ALEXANDER
I made my way down the hallway of the neurology floor, my eyes scanning for the short, petite, handsome-faced man I now called a husband.
He should not be this hard to find.
A face like his isn't easy to miss, soft features, warm hazel eyes, that light brown hair that always looked slightly messy no matter how much he tried to fix it.
The corridor was quieter now, evening shift winding down, lights dimmed slightly, fewer people rushing. I passed two nurses at the central station. They were leaning close, talking in low voices, laughing softly about something.
I stopped in front of them.
Both of them stiffened instantly. The laughter died. Their backs straightened like they'd been caught.
"Good evening, Dr. Astor," the first one said quickly.
The second echoed, "Good evening, Doctor."
"Have you seen Dr. Harper?" I asked, going straight to the point.
The first nurse nodded fast. "Yes, Doctor. I saw him with Nurse Sari and Dr. Patel in the lounge a few minutes ago."
I gave one small nod. "Thank you."
I walked away without another word.
Behind me, I could feel their eyes on my back. I could almost hear the whispers starting before I was even out of earshot.
"…did you see how he just walked up like that?"
"…after what he did to Preston Whitaker…"
"…he's so cold…"
"…wonder what he wants with the new neurologist…"
They judged.
They always judged.
They whispered about the gala fight, about the donor family threatening to pull funding. They summed it all up in one word: my diagnosis—Antisocial Personality Disorder. The ticking bomb.
I didn't give two fucks.
Understanding human emotions was never part of my wiring.
Their fear, their gossip, their little theories, it was just background noise.
They could think whatever they wanted. It changed nothing.
I reached the staff lounge.
The door was half-open. Voices inside, soft laughter, the clink of coffee mugs.
I stepped in.
My eyes zeroed in on him immediately.
Dashielle was sitting at the small table, coffee cup in front of him, smiling faintly at something one of the staff was saying.
Something moved in my chest.
Not anger or jealousy.
Just… interest and Possessiveness.
The room noticed me.
All conversation stopped.
The man's hand dropped. Dashielle's head snapped up. His eyes widened, cheeks turning pink again, deeper this time.
I stepped fully inside.
"Dr. Harper," I said, voice calm and professional. "I'd like to speak with you."
The entire lounge went still.
Dashielle stood quickly. "Of course."
He turned to the others, offering a small smile. "Thank you for today. I'll see you all tomorrow."
"Yeah, man. Take care."
"Night, Dashielle."
I didn't wait. I turned and walked out and he followed.
We moved through the hallway in silence. Curious eyes tracked us from every station, every doorway. Whispers started again the second we passed.
We reached the garage and I unlocked the SUV and got in, he slid into the passenger seat.
I started the engine.
We drove out into the night.
The silence stretched for a few minute.
Then Dashielle cleared his throat.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
I glanced at him. "For what?"
"For taking me home."
I kept my eyes on the road. "Why would you thank me for that? We live together now."
He shifted in his seat. "I don't know. I thought you would… leave me here. Or make me take a cab or something."
I let out a short breath not quite a laugh.
"From now on, when our shifts overlap, we go home together. Unless one of us is on overnight call or pulled into an emergency that keeps us longer. That's how it works."
He nodded slowly. "Okay."
Another pause.
"But…" he started. "Won't the staff notice? If we keep leaving together? They might figure out we're married."
I glanced at him again.
His cheeks were still pink. His fingers were twisting in his lap.
"I don't care if they figure it out," I said. "You don't have to announce it. But if they ask if you're married, you say yes. And if they ask to who, you tell them."
He looked at me, eyes wide.
"Tell them… it's you?"
"Yes."
He swallowed.
"Okay."
The silence returned.
But this time it felt different.
He wasn't just nervous anymore.
He was thinking.
And I could feel his eyes on me, small glances when he thought I wasn't looking.
The city lights slid across his face, illuminating his features, he was really pretty and I felt arousal prickle under my skin. I wanted to fuck him.
Not in some poetic, drawn-out way. No slow build of longing or tender glances. Just the blunt, immediate fact of it: his flushed cheeks, the way his lips parted when he was nervous, the soft curve of his throat when he swallowed.
I could picture him under me already, wrists pinned, hazel eyes wide and glassy, that pretty mouth gasping my name instead of stammering rules from a notebook. The image hit clean and sharp, no guilt attached, no hesitation. Just hunger.
I shifted in the driver's seat, letting one hand drop to rest on the gear shift, close enough that my knuckles brushed his thigh. He jolted like I'd shocked him, but he didn't pull away.
