by Nikki Sloane
“Okay, let’s go,” I said, my tone clipped and needy.
His grin was enormous.
Greg had pressed the keyring to his BMW into my hand and told me where he was parked in the doctors’ lot, and said he’d meet me at the car in a few minutes.
The damp, aching throb between my legs was persistent. I was annoyed he’d left me right on the edge, but also liked it . . . a little. We both knew he could get me there, so when he’d made the decision not to, it was a way for him to flex his power. The more he did that, the further I fell under his spell.
The lights on the sleek black sedan flashed in the dusky, fading sunlight as I unlocked the doors, and I climbed inside the passenger seat. I’d ridden in his car a few times before, but never in the front seat, and I ran a hand over the smooth, premium leather. The car smelled like him.
I pictured him behind the wheel, day after day, driving this expensive car to the hospital and parking it in the doctors’ lot beside the Audis and Range Rovers and Porsches. He worked so much, he barely had a life. All it consisted of was this car, his house . . . and his son.
Would there ever be space in there for me? And would Preston allow that?
I scowled at my thoughts. Why was I thinking about a future with Greg? I needed to be more like my friends and live in the present. Thinking only about today. I was turning twenty in a few weeks. I was still so young. No one expected me to make all the right decisions at this point in my life, or plan further out than the coming weekend.
A blur of white moving in the distance toward the car caught my attention. That coat. Jesus. My obsession with it wasn’t healthy, and I felt feverish when Greg slipped into the driver’s seat and stabbed a finger on the button to start the car’s engine. While it roared to life, his gaze raked over me, and I melted against the seat.
“Drive fast,” I whispered.
We didn’t talk much on the short drive to his house, and the atmosphere in the car was taut with sex. I laced my fingers together and tucked my hands under my knee to keep myself from touching him. I didn’t want to distract or slow him down, and I purposefully kept my eyes straight forward as we drove past Judy Maligner’s house. I refused to see if she was standing by the window, watching Greg’s every move.
My heart clogged my throat as the garage door rolled slowly up and Greg steered the car inside. His bedroom was only two doors away, and I clawed at my seatbelt, unfastening it in a hurry. He hadn’t even shut the engine off—
His phone rang.
The dreaded hospital ringtone blasted through the car speakers, and I went wooden.
TWENTY-THREE
WAS GREG STILL ON-CALL? He reacted quickly. Off the car went, disconnecting the Bluetooth, and he answered the phone directly.
“This is Dr. Lowe.”
He didn’t undo his seatbelt or get out of his seat as he listened. He barely moved at all, but the subtle way his posture stiffened told me everything I needed to know. We were heading back to the hospital, and I was going home.
The disappointment that ripped through me was fierce.
“Yeah,” he said, glancing at his watch. “No, I’d like to. Thanks for the heads-up. Tell him I’m scrubbing in, but I’m on my way back. So, don’t start without me, unless it can’t wait.” He hung up with a sigh and dropped his phone in his lap. “One of my patients is headed back to the OR.”
“Oh.”
He stared vacantly through the windshield into his garage. The long silence was unnerving.
“Don’t we need to go?” I asked.
He turned in his seat to face me, and his expression was hard to read. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I repeated. What kind of sense did that make?
“You could stay here. I don’t think I’ll be gone all night.”
He looked tired, like it had been a never-ending day for him, but there was hope ringing his eyes. He wanted me to say yes to this.
If my only two options were going home or staying here to be with him later—well, my decision was easy.
I gulped down a breath. “Okay. What should I do while I wait?”
I expected him to give me a spiel about food in the fridge, or a “new classic” movie I needed to watch, but his gaze dropped down to the gear shift, and he seemed lost in thought. When his focus snapped back to mine, he didn’t look tired anymore. He wasn’t hopeful, or disappointed, or any of the emotions he’d had ten seconds ago.
Greg’s expression was the same one from the private hospital room. Commanding and powerful. My mouth went dry, probably because all the moisture in my body headed to the center of my legs.
