Sunlight stread in through the narrow blinds, casting golden stripes across the crisp sheets. The soft beep of the heart monitor was the only thing reminding I was still in a hospital.
Adrien leaned in, whispering like he was telling sothing scandalous. "You’ll tug your left earring twice. Subtle. Elegant. Impossible to misinterpret."
I blinked. "And if I don’t wear earrings?"
"I am buying you a pair of earrings, of course," he said smoothly, brushing a knuckle down my cheek. "Diamond ones. To match with the one I bought from the auction."
"You’re unbelievable," I muttered, heat climbing up my neck.
Adrien’s gaze dipped to my collarbone, then back to my eyes. "There it is," he murmured. "The blush."
My ears flad hotter. Damn him. Of course he’d notice.
"You always do that when I get too close," he added, voice dropping a shade lower. "Your ears get red. Your breathing shifts." His hand, warm and deliberate, lifted to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, brushing the curve of it as if testing a theory. "Right there. Sensitive, aren’t they?"
"I—I’m not—" My voice broke, breath catching in my throat.
His eyes darkened, that glint of mischief turning molten. "Oh, sweetheart. You are."
He leaned in, mouth hovering just beside my ear—not touching, just there—and whispered, "You should see yourself right now."
I couldn’t breathe.
I tried to look away, but he caught my chin with two fingers—firm, effortless. I was stuck, blinking up at him like an idiot while he studied my face like it was so sort of puzzle he’d already solved a thousand tis.
"You’re blushing, sweetheart," he said. "That’s not very professional of you."
"I’m not on the clock," I mumbled.
His brow lifted slightly. "No?"
I shook my head.
"Then," he leaned in, his breath brushing my cheek, "what are you?"
I swallowed. "Off-duty?"
His breath was hot against my skin.
"Wrong answer," Adrien murmured, his voice low, dangerously calm.
I bit my lip, watching the slow rise of his chest under that black shirt. "Hmm," I humd thoughtfully. "What if I said I was still recovering and needed rest?"
His brow arched, and that subtle smirk of his made an appearance. "Try again."
"Okay," I said, tapping my chin playfully. "What if I said I was off the clock, and technically, your bossiness doesn’t apply past 10 p.m.?"
He leaned in, one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding up my thigh with a slow patience beneath the blanket. "You really want to test , sweetheart?"
My heart pounded. "Maybe."
His thumb brushed over the edge of my gown where it bunched against my hip. "Cute." His voice was low and dark, but there was sothing amused underneath. "Want to try one more?"
"I─I am Isabella Miller."
"Try again," he said.
"What?"
"What are you, Isabella?"
My breath hitched. His fingers were still on my chin, his thumb gently stroking my jawline. The hand on my thigh was creeping higher. A shiver shot through . The heart monitor beeped—faster. Louder. Traitor.
A small chuckle rumbled from Adrien’s chest as his gaze flicked to the monitor. "Interesting," he murmured, amused. "Are you getting nervous, sweetheart?"
I glared at him. "It’s just... you’re being annoying."
"Mm," he said, clearly unconvinced. "You still haven’t answered ."
His hand on my thigh moved again—barely, just enough for to feel the slow, torturous slide of his fingers under the hospital blanket. Warm. Firm. Dangerous.
"What are you?" he asked again, voice softer now, but weighted. Pressing.
I raised an eyebrow. "A Pisces?"
He blinked. Then laughed—a soft, deep sound that curled around my spine like a hand.
"Try again."
I leaned closer, close enough that he could probably taste my smirk. "A very tired patient who’s supposed to be resting. Maybe you should help with that."
He leaned in too, his mouth brushing my ear. "You don’t look tired. You look flushed."
Because his hand was still moving.
I sucked in a breath. "You are crazy."
"And you’re stalling." His voice dropped, silk wrapped in steel. "I’m only going to ask once more."
His palm slid up, warm against my skin. "What are you?"
I bit my lip, resisting the moan building in my throat. "I’m..."
His fingers found the edge of my underwear, and I shuddered. He was barely touching , and yet my entire body felt tight with want.
"C’mon, princess, you can do better than that," he urged, his electric honey eyes boring into mine with piercing intensity. Those hypnotic eyes that pulled in like the moon tugging on the tides. His fingers kept their slow, asured pace, gliding over the sensitive skin of my inner thigh beneath the thin blanket. "Tell . Who are you to ? What are you, my love?"
I shivered, trying to maintain so semblance of composure even as my heart started to race and my breaths ca quicker. He had so off-balance, like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole into my own private wonderland.
"I..." I bit down on my bottom lip, heart stamring in my chest. "I’m yours," I whispered.
A slow, satisfied smirk spread across his handso face at my confession. "Good girl," he purred approvingly. And then he kissed .
Not the slow, teasing kind of kiss I might’ve expected. This one was heated. Claiming. His mouth was hot and rough and absolutely unforgiving as he pressed back against the pillows, one hand cupping my jaw while the other slipped lower, under the hospital blanket, under everything.
I whimpered against his mouth.
"You’re already soaked," he whispered against my lips, voice rough. "Is that for ?"
