Page 31 of His Orders

“Please, Ethan. I need you.”

I groan against her throat and trail kisses down her chest, my teeth grazing the side of her breast. She writhes beneath me, panting, her voice cracking when I suck her nipple into my mouth. I feel her thighs tighten around me, desperate for friction. I want to give it to her. Every inch. Every filthy promise I’ve kept locked behind clenched teeth since the day she asked me to leave.

She shivers when I slip down between her legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh before my tongue finds her. Ivy’s back arches hard, both hands fisting the sheets. She whimpers my name, one leg draped over my shoulder, the other shaking as I take my time.

"You taste so fucking good," I whisper into her. “I could live here.”

She’s soaked. And when she breaks apart against my mouth, crying out like she’s unraveling, I don’t stop. I need more. She grabs at my wrist, tugging me up, eyes glazed with lust.

“Your turn,” she says, voice thick, trembling. “Let me take care of you.”

And then she’s sliding down my body, her fingers curling around my cock like she already knows the rhythm I like. Her mouth follows a second later—hot, wet, so fucking perfect. I almost lose it when she moans around me. I thread my fingers through her hair, watching as she takes more, licking me like I belong to her.

“Jesus, Ivy.”

She looks up through her lashes, lips wrapped tight around my cock, and I nearly lose control. It’s the look that breaks me. That mouth. That hunger. The way she owns me without even trying.

“Keep going, baby,” I grit out. “Just like that.”

She does. I come with her name on my tongue, one hand locked in her hair, hips jerking up into her mouth. She swallows every drop, wipes her lips with the back of her hand, and climbs up to straddle my hips. Her eyes shine, cheeks flushed, body soft and bare against mine.

I jolt awake with a strangled sound, sweat slick on my skin and my cock still hard. My hand is wrapped tightly around it, my release sticky across my stomach. I shut my eyes, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like I just ran ten miles.

But she’s not here. The bed is cold except for the space I warmed myself. My body aches with how badly I want her, how much I miss her. Every part of me is still wired from the dream, from the taste of her still lingering on my tongue and the sound of her voice begging for more.

That’s enough.

I peel myself out of bed and drag my palm over my face, trying to exorcise the memory of her mouth from my skin, her voice from my head. The cold water of the shower does its job, shocking me back into my body, stripping away whatever fantasies I had let crawl under my skin overnight. Ivy Dawson is not in my bed. She's not in my life. She doesn’t want me there. That’s the fact I keep repeating as I towel off and head to the kitchen.

Breakfast is fuel today, nothing more. Toast, peanut butter, black coffee. I chew mechanically, barely tasting any of it, my thoughts already spiraling toward work, toward the safety of scalpels and sterile lights.

I leave the penthouse just after seven. The sky above St. Vincent’s is still bruised with early morning light, the kind that feels more ghost than sun. Traffic drones low as I pull into the underground parking, kill the engine, and head up through the staff entrance.

My badge clicks against the scanner, and I breathe out deeply as I enter. By the time I’m scrubbing in, the noise in my headis beginning to quiet. This is the rhythm I’ve relied on for years. This is where I forget everything else.

The first case arrives, and he’s already coding when they wheel him in—twenty-nine, motorcycle wreck, blood pressure tanking fast. I bark for a trauma tray before the gurney stops moving. Gloves on. Gown. Mask. I step to the table.

“Ruptured spleen,” one of the residents calls out. “BP’s eighty over fifty.”

“Let’s not let it drop again,” I say, already cutting. The incision is clean and quick, midline from sternum to navel. The moment we open him, the blood surges, and he's losing too much. The suction whines as I guide it in.

“Give me retraction. Get the lap pads in—now.”

Hands move around me. I don’t look up. I locate the source. Left upper quadrant, classic rupture, spleen’s blown open like fruit. My fingers work around the tissue. I clamp the hilum, fast but steady, to control the bleeding. Another suction. We’re stabilizing.

“Cross-clamp ready?”

“Ready.”

“On my count.” I guide the instruments in, pack around the field. The bleeding slows.

“Vitals holding,” the anesthesiologist mutters.

I keep going. This is routine, and while it's chaotic, there's a method to it. I’ve done it a hundred times, maybe more. Spleen’s a loss, but the rest of him is still salvageable. I start the removal, careful around the pancreas. No slips. No surprises.

“Looks like he’s got a shot,” someone says.

I don’t answer. I’m already two steps ahead, closing what I can, cleaning the field, checking for anything we missed. When it’s done, I strip my gloves, chest tight. The patient will live.

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