Page 18 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

CHARLIE

I stood frozen in the women’s lounge at the Isle of Palms Country Club, the walls pressing in, staring at her. Her eyes, fierce and searching, locked onto mine, mirroring my disbelief—the spoiled heiress I’d dismissed as a headache was the masked stranger who’d set my blood ablaze.

My pulse thundered, my throat dry, and for once, I had no quick comeback, no easy way out. I wanted to touch her, to confirm she was real, but I was rooted, grappling with the collision of disdain and desire that didn’t make a lick of sense.

Sloane cut through the silence, her voice soft but steady. “You want to get back to your lunch?” she asked, glancing at the door where Marshall had stormed out. I shook my head, still processing, but before I could find words, she stepped closer, her presence a live wire.

“Neither do I,” she said, her tone sharp now, slicing through my haze. “I’d rather go with you.”

My heart kicked into high gear, a wild beat I hadn’t felt in years, and for the first time in forever, I was speechless, caught off guard by the hunger in her eyes. She didn’t wait for me to catch up.

“I want to leave. Now,” she declared, and all I could do was nod, my voice stuck, my head spinning with what this meant.

I remembered Henry Whitaker, the attorney, waiting back at the veranda, probably wondering where I’d disappeared to.

“Meet me by the valet,” I told her, my voice rough, almost foreign. “I’ll be right behind you.”

We stood there, a foot apart, the air thick with wonder, neither of us moving for a long moment.

Her lips parted, her breath uneven, and I wanted to reach out, to feel her under my fingers, but I was afraid it’d shatter this fragile spell, this impossible thread pulling us together.

Her gaze held mine, raw and unguarded, and I knew she felt it, too—the shock of our shared past, the pull of something bigger.

I forced myself to turn, my steps echoing in the quiet hallway as I hurried back to the veranda, my mind a tangle of Sloane, the woman in red, and the life I thought I knew.

I found Henry at our table, his salmon half-eaten, his eyes lifting as I approached.

“Gotta go,” I said, keeping it short, my tone clipped. “Put the lunch and everything else on my bill.”

He nodded, no questions, his warm, uncle-like demeanor easing the knot in my chest just enough to keep me moving.

I threw a glance at the Carrington table, where Sloane’s parents and the other couple were deep in their Southern charade, their heads bent like they were plotting a dynasty.

Marshall was back, his slick smile plastered on, but when our eyes locked, I saw the unease, the kind that comes when a predator senses a bigger threat.

I knew his type—trouble wrapped in charm, the kind that left scars you couldn’t see.

I held his gaze a beat, letting him know I had his number, then strode out, my pulse pounding with the need to get to Sloane.

She was waiting by the valet, her white blazer dress glowing in the midday sun, sunglasses back on like a shield.

We didn’t speak, the silence heavy with unspoken truths, and when the valet pulled up in my beat-up truck, a flicker of embarrassment hit me.

For a second, I wished I’d driven one of the Danes’ sleeker rides, something that matched her polish, but I shoved the thought down hard.

That wasn’t me—never would be—and if Sloane was stepping into my world, it was on my terms.

The truck rumbled up, and we climbed in, me forgetting to hold her door like some polished asshole. I felt like a fumbling sixteen-year-old again, my hands gripping the wheel too tight as I pulled out of the lot.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked, the words awkward, like we were picking a coffee shop instead of running from our lives.

She reached over, her hand landing on my thigh, warm and bold, sending a jolt straight to my core.

“Somewhere I can forget this stupid fucking day,” she said, her voice raw, her fingers tightening just enough to make my breath hitch.

I knew exactly where to take her.

I made a sharp turn, gunning the engine, the truck roaring as I sped toward the private slip where one of the Dane yachts was docked.

I didn’t give a damn about speed limits or the stares from the country club crowd as we peeled out.

All I cared about was getting her away from that place, from Marshall, from the weight of her world and mine.

The island blurred past, the posh community’s charm fading into salt air and the next road, and I stole a glance at her, her profile fierce against the window, her hand still on my leg like a lifeline.

We hit the marina in record time, the Dane yacht gleaming in the sun, a massive beast of black and chrome that made Sloane’s eyes widen with awe. I saw it in her face—the realization that I wasn’t just some grease-stained nobody, that my family played on a level she hadn’t clocked.

The captain, Tom, a grizzled vet who’d sailed with us for years, greeted us at the gangway.

