#mohanavitch

Her thighs rest against the desk as Robby pushes deeper. “Am I supposed to be impressed?” He asks. “Do you want a compliment for taking two fingers?” Someone more responsible than him would whisper, but Robby doesn’t care that anyone walking past his office door could hear. Could simply open the door and find them—he never bothers locking it.

Samira takes his knuckles between her molars and bites down as hard as she can muster. All Robby does is roll his eyes. “Such a fucking brat.” He pulls his hand from her mouth and grabs her chin, wet fingers digging into her cheeks and forcing her to look him directly in the eye. “You have to earn respect, Mohan. It isn’t owed to you. Praise isn’t owed to you.”

He hates her. Samira knows that he hates her. The feeling is very mutual. Hatred does not dampen the drive for approval. That’s the funny thing about hatred, it doesn’t dampen anything. Samira is always aware of him. Of his moods, his proximity, his eyes on the back of her skull. Hatred requires a lot of energy. A lot of focus.

She straightens her spine, rolls her shoulders back. “I can earn it.” Praise, or respect? Samira refuses to interrogate which she wants more.

His eyes, all big and brown and disapproving, survey her. He lets go of her face with a push. Samira knows the procedure. Knows the order of operations. There are many terrible things she could say about Robby—he’s disorganized, he’s a misogynist, he misdiagnoses, he’s a liar—but here, in his darkened office, his expectations are clear. Here, there is no pretense that she is his equal.

Samira slides off the desk, sinking to her knees in front of him. Her stomach tightens, thighs clenching as he looks down at her.

She exhales through her nose before taking his thumb in her mouth this time, hollowing her cheeks as she looks up at him through her lashes. Robby huffs. He’s half hard under his scrubs. He has been since he grabbed her by the elbow and steered her away from the Hub under the pretense of discussing her fellowship applications. “If only you were this eager with your work.”

She knows the procedure.

The weight of him is heavy on her tongue. Robby looks almost ashamed of himself before he pushes forward without warning, aiming for the back of her throat. He wants her to gag, and this time she does.

His big, stupid fingers undo the clip in her hair. He gathers her curls in his fist instead. “Come on, you can take it.” Robby’s nails drag against her scalp. “You can take it, can’t you?” Samira thinks about biting down again. Biting straight through him. The taste of blood.

But she doesn’t bite. It won’t get her what she wants.

Saliva pools under her tongue, streams from the corners of her stretched mouth, down her chin, onto her scrub pants. She feels dizzy and angry and proud all at once as Robby runs his thumb over her brow and finally says, “Good.” It shouldn’t be as potent as it is.

He wants her to gag. He wants her to cry. Samira does both, her head bobbing, with his cock in her mouth and his hand tangled in her hair. “See, you can be quick when it matters, can’t you, Dr. Mohan?”

Robby told her once, when she was bent over his desk, her face pressed into a manila envelope that read Collins, Heather, that she shouldn’t expect any special treatment. It was so absurd she laughed while he was still inside her.

She will never get special treatment from Robby. Samira is not a promising young man to take under his wing. She is not an old flame, patient and kind enough to meet his each and every mood with a gentle touch and a glance. She is someone who sees straight through him. Sees the loathing and the self-doubt that festers within him like an infection. She sees him for what he is: someone who will never be enough. It’s something she recognizes.

Samira is Robby. Of course, they hate each other.

She’s him, just better. Just younger. Just on her knees.

Tears streaming down her face, she swallows when he finishes, pulls away from him with her teeth scraping against his skin. She brushes off his obligatory attempt to shove a precise, emotionless hand down her pants and get her off, too.

He doesn’t get to walk away with a clear conscience. He doesn’t get to go back to work thinking that what they’re doing is in any way healthy. Not if she can help it. Samira already got what she wanted.