The Chief of Surgery Wrote the No-Dating Rule, and I'm Breaking It in His Supply Closet novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Medical Records

Dolores covers for them, and Gretchen corners Kurt in the records room while a clerk rattles the handle, until Pembrey calls his name.

Dolores didn't say a word until Kurt had walked past her, nodded once, and disappeared around the corner toward the nurses' station.

Then she looked at me over her pink glasses.

"Your hair," she said.

I smoothed it down with both hands.

"The nail gun is in bay one," she said. "I'll tell them you were in the bathroom."

"Dolores, I can explain."

"Sweetheart, I have worked this floor for thirty-four years."

She patted my cheek.

"I didn't see a thing. I've been not seeing things since 1994."

I ran to bay one and took a nail out of a man's thigh with shaking hands.

It went perfectly.

Afterward I found a paper plate of sugar cookies on the fellows' desk with a note in blue ink.

For the doctor who needs her strength. Do not thank me.

I ate two of them standing up, and I was smiling.

Benji watched me from the doorway.

"Okay," he said. "Who's the cookie from, and why are you pink?"

"Nobody. The heat's on."

"It's October," he said, and I walked out with the plate.

The next evening I went looking for Kurt.

I told myself it was a chart question.

I found him in the medical records room on the third floor.

He stood at the counter with a stack of old files and his reading glasses on.

I had never seen him in reading glasses.

They made him look like a very large, very stern librarian.

I closed the door behind me.

"Hartmann," I said.

He didn't turn around.

"Fairweather. I'm busy."

"You've been avoiding me for a day and a half."

"I've been in the OR."

"You've been avoiding me in the OR."

He put down the file and took off his glasses, slowly.

Room 3-040 is small and windowless, except for a thin slit in the door at head height.

It has a long counter, a desk, and a hundred rolling shelves of paper charts that nobody has opened since the electronic record.

It smelled like dust and old coffee.

"This is a bad idea," he said.

"You say that every time."

"It is a bad idea every time."

"I know."

I walked up to him, set both hands on his chest, and pushed him back against the counter.

He let me.

I would like to say that surprised me.

"What do you want, Gretchen?" he asked, his voice rough.

"I want you to put me on that counter."

He stared at me.

I watched the muscle in his jaw jump.

Then he lifted me by the waist and sat me on the cold laminate.

He took one step back and looked.

"Take those off," he said, nodding at my pants.

I'd never been told to do anything by him in a tone like that, and every nerve in my body lit up.

I kicked off my clogs and shimmied out of my pants and my underwear.

I sat there bare from the waist down, on the counter of a records room, in front of the Chief of Surgery.

"Better," he said.

He dropped to his knees, spread my thighs with both hands, and set his mouth on me.

I nearly came off the counter.

His tongue was flat and slow and merciless, and his beard rasped the soft skin of my thighs.

He licked up and around my clit in a rhythm.

"Oh, God," I whispered. "Kurt."

"Quiet," he murmured against me, and the vibration of it rolled through my whole pelvis.

I clapped my hand over my mouth.

He hummed a little, the same off-key tune he hums while he sutures, and I realized he did it without knowing.

That undid me.

I buried my fingers in his short grey-flecked hair and tugged.

He groaned and tightened his grip on my thighs.

He slid two fingers inside and curled them, sucking my clit between his lips, and my back arched.

Pressure built hot and fast, in a tight spiral low in my belly.

Something rattled against the door.

"Hello?" said a woman's voice outside. "Is somebody in there?"

I froze, eyes wide, with Kurt's mouth still on me.

He didn't move away.

He looked up at me from between my legs, calm as a man reading the weather, and pressed his tongue flat against my clit.

"Yes," he called, in his ordinary hallway voice. "Hartmann. I'm pulling a chart."

"Oh. Sorry, Dr. Hartmann. I'm looking for a patient file that's been missing since March."

"I haven't seen it."

His tongue moved in slow circles while he said it.

I bit the heel of my hand until I tasted blood.

"It might be in the back stacks," he said, flicking me once, lightly. "Try the east wall."

"Thank you. Take your time."

She rattled the handle again, gently, and the lock held.

"Door sticks," she said, and walked off, humming.

I stared down at him with tears in my eyes.

"Tell me to stop," he said, very low.

"Don't you dare."

He grinned against my thigh, the first real grin I'd ever seen on him, and went back to work.

He was relentless.

He sucked and licked and curled his fingers until I couldn't breathe.

I came with my face crushed into my own sleeve and my heels drumming the cabinet.

Every muscle in me clenched.

The orgasm went on and on, white and silent, and he held me through every pulse.

When it was over I slid down, shaking, into his arms.

He caught me and held me there on the floor between the shelves.

I put my forehead against his shoulder.

"How long?" I asked.

"What?"

"How long have you wanted to do that?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"A while," he said.

It was a small answer, and I knew from the way his hand tightened on my back that it wasn't small at all.

He kissed my hair.

Then he picked up my pants and held them open for me to step into.

Neither of us heard the footsteps until they were right outside the door.

A shadow filled the slit.

"Dr. Hartmann?" said a soft, pleased voice. "A word, when you have a moment."

It was Orson Pembrey.

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