“I need you to do something for me, Sloane.”
She looks half drunk from the fucking I just gave her when she blinks up at me. “What?”
“Don’t you dare fucking clean yourself up when you go back inside.”
Her eyes widen. “I have dirt all over my clothes, Zeth. I can’t go back onto the ward looking like this.”
“Get changed by all means. Brush your hair if you have to,” I tell her, pinching her ass lightly between my index finger and my thumb. “But don’t you dare clean away my come, angry girl. I want you to go back to work, knowing that I’m still inside you. I want you to be able to feel me between your legs. Promise me right fucking now.”
She nods slowly, letting out an unsteady breath that makes my balls ache. “I promise,” she says.
“Good. Now get back inside, before I decide I want to fuck you all over again.”
Chapter Five
SLOANE
I’m a train wreck. Thank god nobody sees me as I hurry through the corridors and dash into the change rooms to grab some scrubs and a fresh lab coat. Fuck, that man loves making life difficult for me sometimes. Or if not difficult per se, then interesting in the least. No doubt he’s smirking that wicked smirk of his as he drives home, congratulating himself on how my heart is likely thrumming in my chest as I strip out of my filthy clothes, my body now sore and aching, tired from the wild sex we just had. And he’s right, it is thrumming in my chest, and my body is sore and aching, and I feel amazing, lit up from the inside out. How the hell am I supposed to get my head back in the game after that? It’s not going to be easy. I intend on keeping the promise I just made to him, so I’m going to be thinking about the wild sex we just had every time I move, sit down or plain breathe. I have to make sure I’m focused at the same time, though. I have a small child to wheel into a basement.
No one says a word as I make my way into Millie Reeves’ room and collect her chart from the end of her bed. Her stats are the same as they were earlier today—her BP is low and her heart rate seems a little erratic at times, but other than that she’s stable. There’s every chance I’m being ridiculous here and the girl would be perfectly fine at home in the care of her brother, but I don’t know. For some reason, there’s a heavy weight in my stomach, sinking through me like a stone, and the thought of releasing Millie from our care makes me anxious. Her brother clearly looks after her very well, but this nagging, bothersome sensation won’t quit. I learned a long time ago that ignoring your gut usually has severe consequences in my line of work. They teach you how to be logical, to work through plausible possibilities and to train yourself to have a scientific brain, as opposed to a brain ruled by emotion, but sometimes you need a little emotion.
I’ve been so distracted by Millie’s chart that I’ve forgotten to check on the patient in the bed. She stirs, the small bump under the covers shifting and then turning into a little girl as her head emerges from the blankets. Her hair is fine, soft strands of silk floating up around her head, charged with static. Huge blue eyes filled with panic fix on me and begin to fill with tears. Her tiny bottom lip wobbles. “Where’s Mason?” she asks.
I clip her chart to the end of her bed again and go and sit beside her on the edge of the mattress. She’s so small, even for her age. Her fingers clasp at the blankets that cover her, clutching them to her fragile frame. She looks like a doll. It breaks my heart that such a delicate, innocent child has to suffer through such pain and worry. “Mason’s coming soon, sweetheart,” I tell her. “He had to go to work, but he promised he would come as soon as he was finished. He should be here in about an hour or so.”
Tears fall from both of her eyes at the same time, racing each other down her cheeks. “He doesn’t normally leave me,” she whispers. “I don’t like hospitals.”
“Ahh, sweetie. You want me to let you in on a little secret?” I lean a little closer to her, smiling a little. I never wanted to work with kids. The peds rotation in med school was challenging to say the least; I could handle most heartbreak you encounter in hospitals, but terminally ill children were just too much for me. As I look at Millie now, I can see the same shadow hanging over her that hung over those little babies, and it feels as though my throat is swelling shut. Millie nods, gripping her blankets tighter.
“I hate hospitals, too,” I whisper.