“Where to, Charlie?” he asked, his voice rough but steady.

“Anywhere,” I said, my eyes on Sloane. “As long as it’s far from here.”

He nodded, no questions, and we boarded, the deck humming under our feet as the engines roared to life.

I led her to the main stateroom, a sprawling space of polished teak and cream leather, with a bed that could’ve hosted a small party. The door closed behind us, and the silence was deafening, charged with the weight of what we’d just done.

We stood there, a foot apart, the air crackling with tension.

I reached out, my fingers grazing her arm, half-expecting her to dissolve like a mirage. Her skin was warm, real, and the contact sent a spark through me, igniting something primal.

She looked up, sunglasses gone, her eyes raw and hungry, mirroring the need that had been burning in me since the ball.

I stepped closer, my hand sliding to her waist, and she didn’t pull away. The spell held, and I wasn’t afraid anymore. I pulled her against me, my mouth finding hers, and the world vanished in a blaze of heat.

Her lips were molten, fierce and yielding, tasting of defiance and something sweet, like forbidden fruit. I kissed her deep, my tongue tangling with hers, a low growl escaping as she matched my hunger, her hands clawing at my jacket, shoving it off like it offended her.

I tugged her blazer down, revealing a silk camisole that hugged her curves like a lover. My hands gripped her hips, firm but not harsh, and I lifted her onto the edge of the stateroom’s mahogany desk, the wood cool against her thighs as I pushed her dress up, exposing her lace panties.

I knelt, my breath hot against her inner thigh, and hooked my fingers under the lace, sliding it down slow, savoring the way her skin flushed under my touch.

Her scent hit me, musky and intoxicating, and I pressed a kiss to her bare pussy, my lips brushing her clit, teasing until she shuddered.

I stood, spinning her to face the desk’s mirrored back, her reflection a vision of want—lips swollen, eyes dark, dress bunched at her waist. I pressed myself against her back, my cock hard through my jeans, grinding against her ass as I reached around, cupping her breasts through the silk, pinching her nipples until they peaked, her moan sharp and desperate.

I slid the camisole up, baring her to the mirror, and bent her forward, her hands bracing against the desk, her ass arched toward me.

From behind, my fingers found her pussy, slick and ready, and I teased her entrance, circling slow, then plunging deep, three fingers stretching her as she gasped, her reflection trembling. She spread her cheeks for me, wanting.

I leaned over her, my lips at her ear, biting the lobe as I whispered, “Watch yourself,” and she did, her eyes locked on the mirror, seeing every shudder, every pulse of her body as I fucked her with my hand.

She came fast, her pussy clenching around my fingers, her cry bouncing off the stateroom walls, her body shaking as she gripped the desk.

I didn’t let her recover, pulling my fingers free and unbuttoning my jeans, my cock springing out, thick and throbbing.

I lifted her left leg, hooking it over my arm, opening her wide, and guided myself to her entrance, rubbing the head against her clit, slick with her arousal, until she begged, “Please, Charlie.”

I thrust in, slow and deep, filling her inch by inch, her pussy so tight it stole my breath.

I held her leg high, my other hand gripping her shoulder, and fucked her with long, deliberate strokes, watching her reflection as she moaned, her breasts swaying, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure.

I shifted, angling to hit a new spot, and she gasped, her nails digging into the desk, leaving marks in the wood.

I pulled out, turning her to face me, and lifted her onto the desk’s edge, her legs wrapping around my waist. I kissed her hard, my teeth nipping her lower lip, and slid back inside her, fast and hungry, my hands under her ass, lifting her to meet each thrust.

Her pussy pulsed, hot and wet, and I leaned back, watching my cock disappear into her, the sight driving me wild.

I grabbed her hair, tugging gently to tilt her head back, and sucked a bruise onto her collarbone, marking her as mine. She clawed my chest, her nails leaving red trails, and came again, her pussy squeezing me so tight I growled, my release building.

I thrust harder, the desk creaking, heart pounding, and spilled inside her, my orgasm a white-hot wave that left me shaking, her name a roar on my lips.

We collapsed onto the bed, panting, sweat-slick and spent, the yacht rocking gently beneath us. I pulled her close, her head on my chest, her breath ragged against my skin.

The ocean stretched endless outside, and for the first time in years, I wasn’t running.

Sloane—brat, fire, woman in red—was here, real, and I didn’t know what came next. But as I held her, her body warm and soft, I knew this wasn’t over. It was just the start.