She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine in a kiss that started soft, exploratory, but carried the bite of her frustration. Her tongue slipped past my teeth, tasting me slowly, deliberately, as if she were claiming something back. I responded in kind, my mouth moving against hers with a gentleness I hadn't shown before, savoring the salt of her skin, the faint tremor in her exhale.
My fingers threaded into her hair, loosening the ponytail, letting the strands fall around her face like a curtain. She rocked her hips again, slower this time, grinding in languid circles, her pussy sliding along my length with a slick ease that built a new ache in me.
“I didn’t fuck you because I needed your protection,” she breathed against my lips, her hands cupping my face, thumbs stroking my jaw. There was anger there, yes, but threaded with something deeper, something that made her movements tender despite the words.
“I fucked you because it’s impossible for menotto give it.” I admitted, my voice rough with the truth of it. I kissed her neck, open-mouthed and slow, tongue tracing the line of her pulse. She arched into it, a soft moan escaping her, her thighs tightening around my hips.
The chair held us steady, the world outside forgotten. I cuppedher ass through her pants, lifting her just enough to feel her shift, then lowering her back down, the motion intimate, unhurried.
She nipped at my earlobe, her breath hot. “You think you can just... say that? After humiliating me out there?” But her body betrayed her words, pressing closer, her breasts flattening against my chest as she undulated against me. Her clit rubbed against my pubic bone with each subtle thrust, and I felt her quicken again, the anger melting into a sensual rhythm that matched mine.
I captured her mouth again, deeper this time, my tongue stroking hers in lazy sweeps. One hand slipped between us, fingers finding where we joined, gently circling her clit once more with feather-light touches. She gasped into the kiss, her hips stuttering, but she didn't stop moving — slow, sensual glides that had my cock twitching back to life within her.
“Anya,” I murmured, pulling back to watch her face, the way her brows furrowed in that stubborn way, her lips parted and swollen. She was furious, beautiful, mine in this stolen moment. “No one gets to talk about a confident, competent, beautiful doctor like that. Not in front of me. Let me make it right.” Not with words, but with this — with the way I held her gaze, the way my free hand caressed her thigh, inching the fabric higher to expose more skin.
She shook her head, but her eyes softened just a fraction, her pussy fluttering around me as she leaned in for another kiss. Softer now, the anger simmering but not boiling over, her movements turning into a dance of quiet need.
Chapter 17
Desmond
By the time I left my office, I had my face back on.
That was the trick. Reassemble. Shoulders squared. Expression neutral. The version of myself everyone expected to see walking the halls. No one needed to know what had just happened behind a door that should never have closed.
The department didn’t care. It never did.
A trauma alert went off as I stepped back onto the floor. I took it automatically, body moving before thought could interfere. Gloves on. Orders out. The familiar rhythm slid into place like muscle memory.
And then Anya stepped into my line of sight.
She looked exactly the same. Hair pulled back. Scrubs unrumpled. Focused. Professional. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought nothing had happened.
I knew better.
Our eyes met for half a second too long. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Long enough for me to feel it all over again, low and dangerous and entirely inappropriate.
“Vitals?” I asked, voice steady.
“Stable for now,” she replied, just as controlled. “Pressure’s holding.”
We moved around each other with practiced ease, a choreography we’d perfected long before today. Our hands never touched. Our voices never softened. Anyone watching would’ve seen two physicians doing exactly what they were trained to do.
What they wouldn’t have seen was the way I recalculated every step to avoid brushing her arm. Or how acutely aware I was of her breathing when she leaned over the bed. Or how the memory of her voice in my ear made it harder than it had any right to be to focus on a monitor.
A resident asked a question. I answered it without looking away from the patient.
Anya finished my sentence anyway.
She was right. She always was.
The realization landed heavier now. Not because of pride. Because of the risk. Because I’d crossed a line and now had to live on the other side of it without letting it show.
“Doctor Vaughn.”
I turned. Liza stood there, eyebrow raised, eyes flicking briefly to Anya and back to me. Too perceptive by half. Another fine practitioner of medicine. I’d tried to convince her a while back to try her hand at residency, but Liza was a stubborn one. It was no wonder she and Anya got along so well. “Yes?”
“Bed three’s asking for you.”
