Night Shift : Part 3

Their shifts ended at different times, but Marcus was waiting when Claire walked out of the staff entrance at 7:12 a.m. He sat in a dark car at the far end of the lot, engine off, watching the door. When she appeared he simply reached across and pushed the passenger door open.

No greeting. No explanation.

Claire got in.

He drove without speaking. The city was just starting to wake up—pale light, sparse traffic, the low thrum of the engine the only sound between them. Ten minutes later he pulled into the underground garage of a quiet mid-rise building and killed the engine.

“This is me,” he said.

His apartment was on the twelfth floor—clean lines, low furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows still covered by half-drawn blinds. The air smelled faintly of coffee and something woodsy. Marcus locked the door behind them, set his keys on the counter, and finally turned to look at her.

For the first time since the supply closet there was no rush. No risk of a colleague walking past. No thin walls. Just the two of them and the soft morning light filtering through the blinds.

Claire spoke first. “You said somewhere we could be as loud as we wanted.”

Marcus’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “I did.”

He walked to her, took the hem of her scrub top in both hands, and pulled it off slowly. This time he didn’t shove it aside. He folded it once and set it on the arm of the couch. Then he hooked his fingers in the waistband of her pants and dragged them down, letting her step out. She stood bare in the middle of his living room while he remained dressed. The imbalance felt different here—less frantic, more deliberate.

Marcus circled her once, slow, like he was memorizing. When he came back around he cupped her face and kissed her—deep, unhurried, almost exploratory. His hands traveled down her sides, over the curve of her hips, then up again to her breasts. He rolled both nipples between his fingers with steady pressure until they were tight and sensitive, never breaking the kiss.

When he finally pulled back he spoke against her mouth.

“Bed. Down the hall.”

His bedroom was dim, the bed large and neatly made. Marcus stripped without ceremony—scrub top, pants, everything—until he was as bare as she was. Claire’s eyes dropped. He was already hard, thick, the head flushed. He didn’t reach for her right away. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed and drew her to stand between his knees.

“I want to look at you properly,” he said. “No fluorescent lights. No time limit.”

His hands smoothed up the backs of her thighs, over her ass, then around to stroke between her legs with a single finger, slow and light. Claire’s breath hitched. He kept the touch almost lazy, tracing her folds, circling her clit without pressing, sliding just inside and then out again until her hips began to chase his hand.

Only then did he lie back and pull her over him.

“Sit on my mouth.”

Claire hesitated for half a second. Marcus’s hands on her hips guided her forward until her knees bracketed his head. The first slow drag of his tongue made her gasp. Here, with no one to hear, she didn’t try to stay quiet. He licked her open with long, thorough strokes, tongue flat, then pointed, then sucking gently on her clit while his hands held her in place. Claire’s palms braced on the headboard. A low, unbroken moan spilled out of her as he worked her with maddening patience.

He brought her to the edge twice and backed off both times, until her thighs were trembling and she was openly begging. On the third build he sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked in steady rhythm. Claire came hard, hips rocking against his face, a sharp cry echoing in the quiet room. Marcus kept licking her through it, slower now, until the last tremor faded.

He eased her down his body. She felt the hard length of him against her stomach, then lower. Marcus reached between them, guided himself, and let her sink onto his cock in one continuous, controlled slide.

They both exhaled.

For a long moment neither moved. He was buried to the hilt, thick and pulsing inside her. Marcus’s hands rested on her hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin there. He looked up at her with an expression that had nothing left of the carefully controlled attending physician.

“Ride me as slow as you want,” he said. “We’ve got until the next shift.”

Claire began to move—rising and sinking in a deliberate rhythm, feeling every inch. Marcus watched her face, one hand sliding up to cup her breast, the other staying on her hip. The only sounds were the soft wet noise of her taking him and their breathing. When she tried to speed up he held her steady, forcing the pace to stay unhurried.

“Not yet.”

He let her keep that slow rhythm until her thighs started to shake again. Then he sat up, wrapped an arm around her waist, and rolled them without pulling out. Claire landed on her back. Marcus settled between her thighs and began to thrust—long, deep strokes that filled her completely each time. He kept his eyes on hers. One hand braced beside her head; the other reached down and rubbed her clit in the same unhurried circles.

The second orgasm built slower than the first and hit deeper. Claire’s back arched. A broken, open-mouthed sound left her. Marcus fucked her through it, never speeding up, until the last flutter of her cunt around him faded.

Only then did he change the pace.

He hooked her knees over his elbows, folded her, and drove into her harder, still controlled but deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. Claire’s third orgasm crashed over her without warning, sharper, almost too much. Marcus followed a few strokes later, burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan and coming in thick, hot pulses that she felt flooding her.

He stayed inside her for a long time afterward, forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard. When he finally pulled out, the warm rush followed. This time he simply looked at the mess between her thighs, then reached down and stroked through it with two fingers—not pushing it back in, just spreading it slowly over her skin, marking her in the soft morning light.

“Stay,” he said quietly. “Sleep. I’ll wake you before you have to be back.”

Claire looked at him—bare, still half-hard, the careful doctor gone and only the man left.

She nodded.

Marcus pulled the sheet over them both, drew her against his chest, and let the city noise rise faintly beyond the blinds. For the first time since the supply closet, neither of them was listening for footsteps in a hallway.

The night shift was over.

What they had started was not.