of John. It was the fiery, take-charge one who came out fairly often in the ED, especially when he could no longer stand back and watch, taking over because of his greater skill and experience.
“Anything else, Dr. Donnelly?” he teased.
John smiled, softening. “Not at the moment.”
“Give me your number,” Wyatt instructed, grabbing his phone off the charger.
John paused, and he arched his eyebrows. “You’re not allowed to stress about this,” he said forcefully. “I know how to keep a secret. I was a gay boy raised in a conservative household on a fucking horse ranch. Now, c’mon.”
