45 Boxes of Books

In his defense, Jack does try to remain unaffected by the sight of Dr. Samira Mohan in a pair of skin-tight purple leggings that hug her tight ass and a generously low-cut matching sports bra.

He tries to avoid looking at the sweat that gleams on the high points of her cheeks, the slope of her collarbones, the curve of her breasts. He tries to ignore how tousled her curls look, escaping from the bun at the nape of her neck. He tries to avoid looking at the whisper of abdominal muscles under the thin layer of subcutaneous fat covering her belly. He tries. Oh, how he tries. 

He does not succeed.

“Just couldn’t say away, huh?” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

A little breathless, she drifts into his personal space. There’s not much, not between them. It’s one of the first things to go in their profession, alongside regular sleep and the ability to function without NSAIDs and SSRIs. In a trauma bay, there’s no such thing as personal space. 

“Oh, you know me,” she replies. “Just looking to pitch in. Figured I’d come in and help.” 

And god, the way she smells right now.

Like deodorant, of course, something floral and summery and bright, but under that is pure musk. Their patient must have fallen out after hitting the stride of their workout; sweat is tacky on her skin, the scent of salt overlaying the cloying pure smell of her. It clings to the lyra and spandex of her clothes, to her hair, to the creases of her body. 

No small amount of human sexual attraction resides in the olfactory epithelium. There are studies upon studies on the major histocompatibility complex, proving time and time again that people who smell better to each other produce stronger offspring. There’s research from 2010 that found a statistically significant difference in males’ salivary testosterone levels after smelling articles of clothing worn by ovulating and non-ovulating females. There are documented female pheromones that are processed in the male vomeronasal organ; it is entirely possible that his hypothalamus has long-identified Samira Mohan as what Savic et al. described as a putative mate.

Which is the long, roundabout way of saying that Jack wants to bury his face between her shapely thighs, mouthing at her pussy through layers of synthetic fabric until the smell of her is embedded so deep in his sinuses that he’ll never get it back out. 

“Need a ride back to your car?” he asks, once he finishes handing over his cases at seven. 

Wearing a relieved smile, she nods. “Please. I was just trying to figure out if my legs were going to make it the two miles back to the gym. All I have on me is my phone—all my other shit is still in a locker in Hamilton.” 

He’s a dirty old man. He’s a creep. He’s a fucking loser. 

It becomes a mantra, keys in his hand, keeping up idle conversation as they walk over to the PTMC parking deck. Night shift gets better parking spots than the day shift; once they reach the end of the breezeway connecting the hospital to the garage, it’s twenty feet to his older, but well-maintained Jeep Wrangler. 

Keeping his eyes decidedly off her, he thumbs the unlock button on the keyfob. He wrenches open the door to the backseat, chucking his backpack inside. Professional, he is a professional. He has taught hundreds of med students and residents and combat medics. He has never once struggled to remain professional. He has been an officer with unimpeachable integrity, a physician whose ethics could never be called into question, a consummate mentor. 

Until—

“So, are you just gonna keep stealing glances at my ass or are you gonna do something about it?” Samira asks, leaning up against the hardshell back of the Jeep, arms crossed under her tits. Somehow, she’s the picture of nonchalance. Which is good, because that makes one of them, and it’s definitely not him. “Because if you offered me a ride just to be polite, I’ll be very disappointed.” 

His mouth goes dry. 

“You don’t want me to be polite?” he asks, voice scraping the bottom of his register. 

“I’m sick of you being polite. It makes me feel fucking crazy.” 

And then she’s looking at him with those big doe-brown eyes, fringed with long dark lashes that drive him crazy. She bites at her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth. He wants to bite it for her. But still, he holds his hands in front of him, as if he might be chastised for breaking sterile field if he moves the wrong way. He wants to touch her. He wants to find out what her rounded glutes feel like under his palms, what her throat tastes like on his tongue. He wants to work her nipples into hard points, he wants to grind her down onto the meat of his thigh. He wants. 

Stepping closer, Samira tilts her head up towards him until their lips are a breath apart. “So, are you gonna keep looking, or are you gonna touch me, Abbot?”

Personal space. 

Mouth hanging open, he breathes her in, fills his nose and lungs with the smell of her. Running out of reasons not to do this, the number dwindling down to zero, the numbers on the scoreboard flashing bright as the buzzer sounds, Jack grabs at her waist, tugs her in tight against him until their hips are flush. 

“Get in the back of the car and you’ll find out.” 

Polite, as it turns out, is helping Samira out of her leggings. Pulling her sneakers off her feet, chucking them into the trunk so she can rid herself of the clothing covering her bottom half. Legs spreading wide, she plants her feet on the bench seating, hips jutting forward until she’s level with the edge of the seat. Polite is not waiting for her to remove her panties, rubbing his face up against the cotton gusset, inhaling the smell of sweat and arousal, pheromones and cervical secretions. He presses the tip of his nose against her clit through the fabric, mouthing at the damp patch seeping though. 

Polite is not making her beg, pulling her briefs to one side to sink his mouth into her, groaning in relief when her hands fist into his hair. Polite is making her come without teasing, atonement for missing all the signs of her returned affections. Polite is sliding one hand up under the band of her sports bra, tweaking and pulling at her nipples when she says she’s close to a second orgasm. 

At 7:37 AM, Jack Abbot makes Samira Mohan come for the first time, reveling in the way she grinds her hips into his face. At 7:49 AM, he makes her come for a second time, clenching down around his fingers. At 8:02, he rests his head on the top of one of her toned thighs, lightly scraping his nails up and down her calf, and asks if she wants to come over to his place for breakfast after they swing by the gym.