"I hate you," I breathed, even as my hips arched into his touch.
"No, you don’t," he said. "You want . Right here. Right now."
I moaned, quietly—his na slipping out before I could stop it.
He kissed down my neck, taking his ti, tongue dragging along the sensitive spot just beneath my ear before he whispered, "You know I could make you scream loud enough to call the nurses."
My eyes flew open. "You wouldn’t dare," I hissed. My hips continued their insistent grind against his hand, betraying every ounce of defiance.
He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through . "Oh, sweetheart, I dare. But I’m a professional, rember? I prefer my pleasure unsupervised." His fingers dipped lower, a feather-light touch right at the core of my sensitivity, and my back arched involuntarily. A sharp, undeniable gasp tore from my throat.
The heart monitor’s beeps intensified, a frantic drumbeat mirroring my own. Traitor, I thought again, cursing the machine’s honest readings.
His gaze dropped to the monitor, then back to my flushed face, eyes gleaming with triumph. "Told you your breathing shifts," he murmured, his voice a dark caress. He leaned closer, blocking out the sterile white room with his powerful fra, his scent – a clean, masculine mix of expensive cologne and sothing uniquely him – filling my senses.
"But we don’t want an audience again, do we, Isabella?" he whispered, his thumb brushing over the frantic pulse at my temple. His hand, which had been driving mad, slowly, agonizingly, began to withdraw from beneath the blanket.
"No!" I whimpered, a desperate plea. The sudden absence of his touch was like a phantom limb, leaving aching and frustrated
"Don’t look at like that, angel," he said, his voice laced with mock concern as he smoothed a stray strand of hair from my forehead. "You look like you’ve been denied."
"I have been denied!" I retorted, voice raspy. My face felt hot, my body still thrumming with unreleased tension.
He leaned forward again, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. "Patience, sweetheart. We’ve got all the ti in the world. And you’re still recovering, rember?" His eyes held mine, a promise burning in their depths. "Consider this... a preview. For when you’re officially off the clock"
"But, I’m stronger than yesterday," I said, sitting up slightly. "The doctor said my recovery’s faster than expected. Her words were ’a damn miracle.’"
His lips quirked into that familiar, infuriating smirk. He pulled back slightly, his eyes still holding mine hostage. "A miracle, hmm?" he repeated, a low hum of amusent in his chest. "Well, I do like miracles, particularly when they involve you."
He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheekbone, warm and lingering. "But a miracle doesn’t an you’re ready for a marathon, Isabella."
"I’m not asking for a marathon," I countered, my voice tight with frustration. "Just... a sprint."
Adrien’s gaze was unreadable for a mont, then the corner of his mouth tilted up, a slow, predatory smile spreading. "A sprint, you say?" he murmured, his voice a silken thread that wrapped around my senses. He leaned in, closer than before, until I could feel the heat radiating off him. "And what kind of sprint are we talking about, Isabella? A quick dash to the finish line, or sothing that leaves you breathless and begging for more?"
My breath hitched again. He knew exactly what kind of sprint I was talking about. He always did. "The kind that... lets know I’m still alive," I managed, my voice wavering despite my best efforts to sound defiant.
His eyes, those hypnotic pools of electric honey, seed to deepen, pulling further into their orbit. "Oh, believe , sweetheart," he whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the hollow beneath my jaw, "I have no doubt you’re still alive. Every one of these little telltale signs of yours screams it." He gestured vaguely to my face, no doubt referring to my continued blush and rapid breathing.
"But a sprint, even a quick one, needs a proper starting block, doesn’t it?" he continued, his voice dropping another notch, becoming a low rumble that vibrated through my bones. "And a proper finish. We wouldn’t want to be unprofessional and leave things... unfinished, would we?"
My heart hamred against my ribs. He wasn’t wrong. He was never wrong about . "Adrien, please," I barely breathed, my eyes pleading with his.
"Please what, Isabella? Please let you off the hook?" He shook his head slowly. "Not a chance."
Then, unexpectedly, he released my chin, moving back slightly. He rely settled back in the chair beside my bed, an infuriatingly calm expression on his face, as if he hadn’t just systematically dismantled my composure.
"I already crossed a line the previous night," His voice was low, almost self-loathing. "You should be angry at for even letting it go that far. Not begging for more."
"You think I’m begging because I’m confused?"
"I think you’re not ready for what you’re asking." His voice was low. Dangerous. "You think I’ve been holding back, Isabella? If I gave you what I really want... you wouldn’t be able to walk out of here."
The words landed hot and heavy between us.
I swallowed.
"So here’s the deal, sweetheart," he said, his voice now back to its infuriatingly controlled, slightly amused tone. "You’re resting. You’re recovering. And I’m making sure of it." He picked up a remote control from the bedside table, his fingers lingering on it for a mont. "Unless," he said, his eyes glinting with a fresh spark of mischief, "you want to call in the actual professionals to assist with your... overstimulation?"
He gestured pointedly to the still-insistent beeping of the heart monitor. It was practically screaming my arousal to the entire hospital floor.
My eyes widened. "You wouldn’t."
He rely arched a brow, that subtle, infuriating smirk making a coback. "Try ."
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