Page 13 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

Because somewhere out there was a man who didn’t care about napkin folds or club memberships—but still had a private helicopter and an invitation to Lydia Langford’s ball.

A man who clearly gave no thought to the formalities, yet stood up for a stranger in the street without blinking.

Who moved through the world like heat itself—unapologetic, untamed—and made me feel like I might finally burn.

What kind of strange mix was that? Power without pretense. Wealth without polish. Violence wrapped in restraint.

And why did that impossibility feel more real than anything else I knew?

I wanted to see him again.

Maybe I didn’t need to leave Charleston early after all.

The water was still hot, curling steam into the air, and my skin felt alive, sensitive, as if it remembered his touch without permission.

I sank lower, letting the heat swallow me, my knees bending until the water lapped at my collarbone. My breath hitched, and I realized my fingers had already drifted down my stomach, tracing the soft curve where my hip met my thigh.

I didn’t stop them. I didn’t want to.

I closed my eyes, and there he was—the masked man from the ball, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight, the red dress I’d worn crumpled at my feet like a surrender.

I could still feel the weight of his hands, calloused and sure, gripping my hips as he’d pressed me against the silk sheets.

The memory was so vivid it was almost cruel—his mouth on mine, hot and demanding, tasting of bourbon and something darker, something that made my core clench even now.

My fingers slipped lower, parting my thighs under the water, finding the slick heat that had nothing to do with the bath.

I gasped softly, the sound swallowed by the quiet hum of the room, as my fingertips grazed my clit, already swollen with need.

I was wet—God, so wet—and not just from the lavender-scented water.

My body remembered him, every bruising kiss, every thrust that had split me open and left me trembling.

I circled my clit slowly, teasing, mimicking the way he’d touched me that night.

His fingers had been relentless, curling inside me, finding that spot that made my vision blur and my moans turn raw.

I could still hear his voice, low and rough, a growl against my ear—“Mine.” That single word had undone me, made me beg, made me forget who I was supposed to be.

My other hand found my breast, pinching my nipple hard, the way he’d done with his teeth, just on the edge of pain.

The sensation shot straight to my core, and I bit my lip to stifle a moan, my hips rocking against my fingers as the water sloshed gently around me.

I imagined his mouth there again, sucking, biting, his tongue swirling until I’d arched into him, desperate for more.

My fingers moved faster, pressing harder, chasing the memory of his cock—thick, unyielding, stretching me until I’d screamed for him, not even knowing his name.

I could still feel the way he’d fucked me, raw and possessive, each thrust a claim that branded me from the inside out.

My pussy had clenched around him, greedy, pulling him deeper as he’d driven me over the edge again and again.

I slipped two fingers inside myself now, curling them, pumping slow then fast, mimicking his rhythm.

The water amplified every sensation, making my skin sing, my clit throbbing under my thumb as I worked myself higher.

“Fuck,” I whispered, my voice breaking, my head tilting back against the tub’s edge.

I saw his eyes behind that olive-green mask, dark and burning, watching me unravel.

I imagined him here now, kneeling beside the tub, his rough hands spreading my thighs wider, his mouth replacing my fingers, sucking my clit until I screamed.

My hips bucked, water splashing over the rim, as I fucked myself harder, my fingers slick and desperate, chasing the ghost of his touch.

The orgasm hit like a wave, sudden and brutal, ripping a cry from my throat that echoed off the marble walls.

My pussy clenched around my fingers, pulsing, my whole body shaking as pleasure burned through me, hot and relentless.

I rode it out, gasping, my chest heaving, my thighs trembling in the water as the aftershocks left me dizzy.

I sank back, panting, my skin flushed and sensitive, the water now lukewarm around me.

My fingers lingered between my thighs, tracing lazy circles, not ready to let go of him yet.

The memory of his body—hard, unapologetic, moving like he owned every inch of me—was still too vivid, too raw.

I wanted him again, wanted to feel that fire, that reckless edge that made me forget the world I was supposed to live in.

I opened my eyes, staring at the chandelier above, its crystals catching the light like they were mocking my unraveling. My heart was still pounding, my body still humming, but the ache was deeper now, not just physical.

I didn’t know his name, but I knew I wasn’t done with him. Not by a long shot.

I pulled my hand from the water, watching the droplets slide down my fingers, and reached for the journal again. My pen hovered, then pressed to the page.

I don’t know who he is, but he’s already ruined me for anyone else.

I capped the pen, closed the book, and let out a shaky breath. Charleston wasn’t done with me yet. And neither was he.