Chapter 5

Instead it was Mom: Sleep well, honey, I know this is hard but I'm so glad you're finally taking your gift seriously.

Am I ?

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The coffee was cold by the time I dragged myself upstairs at 4:53 AM, my body still humming with phantom sensations from last night, my mind a tangled mess of shame and want.

Marcus stood at the stove making eggs, his back to me, and the careful way he didn't turn around told me everything about how this morning would go—pretend it never happened, bury it under professionalism and distance.

"Eat quickly, we're starting with nerve reconstruction today, delicate work that requires complete focus." His voice was flat, clinical, like he hadn't had his tongue in my mouth eight hours ago.

I slid into the chair, my hands wrapping around the mug he'd left out, and watched him move around the kitchen with that controlled precision that made me want to shatter it. "Where's Vanessa?"

"She left early for a yoga retreat, two days upstate, we'll have the house to ourselves." He finally turned, setting a plate in front of me, and our eyes met for half a second before he looked away.

But that half-second was enough—I saw the same restless energy coiled in him, the same tension that was currently making it hard for me to sit still.

"Marcus—" I started, but he cut me off with a sharp gesture.

"Whatever you're about to say, don't, we have work to do and limited time to do it." He strode toward the training room, leaving me alone with eggs I couldn't taste and questions that burned in my throat.

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The first hour was torture, Marcus demonstrating nerve pathways on the simulation dummy while standing close enough that I could feel his body heat, smell the soap he'd used this morning mixed with something darker underneath.

"Focus, Sandra, if you miss the radial nerve by even a millimeter, you'll cause permanent damage." His hand covered mine, guiding my fingers to the correct position, and everywhere we touched felt like fire.

I tried to concentrate, tried to channel my gift the way he'd taught me yesterday, but all I could think about was the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the rough sound he'd made when I'd wrapped my legs around him.

"You're distracted." His breath ghosted my ear as he leaned closer to check my work. "What's wrong?"

Everything, nothing, the fact that I can't stop remembering how you taste. "I didn't sleep well."

His hand tightened on mine, just for a second, then released. "Try again, slower this time, feel each individual fiber before you heal."

I bent over the dummy, hyper-aware of Marcus behind me, his presence like electricity against my back, and my hands shook as I called up the golden light.

The healing went sideways, energy spiking wrong, and the dummy's arm spasmed violently.

"Fuck." I jerked back, and Marcus's hands landed on my shoulders, steadying me.

"It's fine, no harm done, but you need to get your head in the game or someone's going to get hurt." He didn't remove his hands, his thumbs pressing into the knots of tension at the base of my neck.

The touch was meant to be practical, therapeutic even, but it sent heat pooling low in my belly, and I couldn't stop the small sound that escaped my throat.

Marcus went still behind me, his fingers freezing mid-motion. "Sandra, don't—"

I turned in his grip, looking up at him, and saw my own struggle reflected in his face—the war between what he knew was right and what he clearly wanted.

"Don't what?" I stepped closer, testing, and he didn't back away. "Don't acknowledge that you're thinking about last night? That you came down to my room knowing what would happen?"

"I came down because you asked me to, you said you were scared." But his hands were sliding from my shoulders down my arms, his touch lingering in a way that had nothing to do with teaching.

"I'm still scared." The admission came out raw. "Scared of Vanessa, scared of what you're doing to me, scared that I don't hate you as much as I should."

His jaw clenched, and something dark flickered through his eyes. "You should hate me, Sandra, I'm manipulating you, using your situation for—"

"For what?" I grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, reckless with need and confusion. "If you're such a monster, then why teach me anything real? Why not just break me and be done with it?"

"Because I made a promise to your father." His hands framed my face, tilting it up. "Because you deserve better than what happened to you, you deserve better than me."

"Stop telling me what I deserve and show me what you want." I rose on my toes, closing the distance until our lips were a breath apart.

He held there, trembling with restraint, and I felt the exact moment he broke, the second his control shattered like glass.

His mouth crashed into mine, hungry and desperate, and I opened for him immediately, welcoming the invasion of his tongue.

We stumbled backward until my spine hit the wall, Marcus pinning me there with his body, his hips grinding against mine in a rhythm that made coherent thought impossible.

I yanked his shirt up, needing to feel skin, and he obliged by pulling it over his head in one fluid motion that showcased muscles I wanted to trace with my tongue.

"This is insane," he muttered against my neck, but his hands were already sliding under my tank top, lifting it up and off. "We're going to get caught, this is going to destroy everything."

"Then let it." I worked at his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency, and he helped me, shoving his jeans down enough to free himself.

He hooked his fingers in my shorts, dragging them down my legs along with my underwear, and then I was pressed against cold wall wearing nothing while he stood fully dressed except for his open jeans.

The contrast should have made me feel vulnerable, but instead it was intoxicating, the evidence of how badly he wanted me, how he couldn't even wait to undress properly.

His hand slid between my thighs, fingers finding me already wet, and he groaned low in his throat. "Fuck, Sandra, you're soaked."

"Your fault," I gasped as he circled my clit, applying just enough pressure to make my knees weak. "You've been torturing me all morning."

He captured my mouth again, swallowing my moans as he worked me with skilled fingers, building that pressure until I was trembling on the edge.

Then he withdrew, and I whimpered at the loss until I heard foil tearing, watched him roll a condom on with shaking hands.

He lifted me like I weighed nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and then he was there, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.

"Last chance to stop this," he said, but he was already pushing inside, stretching me around his thickness, and we both groaned at the sensation.

"Don't stop," I begged, nails digging into his shoulders. "Don't you fucking dare stop."

He thrust deep, burying himself completely, and the fullness was perfect, overwhelming, exactly what I needed to feel something other than lost and broken.

His rhythm started slow, controlled, but quickly devolved into something rawer as I urged him faster, harder, my hips rolling to meet each stroke.

The wall provided leverage and he used it, driving into me with enough force that the medical equipment rattled on the shelves, and I didn't care who heard or what it meant, only that he kept moving, kept filling me, kept making me forget.

His thumb found my clit again, circling in time with his thrusts, and pleasure coiled tight in my core, building toward something catastrophic.

"Come for me, Sandra, let me feel you." His voice was ragged, desperate, and the command combined with one particularly deep thrust sent me over the edge.

I shattered around him, crying out his name, my body clenching rhythmically as waves of pleasure crashed through me.

He followed seconds later, driving deep and holding there as he spilled into the condom, his face buried in my neck, breath hot and ragged against my skin.

We stayed locked together, both panting, reality slowly seeping back in around the edges of post-orgasmic haze.

Marcus lowered me carefully, my legs shaky as they found the floor, and we separated with a wet sound that made me flush.

He disposed of the condom, yanked his jeans up, then ran his hands th

rough his hair, looking anywhere but at me. "We need to—"

The doorbell rang, cutting him off, and we both froze.