Page 73 of The Medic
I gripped the wheel, my options stark: deliver Sloane to Marshall—fuck that—talk to my brothers for clarity, or figure out some third path through this mess. I pulled up to the gate, the security system scanning my truck, and glanced at Sloane again, her wonder at the Hall’s grandeur battling the fear in her eyes. Iwanted to tell her everything would be okay, but the truth was a tangled knot I couldn’t unravel.
We stepped out, the salt air sharp against my skin, and I led her through the Hall’s massive doors, the foyer’s marble floor gleaming under crystal chandeliers.
“Quick tour,” I said, my voice rough, gesturing to the grand staircase. Sloane’s gaze darted from the ornate banister to the stained-glass window above, her lips parting in awe despite the tension etched into her face. “Library’s that way, kitchen’s through there,” I muttered, pointing down shadowed halls as we moved toward my suite.
She asked, her voice soft but urgent, “Are my parents gonna be okay?”
I nodded, forcing certainty I didn’t feel. “They will.”
Sylvia’s words suggested she was safe for now, a neutral player unless things went south, but I kept that to myself, not wanting to add to Sloane’s fear.
We climbed to the third floor, my suite at the end of a long corridor, its double doors carved with the Dane crest. I pushed them open, revealing a sprawling room—dark wood floors, a four-poster bed, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor, and a private balcony where I’d spent countless nights wrestling with my demons.
Sloane stepped inside, her eyes wide, taking in the leather armchairs, the fireplace, the faint scent of cedar and whiskey that clung to the air.
I expected her to curl up in the corner chair, to let the weight of Marshall’s threats and her mother’s secrets crush her, but she surprised me. She walked to the bed, her blonde hair catching the moonlight, and turned, her gaze fierce and raw.
“Fuck me, Charlie,” she said, her voice a blade cutting through the silence. “Make me forget all of this.”
My breath caught, desire and shock colliding, and I crossed the room, knowing this was what we both needed—something real to drown out the chaos.
I reached her, my hands framing her face, and kissed her hard, my lips bruising hers, tasting the fear and the fire of her need. She clawed at my shirt, and I shoved her dress up, the fabric bunching at her hips as I lifted her onto the bed’s edge.
But we didn’t stay there—she pushed me back, her hands on my chest, guiding me toward the balcony, the night air humid against our skin.
I spun her, pressing her against the wrought-iron railing, the harbor’s dark water glittering below, and yanked her panties down. She bent forward, her moan a spark to gasoline, and I knelt, spreading her thighs and ass, my tongue finding her pussy, licking slow and deep, savoring her sweetness as she gripped the railing, her body trembling. I savored every lick. She was coming undone.
I stood, unbuckling my jeans, my cock hard and aching, and entered her from behind, slow at first, then harder, each thrust raw and desperate. She pushed back, meeting me, the city’s lights blurring as we lost ourselves in the rhythm, the rawness, the need to forget.
Sloane turned, her eyes wild, and pulled me back inside, shoving me onto the leather armchair by the fireplace. First, she put a foot up on my shoulder and leaned forward, letting me taste her wide open pussy again. I almost lost it. She was close. I could feel it. I wished I could do this forever.
Then she straddled me, her dress gone, her body bare and glowing in the firelight, and sank onto my cock, her pussy wet, pulling a groan from my throat. Her hands braced on my shoulders, she rode me hard, her hips grinding, her breasts bouncing, each movement a claim, a defiance of the world outside.
I gripped her ass, guiding her, my fingers digging into her soft flesh, and leaned forward, sucking her nipple, her rhythm faltering as she came, her pussy clenching around me, her cry echoing in the suite.
I wasn’t done—I lifted her, still inside her, and carried her to the window, pressing her against the glass, the harbor a dark mirror behind her. I fucked her there, deep and relentless, her legs wrapped around me, her nails raking my back, the glass fogging with our breath as she came again, her body shuddering, my release following, hot and overwhelming, spilling into her as I called her name.
We collapsed onto the rug by the fireplace, panting, sweat-slick and spent, the flames casting shadows across her skin. I pulled her close, her head on my chest, her breath ragged, and for a moment, the world was just us, the chaos of Sylvia, Marshall, and Department 77 held at bay.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, a harsh intrusion, and I groaned, reaching for it, hoping it was Elias with answers.
The screen lit up with a text from Marshall:Meet me. Now. Mount Pleasant Pier.
Sloane stirred, her voice soft but sharp.
“What is it?”
I hesitated, the weight of his name a stone in my gut, and turned the phone to show her.
“Marshall,” I said, my voice tight. “He wants to meet.”
Sloane’s eyes darkened, but she didn’t flinch, her hand tightening on my arm.
“You’re not going alone,” she said, her voice fierce, and I shook my head, knowing she was right but hating the idea of her near that prick.
Marshall’s cryptic threats at the bar—Sloane as a pawn, Sylvia’s past with Department 77, the Carrington fortune on theline—swirled in my head, and I knew this meeting was a trap, a chance to press for answers or a setup to bury us both.
Sylvia’s confession in the solarium had been a warning, her gin-fueled fear painting a picture of a deal she’d made to protect her family, a deal Marshall was now leveraging to claim Sloane. She hadn’t known about their history, hadn’t realized Marshall was a snake, but her terror was real, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that Department 77 was pulling strings deeper than any of us understood.