“I want you to take off your clothes, get into my bed, and make yourself come.”
I gasped, but he wasn’t finished.
“You,” he said, “playing with yourself in my bed? Fuck.” He smoothed a hand down his leg, straightening the swell that threatened. “That’s my fantasy. I want you rolling around in my sheets, making them smell like you. Make that whole room smell like sex by the time I get home.”
My mouth hung open, and then I closed it with an audible snap. I wasn’t sure what to say. My tongue was suddenly too big for my mouth. It wasn’t initially one of my fantasies—not until he’d said it.
Now it was all I could think about.
His voice was deep in his throat. “Will you do that for me?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Good.” He was pleased with my immediate answer, and I was yanked into a hurried kiss. “I’ll text you when I’m finished.”
When he turned the car on, it spurred me into action. I opened my door and swung my legs out, climbing to my feet. My body was heavy and clumsy with lust, but I did my best to act natural. Still, I stood awkwardly in his garage as he pulled out, waved to me, and sped off. The garage door rumbled to life, jolting me out of my stupor.
I marched toward the door, climbed the step, and went inside.
In three years, it was the first time I’d been alone in the Lowe house. It was beyond strange and quiet as a museum, and since Preston hadn’t been in the house for over a week, it barely looked like anyone lived here. Greg was so neat. Or maybe he wasn’t home enough to make much of a mess.
Electricity crackled through my bloodstream. His request had charged everything with sex. Simply standing in the empty kitchen and gazing down the hallway toward his bedroom was a massive turn-on. The goal throbbed in my brain, and the same pulse was echoed between my legs.
There was an opened bottle of white wine in the fridge, and as I pulled a clean glass down from a cabinet, anticipation made my hand tremble. I poured myself a few swallows’ worth, drew in a deep breath, and strolled toward the bedroom, ignoring Preston’s graduation picture in the living room as I passed by.
I didn’t turn on the bedroom light. I stood in the doorway, sipped the wine, and let my eyes adjust to the dark. Moonlight came through the windows, filtered by his wooden blinds, and cast strips of pale light over the bed. His room was so nice. Masculine and sexy. I sauntered toward the nightstand, put the glass down with a quiet thud, and set about following his first request.
Take off your clothes.
Was he thinking about me during his drive back to the hospital? Was he imagining my hands dragging my shirt slowly up over my head, letting my hair fall down my back as I dropped the shirt to the floor? I undressed slowly, a striptease for myself, but hoped he was picturing it.
Get into my bed.
Once I was naked, I folded down the comforter to the foot of the mattress, then slipped under the top sheet. The fabric was rich and soft, and it was as if every nerve ending in my body was alive. The brush of the sheets against my sensitized skin and hardened nipples made my breath quicken. Why the hell was this so sexy? All I was doing was climbing into bed, but it felt completely different than any other time I’d ever done it. As I lay back into his pillow, his scent was everywhere, and my eyes slammed shut, fighting against the sudden wave of longing I had for him.
M
ake yourself come.
I bit down on my bottom lip and shifted under the sheet, smoothing my hands over my breasts and working my way down. It was sensual and amazing. My own touch felt foreign and exciting. I was wet, and as I rolled two fingertips over myself, I gasped at the pleasure.
It’d take me no time to complete this task. All I had to do was picture him in that white coat and fantasize what the doctor was going to do to me when he got home. I squirmed, writhing in the sheets as I rubbed my clit, faster with each stuttered breath I took.
Should I slow down? Maybe it’d be better if he caught me like this when he came home. He’d yank me out of his bed, bend me over his knee, and pretend to show me what a bad girl I had been. I’d squeeze fistfuls of his expensive slacks in my hands while he spanked my bottom bright red.
I jerked my hand away from myself, stopping only moments from going over the edge. That was close. He didn’t expect to be at the hospital all night, but it’d be a while before he’d be back, and I wanted to draw this out. I was supposed to make the whole room smell like sex, after all.
