Page 10 of Wistful Whispers

“Seamus.” Her voice quivers with need.

I don’t say a word. Instead, I slide my hand down the front of her scrubs, finding her soaking and ready. I know exactly how much pressure to use, how to circle my thumb on her clit and when to slow down to tease her. Cecily’s breath hitches as her body arches against mine. She spreads her legs slightly and thrusts against my fingers.

I slide a finger inside her, my thumb still circling her swollen little nub and she gasps, her palms are clenched in fists against the wall. I locate the sensitive area on her inner walls and I press against it with constant, deliberate strokes until she’s writhing uncontrollably.

Her cries grow louder, more desperate, and I know she’s close.

“Oh God,” she keens, grinding against my hand. “Don’t you dare stop.”

I keep the pressure steady, my thumb circling furiously as my fingers work inside her. I can feel everything. Her body stiffening, inner muscles clenching around my fingers.

Good. She’s about to fall apart and I can get outta here.

When she comes, her hips jerk against my hand and her moans echo in the stairwell. This is where the magic happens. The reason why hospital women seek me out. Using my learned techniques, I’m able to draw out orgasms over and over until she’s barely able to stand up.

My signature.

By the time I finally relent, she’s breathless and disheveled. My scrubs are still around my ankles when she collapses back against me, her breath coming in short, eager gasps. “You’re…amazing,” she pants. “How do you it?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I pull my hand away, fingers slick with her arousal, yank up my pants over my softening cock and tie the drawstring. Cecily turns to face me. Her face is flushed and I can see the flicker of hope in her eyes.

The hopethismight mean something.

Hope she might mean something tome.

It doesn’t.

Shedoesn’t.

So I mutter out some shit about needing to get back to work and leave her there.

Forget all about Cecily the second the door shuts behind me.

three

Marcella

Three Weeks Later

LutherYoung’ssmugfaceflashes onto my screen—slick hair, steel eyes, the grin of a man who thinks he’s already won.

I hope he chokes on it.

God, the mere sight of him makes my teeth grind.

“I see you wasted no time serving Dr. Caldwell.” He leans back in his chair like this is a casual chat between colleagues instead of a battle line being drawn.

I match his energy, tilting my head slightly. “It’s a strong case.”

“Not as strong as you think.” Luther exhales through his nose. “Neurosurgery is high-risk. Poor outcomes don’t always equal malpractice.”

“I’m aware. I also know the difference between an unavoidable complication and a preventable mistake. After reviewing the file, I’m confident Dr. Caldwell’s decisions will show deviation from the standard of care.” My eyes bore into his for emphasis.

He’s unbothered, which pisses me off. “You’re jumping the gun, Delgado. You won’t have a single expert opinion back your claim. You’re filing first and looking for proof later.”

“You’re dead wrong. The proof is in Miranda’s medical records.” My lips curl into a smug grin. “I also have an independent review from an outside neurosurgeon who already sees red flags. I have a devastated family who was assured by your client this was the best course of action. Let’s set up Caldwell’s deposition and figure out a fair settlement.”

Luther taps his pen against his desk, unimpressed. “Well, it’s going to be awhile before my client’s available. He’s one of the most coveted neurosurgeons in the region and has an intensive schedule. You know how disruptive litigation is to a physician of his caliber who’s in the business of saving lives. The earliest he can do it is three months from now.”

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