“Good girl,” he tells me. He must have heard me gasp, or he’s using some sort of that strange psychic power that he’s thus far kept hidden. “Is your clit swollen?”

I shut my eyes, trying not to feel absolutely lost and embarrassed. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“Rub it for me.” I do. I work my fingers back and forth over the slick flesh between my legs, doing my utmost to keep my breathing even. “Does it feel good?”

“Uh-huh.” I swallow a mouthful of oxygen as a ripple of heat shivers up my spine, traveling up over my ears and onto my face. My lips are tingling like crazy. I bite the lower one to try and get a handle on the sensation but it only makes it worse. I can’t help it; I sigh deeply.

“That’s it. Don’t hold your breath, angry girl.” Zeth’s deeply resonating voice is hypnotic now, working into my subconscious. It feels like a physical presence in itself, sending shooting relays of pleasure around my body. “Take your shirt off.”

I blink past the demand and stop what I’m doing to comply, pushing all thought of objection out of my head. No point now. I yank off my scrubs top and my tee underneath, letting the clothes drop to the floor between my legs. It’s not cold but I still shiver as I shrug out of my bra straps. My nipples are already tightly drawn buds, so sensitive the still air against them almost hurts.

“Squeeze your breasts. Imagine my hands,” Zeth orders. “My mouth.”

That’s not something I do when I’m on my own. I never really have. I always reasoned that it wouldn’t be the same as a guy doing it, but now when I lightly trace my fingertips across the goose-bumped skin of my breasts, I am imagining him. I can practically feel the heat of his breath as he stoops to suck one nipple and then the other into his mouth. My own breath catches again.

“Good. That’s right,” he encourages me. “Put me on speakerphone. You’re gonna need two hands for this.”

I fumble with the phone, hitting the speaker icon and setting the phone down on top of the pile of clothes at my feet. I’m already too lost to think about what I’m doing. I’m using my own discretion now, touching and stroking where I see fit. I’m panting, too. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself if I tried.

“Now. Slide your fingers inside.” Zeth’s voice sounds almost as hazy as mine. Rougher than normal, and that’s saying something. I obey him immediately, slipping first my middle and then my index finger into my pussy. I inhale sharply, the pressure feeling warm and tight and strangely blissful. The forbidden pitch of his words work their magic over me when he then commands, “Fuck yourself for me, Sloane. Do it. Fuck yourself hard.”

I oblige him, finally unable to prevent the moans and soft gasping that escapes my mouth as I work my fingers inside myself, imagining the weight of him on top of me, his rock-hard cock pulsing in and out of me, the sublime burn of his rough stubble on my sensitive skin. He breathes words into the phone, growling and hissing out his approval as I get louder and louder. I can barely hear what he’s saying though, and soon a tightening, fizzing sensation grips hold of me. It happens suddenly. An unstoppable wall of heat that crashes through me like whitewater smashing into the wall of a dam. Rising upward and at the same time dragging me down with it.

“Holy…FUCK!” The words rip out of me like a plea for help. My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath, up and down, up and down.

Zeth’s lazy, amused laughter echoes around the narrow cubicle. “Sounds like you enjoyed that, angry girl.”

“Fuck you,” I tell him, only half meaning it.

And then I hear something that makes me freeze in place: a toilet flush. Zeth is silent for a moment and then he says, “Let me guess. That wasn’t you.”

I sit upright, leaning forward, slapping my hands over my mouth. Zeth just starts laughing. I snatch up the phone and hit the big red end call button, feeling all my blood rush to my cheeks.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

A stall door opens, not the one right next to me but the one on the very end, and the sound of a tap being turned on fills the bathroom. Whoever it is hurriedly washes their hands and then rushes out of the bathroom. I grab up my clothes and dress myself frantically—I need to find out who the hell that was! No, no, no, no, NO! Fuck. Fuck!!

I hastily wash my own hands, and then dash out of the bathroom, chest still heaving, more from horror and shock now than the orgasm I just experienced—the one that registered a nine point two on the Richter scale. The corridor is bustling with nurses, doctors and members of the public. Members of the fucking public! I don’t know what’s worse, the thought of a colleague having just heard that or the poor, unsuspecting family member of one of my patients. My horror becomes absolute when Oliver Massey saunters down the hallway toward me, grinning. He holds up his palm, grinning at me. Without thinking I respond, raising my own hand to give him a high five as he passes. He raises an eyebrow at me as he continues right on by.

“Scrubs are inside out, Romera,” he points out, winking. “What have you been up to?”

It can’t have been Oliver. There’s no way it could have been him. It was the women’s bathroom for crying out loud. The rest of the day goes by with me feeling flushed and distinctly like I just got caught with my pants down. And my shirt off. While being instructed to do rather graphic things to myself.

I want to smack Zeth so hard my palms tingle with need for the rest of my shift. When it’s finally time for me to clock off, I find Lacey asleep in the on-call room where I left her, swaddled in blankets. She doesn’t look like she’s moved at all since this morning. She blinks groggily at me when I wake her and we leave St. Peter’s via the rear exit, firstly to avoid the curious eyes of the nursing staff, secondly so I don’t run into Oliver again (just in case), and thirdly so I can try and sneak the Volvo out of the lot without being seen by any mysterious black cars with tinted windows.