Good.
The silence had stretched long enough. I wasn't in the mood for games tonight not the subtle ones, anyway.
"I want to fuck you," I said, voice low and even, eyes still on the road.
Dashielle made a small, strangled sound like air caught in his throat and couldn't decide whether to come out as a gasp or a squeak. His head whipped toward me so fast I almost smirked.
"W-what?" he sputtered, voice cracking on the single syllable. His hands flew to his lap, fingers twisting the seatbelt like it might anchor him. "You—you can't just say that!"
I glanced at him then. One brow arched. "Why not? It's true."
His face went nuclear, red from collar to hairline, eyes huge and shocked. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Nothing coherent came out at first, just a series of soft, disbelieving exhales.
"I… I mean—here? In the car? While you're driving? You just… said it like you're ordering coffee!"
I let the corner of my mouth lift, the barest hint of amusement. "Not in the car. At home. Soon. Unless you'd prefer the backseat." I paused, considering. "Though I'd rather not wrinkle my suit."
He made another choked noise, half-laugh, half-horror. "You're serious."
"Very."
He stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "But… but you said, no romance, no cuddling, no staying in your bed….. "
"Correct." I flicked the turn signal, merging onto the quieter residential stretch toward the house. "I also said sex would be quick. No kissing unless necessary. No whining." I let my gaze slide over him again, slow this time, sensual. "I didn't say no sex at all. And I want it now."
He swallowed so hard I heard it. His thighs pressed together; I noticed. Interesting.
"But…" He trailed off, voice smaller. "You don't even like me."
I exhaled through my nose. "Liking has nothing to do with it. You're attractive. You're mine and I'm hard. Simple math."
He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to reboot. "You're so… direct."
"You knew that the day we signed the papers." I pulled into the private drive, the garage door sliding open automatically. The SUV rolled inside; I killed the engine. The sudden quiet felt heavier, charged.
He didn't move to get out. Just sat there, breathing too fast, staring at the dashboard like it held answers.
I unbuckled slowly, turned toward him. "Did you want me to litter the house with roses and candles just because I want to fuck you?"
His eyes snapped to mine. "No! I..I just… " He gestured helplessly. "Most people at least… pretend there's more to it. Or ask me properly. Or… something."
I tilted my head. "I'm asking now. Do you want me to fuck you tonight, or not?"
He flushed even deeper, if that was possible—and looked away, biting his lip so hard I thought he might draw blood.
"I…" A long pause. Then, quieter: "Yes."
One word. Small. But clear.
Satisfaction curled through me, low and hot.
"Good." I reached over, hooked a finger under his chin, and turned his face back to me. Not gentle. Not rough. Just firm enough to remind him who was deciding. "Then get inside. Upstairs. Your room or mine, your choice. But once we start, you use your safeword if you need to. Verbal consent, remember? Your rule. Say 'stop' or 'wait' and I stop. Immediately."
Dashielle's pupils blew wide like he hadn't expected me to quote his rule back so exactly.
He licked his lips. "You… remembered that part."
"I remember everything you said in that ridiculous notebook." My thumb brushed once along his jawline, God, I wanted to ravish him so bad. "I don't agree with all of it. But the ones that matter to you? I'll follow them."
His breath hitched. Relief tangled with nerves, want, that stubborn little spark I was already starting to enjoy watching.
He fumbled with the door handle, nearly dropping his backpack as he climbed out.
I followed at a measured pace, locking the SUV behind us. The house was dark, cool, silent except for our footsteps on the marble.
He headed for the stairs without a word. I watched the way his shoulders rose and fell, fast, and shallow.
At the top landing he hesitated, glancing between his door and mine.
I stepped up behind him, close enough that he could feel my chest brush his back. I didn't touch him…..Yet.
"Decide," I murmured against his ear.
He shivered.
"My room," he whispered. "It's… less cold."
I almost laughed. "Fine."
He pushed the door open. The room was still sparse, but he'd added one small thing since last night: a framed photo on the nightstand. Family. Smiling faces. Warm looking.
I closed the door behind us with a soft click.
He turned to face me, back against the bed, chest rising fast.
I stepped in close, close enough that he had to raise his head back to meet my eyes.
"Last chance to change your mind," I said quietly.
He searched my face—for what, I didn't know. Softness? Doubt? He wouldn't find either.
Then he licked his lips, voice barely audible.
"I don't want to change my mind."
I smiled, just the shape of one.
Then I yanked him forward by the neck and kissed him.
And he melted into it like he'd been waiting for permission all along.