Page 36 of The Love Operation

“I’m sorry,” he begins immediately. “I honestly didn’t think about how this would look. I did have work. Then, when I saw your car in the parking lot, I came back in.”

“What do you want to talk about?” I ask because I don’t need this explanation. I stand at a safe distance, though—not because I don’t trust him, but because I don’t trust myself.

He shakes his head. “Not tonight. Another time. Like you said.” He’s cooler now. Back to business.

I glance down the hallway. Delenn’s still there, watching, waiting. I wave her off. She hesitates—a good friend. She doesn’t care that this is the COO of the hospital. And right now, neither do I.

I pull out my phone and shoot her a quick text: I’m okay. I promise.

She reluctantly leaves after miming a phone call.

“Go home, Dr. Wren.” Isaac’s voice is steady now. “Your friend is obviously worried about you being alone with a strange man after hours. And she’s right to be.”

I arch a brow. “Because you plan to do something unsavory?”

His jaw ticks. “Of course not.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not.”

I grin because he absolutely is.

“Why are you smiling?” he asks. The question is full of irritation, but his face can’t hide the amusement.

“I like seeing you sweat.”

His hands stay in his pockets, body language deliberately unthreatening. “I’m perfectly dry, thanks.”

His tie is loosened. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show the cut of his forearms. His five o’clock shadow is thick, and the way he’s working his jaw . . . well. He’s fucking hot.

“Well, that makes one of us.”

His mouth opens slightly, eyebrows inching up. He can’t believe I said that. He doesn’t know what lack of sleep turns me into.

My last shred of resistance bursts into flames beneath the heat of his gaze. One moment I’m anchored by reason, and the next, I’m reaching for him, gripping the back of his neck, dragging his mouth to mine.

He meets me halfway.

Our lips crash together, and my entire body detonates. Heat floods every inch of me, curling low and tight. His hands find my waist, then slide to my hips, gripping like he’s been starving for this—for me—and now, finally, he’s allowed to feast.

He presses me against the wall, his hips aligning with mine, firm and deliberate. I gasp into his mouth. My fingers dive into his hair, tugging as he kisses me harder, deeper, like he’s trying to fit inside the shape of my hunger.

He groans when I bite his bottom lip, a low, needy sound that vibrates through my chest and settles between my legs.

Then—he pauses.

I start to protest, until I realize he’s unfastening my coat, removing a layer between us. His hands slide up my back beneath the thin fabric of my scrubs, and lightning races up my spine.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs against my jaw.

I moan, my body arching to meet his. “I think I do,” I whisper, breath hot against his cheek.

Because same. Every second of restraint, every glance, every moment of eye sex we pretended not to have . . . none of it prepared me for this—how good he feels.

We’ve been simmering for months, keeping our distance like professionals. Now we’re boiling over, professionalism nothing more than steam in the air.

“So much better than I imagined,” he whispers, voice hoarse and wrecked.