The on-call room wasn’t enough for him.
John pulled me down the empty corridor, his hand tight around my wrist, until we reached his private office at the end of the surgical wing.
The door locked behind us with a soft, final click.
Moonlight sliced through the half-open blinds, striping the big oak desk in silver bars.
He didn’t turn on the light.
He pushed me against the desk, my ass hitting the edge, papers sliding to the floor.
His mouth crashed into mine rough, demanding, teeth scraping my lip.
I moaned into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer.
He tasted like coffee and danger.
His hands were everywhere—ripping my scrub top open, buttons scattering, shoving my bra down under my breasts so they spilled free.
He groaned at the sight, palms cupping them,