Fantasy after fantasy played through my mind, each one dirtier and darker than the last, and as I closed in on my orgasm, I stilled my hand just in time, edging myself. My body was primed, buzzing and clamoring for release, but I continued to tease until sweat dampened the roots of my hair at my temples and my heart beat like a furious drum.
I slid one finger inside where I was hot and wet, and sighed at the sensation. Then, I went for two, and imagined they were his fingers fucking me. It felt good, but not enough to make me come, and prolonged the session.
I tried my best to make it last, but when I couldn’t hold back any longer, I frantically rubbed myself until a moan tore from my lungs and I arched up off the bed. Heat washed through me, scorching and searing, and I shuddered as the pleasure came, wave after wave.
It passed slowly, and I collapsed back on the mattress, drained. I was satisfied, but not satiated. The feeling was temporary—my self-induced orgasm was a Band-Aid, not a real fix.
Only Dr. Lowe could make it better.
I finished the wine and checked my phone, and although I’d taken my time, he’d probably be another hour. Which meant if I wanted to spend any time with him, I’d likely miss my curfew.
Cassidy: I’m crashing at Lilith’s tonight. Okay?
Mom: That’s fine. Thanks for letting me know.
Lying to my mom made me feel awful, but there wasn’t an alternative. She was cool about a lot of things, but sleeping over at a guy’s house wasn’t one of them, and I couldn’t imagine how she’d feel about me with Greg. The only true adult who knew about us was Judy, and that had gone over like a lead balloon.
My mom had met Greg a few times over the years. She was always friendly and polite, and had never said anything to me about it, but I had the strange feeling she didn’t particularly like him. I’d caught her giving him side-eye more than once, and suspected she judged him for not being in Preston’s life during the early years. She had baggage, and I got why she might have lumped him into the same category as my father.
I put the phone down on the nightstand and looked at the empty glass. The wine had been nice, and I could have another half glass before Greg got home. But I wasn’t about to walk around his house naked. Lord knew Judy had seen plenty of me already.
His button-up shirts hung neatly in the walk-in closet off his bathroom, and I ran my hand along the sleeves absentmindedly. Would he mind if I wore one of them? He’d told me to take off my clothes, but he hadn’t specifically told me to stay naked . . .
There was a simple white button-up shirt at the end that looked older and softer than the others. It probably wasn’t in rotation anymore, and I took it off the hanger, slipping my arms into the sleeves. It was too big and yet just right. The shirttails ended at mid-thigh on me, and after I did up the bottom few buttons, I rolled the sleeves back onto my forearms.
Was it weird and narcissistic to think I looked good like this? I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My dark hair was tousled from my session in his bed, and my cheeks were stained pink from the wine and the intense heat simmering inside me. The shirt was thin, and if I stared hard enough, I could make out the faint dark circles of my nipples through the fabric. I oozed sex. It was fucking empowering.
I smiled to myself as I poured a new glass of wine and hoped I’d get a text from him soon. I went back to his bed, drank the wine, and scrolled through Instagram for a while.
It was either boredom or the environment, but I couldn’t stay focused for long. The itch was back. The dark craving for Greg grew enormous in a small amount of time, and my mind went back to the fantasies from earlier.
He’d told me to make the sheets smell like me, and there was no way I was going to fail him. I pressed the luxurious fabric between my legs and touched myself, stirring my fingertips over the sheet until it was damp with my arousal. In my mind, what I was doing was fucking filthy, and undeniably hot.
Like last time, the fantasies escalated. I imagined him fucking me in every position, talking dirty the whole time as his body pounded into me. He’d make me beg for my orgasm. He’d shove his dick in my mouth and order me to swallow as he came down my throat. And he’d take pictures of all of it.
“Proof,” he’d say, “of what a bad little girl you are.”
