Page 263 of Intense
“Go ahead.”
“Now that you’re… with Dr. Quinn. Like, officially. Does that mean you’re leaving?”
The question knocks me off balance. I hadn’t even thought about it. Technically, dating your boss isn’t a great look. But quitting? The thought makes my chest tighten. I love this place. I love my job.
Still—logistics? That’s another thing. We want kids. Vacations. We have the Trials. God.
“No, I won’t be,” I tell her, though the weight of it settles heavy in my chest. It’s something I’ll need to talk through with my husband. Maybe even move hospitals. Later. Not now.
Because right now all I can think about is chocolate cake and wedding dresses.
“I need to pop in to see Finn. Coffee tomorrow?” I offer.
She nods, smiling. “Have a good evening, Steph. It’s good to see you happy.”
I wave and push through Finn’s door. His voice fills the office, deep and commanding. A smile creeps across my lips.
He’s behind his desk, in front of the computer, on a video call. The hospital director, Bruce’s clipped voice filters through the speakers.
I slip the door shut quietly and drop to my knees.
Finn’s eyes snap to mine. One brow arches, and he crooks a finger.
Heat licks through me. I crawl to him, palms against the polished floor, until I’m under his desk.
“Yes. I understand,” he says smoothly, gaze never faltering on the screen. “I’m more than happy to assist with any transition process. I’m not leaving the state.”
I settle on my knees, hands gliding up his shins. He doesn’t stop me. My grin widens. Higher, higher, until I reach his belt.
“What timescale are you thinking, Dr. Quinn?” the director asks.
Finn clears his throat. My heart pounds. I free him from his trousers, my mouth watering at the sight of his cock heavy in my hand.
“My wedding is in three weeks,” he answers evenly. “So let’s say… two months?”
Two months? My brows knit in confusion. What the hell is he talking about?
His hand fists in my hair, tugging me up until my lips part.
I take him in my mouth.
And Finn Quinn doesn’t miss a single beat.
His fingers tighten in my hair, guiding me into a rhythm that has my throat burning and my core aching. His voice stays smooth, collected, like he isn’t buried halfway down my throat.
“Yes… two months is workable. I’ll ensure a clean handover.”
My eyes snap up to him. Handover? My pulse spikes, but I don’t stop. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, desperate to draw out the cracks in his mask.
“Thank you, Director. That’s all for now.”
He ends the call with one hand, the other still tangled in my hair. His head drops back against the chair, a hiss tearing through his teeth as I swallow around him.
Then his hand tightens, pulling me off him with a wet gasp. My lips are swollen, my eyes glassy, but he doesn’t let me move. His pale gaze pins me like steel.
“I quit,” he says simply.
My chest caves. “What?”
