Page 19 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

Alexia

Holly's new heart pounds with perfect rhythm as I tie off the final suture. The steady beeping of the monitors creates a soothing symphony in the otherwise silent operating room, and the metallic scent of surgery mingles with the sharp bite of antiseptic in my nose.

Any open-heart surgery feels special, but performing one on a child adds another layer of complexity. Doing it on Christmas Day? That transforms it into something magical — a miracle that science can explain but never fully capture.

“Blood pressure stable. Heart rate optimal,” Miguel announces, his voice muffled behind his surgical mask. “You did it, Alexia. Congratulations.”

“We did it. Thank you, everyone,” I correct him, peeling off my gloves and surgical gown. When I push through the exit doors, Selene is waiting, but something in her expression makes me pause.

“Everything went well,” I breathe out, and before I can process it, she pulls me into a perfect embrace.

“I knew you would succeed. You're incredible, though we might need to explain how we got that heart,” she adds, her voice carrying a hint of worry.

On our way to the locker room, she fills me in about her confrontation with Safira and how she took full responsibility for our unauthorized flight.

“You shouldn't have done that,” I protest, but Selene presses two fingers against my lips, silencing me.

“I'd do it a million times over, consequences be damned,” she replies. “Now come on, you need to clean up. You smell like surgery.”

The locker room is empty when we enter, and Selene settles onto one of the benches, trying to look casual but failing miserably.

“You can wait in the cafeteria if you prefer. I'll be there in fifteen minutes,” I offer.

“If you really want me to leave, I will, but I'd hate to miss the show,” she teases, biting her lower lip as I start undressing.

The hot shower water works wonders on my back muscles, but there's something electrifying about knowing Selene is right there, even if she can't see through the wooden door.

“Let me help,” she whispers, wrapping me in a towel and kissing my forehead as I step out.

She positions herself behind me, gently drying my back and shoulders, her fingers leaving trails of fire wherever they brush against my skin.

“Selene…” my voice quivers when she dries my breasts.

“Let me take care of you,” she whispers in my ear as I lean my head back, her hands wandering lower.

The towel falls forgotten to the floor, replaced by her caresses, her fingers cupping my breasts, tracing their outline with infinite tenderness.

Selene smiles and takes my hand, leading me to one of the benches. She sits me down carefully and kneels between my legs. She kisses my stomach with near-reverence, as if worshiping it, while I thread my fingers through her hair and kiss the top of her head.

Then, she straightens up to kiss my neck, later leaving a trail of fire on my collarbone and throat, making me sigh when she gently bites my chin. And when she moves down to my nipples, each kiss provokes a gasp, a moan, a plea to continue.

I arch my back, feeling her tongue circling my areola, rotating around my hardened nipples, filling the quiet locker room with moans.

Selene moves her hands downward, tracing my hips with her fingertips until reaching my thighs and spreading my legs even wider. She leans in, her warm breath against my skin, and an electric current runs through my entire body the moment I feel her lips on my sex. She licks it slowly,as if discovering a secret treasure, pressing in just the right places, setting a perfect rhythm.

And when her tongue plays with my clit, a wave of pleasure floods me, making me tremble. She stops right when she notices I'm about to reach orgasm, pulls away, locks eyes with me and smiles.

And it kills me with desperation.

“Don't stop,” I protest, pushing her head against my sex.

She returns to my clit, licks it slowly, then quickly, changes rhythm again, makes me scream with pleasure and, too soon, gives me an orgasm that breaks with the force of a gale.

She caresses my thighs softly, kissing my pubis until I catch my breath, and then hugs my waist while I stroke her mane. In silence, together, because in moments like this, words aren't necessary.

“I don't want you to think this was just because of the adrenaline rush from surgery,” I whisper, kissing her forehead after finishing getting dressed.

“I know,” she assures.