I twisted in his bed, rolling and bucking at my own touch, fueled by images in my mind that were so bad, I should have felt shame for thinking them. I imagined Preston walking in on us, seeing his father’s head buried in my pussy, teasing me with his skilled tongue. Preston would stand there, shock streaked over his face, unable to look away as he witnessed how much better his father was at giving me what I needed.
I was supposed to feel shame, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Nestled in Greg’s bed, I was impervious to guilt. I was safe here.
When the orgasm finally came, it wasn’t as acute, but still strong. It flowed through my center and ebbed away, pleasure lingering for a long, suspended moment. I collapsed against the sheets, spent and struggling to catch my breath. Everything was warm and tingling in my body, and I relaxed, staring up through the darkness at the ceiling. I’d wanted to hold off until he was on his way home, but my dirty mind had been too powerful. Too needy.
I closed my eyes, resting for a moment. I’d need to. He’d be here soon, ready to turn my fantasies into reality.
TWENTY-FOUR
I STIRRED AWAKE, and it took me a moment to place my surroundings. It was brighter in the room than when I’d fallen asleep—the light was on in the bathroom and streamed softly across the bed.
I shifted, drawing up onto my elbows, and blinked quickly to adjust to the glow.
The stark white of Greg’s coat stood out first, and my gaze traveled upward to meet his eyes. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the doorframe and a pensive look on his face.
I’d slept like the dead, and the corner of my mouth was wet. I quickly wiped the drool away with a hand, playing it off like it was a yawn and I wasn’t embarrassed. “Hi. What time is it?”
“Quarter to three.” His arms came down to hang awkwardly at his side. “I’m so sorry. I thought it was going to be quick. A few hours. But we had a hard time keeping him stable, and . . .” His gaze moved away from me, drifting to stare off at nothing.
I straightened and tried to steel my reaction. The hurt in Greg’s eyes was unmistakable. Oh, God. He’d spent all night battling for his patient—
And he’d lost.
A hole opened in my chest, and I bit down on the inside of my cheek. I was dying to say something, to offer comfort somehow, but my brain failed me. I couldn’t come up with a single sentence that wasn’t trite or a tired platitude.
“How much trouble are you in?” he asked. “It’s so late, your mom must be worried.”
I shook my head. “I told her I was staying over at a friend’s.”
“Oh. Good.” Relief spread acros
s his expression. His voice was soft and light, masking his desperation. “Can you stay?”
Very little on earth could force me from this bed right now. “Yeah.”
He drew in a deep breath and pushed it out, like he was cleansing his emotions. The wrinkles around his eyes were more pronounced now, and he looked exhausted as he moved toward me.
“How long have you been up?” I asked.
His warm fingertips caressed my cheek, moving to cup the side of my face and draw me into a kiss. “I don’t know. Twenty-five hours, maybe?” His mouth tasted like coffee. Faint amusement darted through his weary eyes. “I thought I told you to get naked.” He toyed with the collar of the shirt I was wearing. His shirt, technically. “But I like this.”
I warmed, trying to match his mood shift. “You told me to take off my clothes . . . which I did.”
I threaded my fingers through his hair and tried to pull him down to sit beside me on the bed, but he resisted. He captured my wrists in his hands and freed himself from my grasp, straightening and giving me a studious look.
“Are you still experiencing discomfort?”
Confusion flooded me. “What?”
“Your problem earlier.” His expression hinted at the game. “Do you still have symptoms?”
My mouth rounded into an “oh” as I got it. Our scene from before, the fantasy I’d asked for. I softened. “Greg, you’ve got to be exhausted. We don’t have to—”
A sad smile curled at the edge of his lips. “You’re always thinking about other people and never yourself. That ends tonight. Cassidy, you want this, and I want to give it to you.”
I frowned and opened my mouth to tell him he was being silly. It was three in the morning, but he cut me off.
“What if I tell you I need this?”
I inhaled sharply at his confession and understood instantly. Hadn’t I texted him earlier tonight for a similar reason? To use my time with him to forget the heavy, emotionally draining day? I pushed my hair back, tucking it behind an ear, and struggled to refocus.