The pain had been relentless all evening—sharp, twisting spasms in my lower back and abdomen that no extra morphine could fully dull. The isolation room felt smaller than usual, curtains drawn tight, only the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp cutting through the dark. The heart monitor beeped slow and steady, a quiet metronome to my shallow breathing.
Kieran came in just past eleven, white coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He'd already checked on me twice that day, but this time he locked the door behind him without a word. I didn't question it. I was too tired, too hurting.
"Your pain's worse tonight," he said quietly, scanning the monitor before his eyes settled on me. "I can increase the drip again… or we can try something else first. Gentle massage—lower back, abdomen. It helps some patients release tension that pulls on the chest wall. No deep pressure. I'll stop the second you say."
I nodded—too exhausted, too hurting to speak. My cheeks already felt warm just thinking of his hands on me again.
He lowered the rail, sat on the bed's edge.
He slightly pulled me over.
His hands were warm when they settled on my lower back over the gown—slow, circular motions at first, working out the knots with careful, even pressure. It hurt a little, then eased. I sighed, eyes fluttering closed.
"Good?" he asked, voice low.
"Mmm… yes."
After some massage, he turned me softly.
He moved lower—palms flat on my lower belly, just above the pubic bone. Slow kneading, thumbs tracing gentle arcs. The warmth seeped in, loosening something tight and knotted inside me. My breath hitched—not from pain.
A soft, involuntary sound slipped out—a small, needy moan.
Kieran froze.
I felt the shift instantly. His hands stilled, but didn't lift. His breathing changed—deeper, rougher.
I opened my eyes. His face was close—jaw tight, pupils blown wide, a flush creeping up his neck. He looked… stunned. Like he hadn't expected this reaction from either of us.
"Blossom…" His voice was hoarse, almost wrecked. "I didn't mean to—"
But the sound I'd made hung between us—raw, hungry. My thighs pressed together instinctively. Heat pooled low in my belly, slick and aching.
"Don't stop," I whispered, cheeks burning so hot I thought I'd combust. My voice trembled—shy, desperate. "Please… it feels… good. Too good."
He swallowed hard. His eyes searched mine—checking, always checking—for any sign of doubt.
There was none.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—his hands resumed. Lower now. The gown had ridden up; his thumbs brushed bare skin just above my mound.
Another soft moan escaped me—higher, needier.
His thumbs dipped, tracing the crease where thigh met torso, then gently parting my folds over the thin cotton of my panties.
"You're soaked," he breathed, voice cracking with awe and hunger. "God… you're dripping for me already."
I whimpered—embarrassed, overwhelmed, aching. My hips lifted just a fraction—shameless, pleading.
He hooked two fingers under the waistband, paused—eyes locked on mine.
"May I?" he asked, voice gravel-rough, almost shaking.
"Yes," I gasped, thighs trembling. "Please… please touch me."
He slid my panties down—careful, reverent—until they bunched at my knees.
Then he parted my thighs wider, settling between them like he belonged there. One hand braced on the mattress beside my hip; the other returned—fingers gliding through my slickness, circling my clit with agonizing slowness.
My hips jerked. A broken moan tore from my throat—loud enough that I bit my lip to muffle it.
"Shh, baby," he whispered, eyes dark and feverish. "Breathe with me. In… out. I'm watching the monitor. You're okay."
His middle finger slid lower—teasing my entrance, then easing inside—slow, shallow, just one knuckle. My inner walls fluttered around him, greedy. He groaned low in his throat—raw, helpless.
"You feel…" He shook his head, words failing. "So fucking perfect. So tight."
He curled the finger upward—found that sensitive spot inside—and stroked. Slow. Steady. His thumb never left my clit—small, wet circles that made my thighs quake.
The pleasure built fast—too fast. Heat coiled tight and bright in my core. My breathing turned ragged; the monitor beeped faster.
"Kieran —" I gasped, clutching his wrist. "I'm… I'm going to—"
"Let go," he rasped, voice thick with want. "Come for me, sweet girl. Come all over my fingers. I want to feel it."
He pressed harder—thumb firm on my clit, finger curling deeper—and I shattered.
The orgasm crashed through me—silent at first, then a choked, desperate cry as my back arched off the pillows.
My inner walls clamped down on his finger, pulsing, fluttering. Wetness flooded his hand, dripping down my thighs.
My whole body shook—tears leaking from the corners of my eyes—not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of being touched like this, wanted like this.
He didn't pull away immediately. He kept stroking—slower, gentler—guiding me through every aftershock until I whimpered "too much" and he eased out, careful, reverent.
He eased his finger out slowly, reverently, like he was afraid to break the spell. My thighs trembled, slick and sensitive, my inner walls still fluttering with aftershocks.
I lay there panting, gown rucked up around my waist, panties tangled at my knees, chest rising and falling too fast.
The monitor beeped a warning—heart rate climbing again—but he was already watching it, eyes flicking between the numbers and my flushed face.
"Still with me?" he whispered, voice hoarse, wrecked.
I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes—not pain, not sadness, just… too much feeling all at once.
He exhaled shakily, thumb brushing one tear away. Then his gaze dropped—lower. To where I was still open, glistening, swollen from his touch.
His breath caught.
"Blossom…" The word was almost a groan. His eyes darkened further—pupils swallowing the irises until they were nearly black. "You're so beautiful here. So fucking wet. I can see everything."
My face flamed. I tried to close my thighs instinctively—shy, embarrassed—but his hand on my knee stopped me, gentle but firm.
"Don't hide," he murmured. "Please. Let me look at you."
I bit my lip, trembling. Slowly, I let my legs fall open again—wider this time. Exposed. Vulnerable. His gaze felt like a physical touch—hot, hungry, reverent.
He swallowed hard. "I want to taste you," he said, voice cracking on the last word. "I want to put my mouth on you. Lick you until you come again. Is that okay? Tell me no and I stop."
My breath hitched. Heat flooded me all over again—fresh and sharp. I'd never… no one had ever…
This felt too much, how can he just do that, I hesitated.
He looked disheartened.
" You don't want it?"
"Umm it's not like that, do you want it?"
"Yes, baby " I he said . "I want it so much. But only if you agree. "
" Okay" I said softly.
The soft assertion on my lips seemed to snap something inside him.
He moved fast—careful, but urgent. He slid down the bed, positioned himself between my thighs, shoulders pushing my legs wider. His hands slid under my hips—lifting me just enough so my intimate area was level with his mouth. I felt his warm breath against my wet folds first—then the softest brush of his lips.
I whimpered.
Then his tongue—flat, slow—dragged up from my entrance to my clit in one long, deliberate lick.
My hips bucked. A choked cry tore from my throat.
He groaned against me—deep, primal. "You taste so fucking good," he rasped, voice muffled against my skin. "Sweet. Wet. Mine."
He licked again—slower this time, savoring. Tongue swirling around my clit in tight, teasing circles.
Then lower—pushing inside me, fucking me with soft, wet thrusts of his tongue while his nose nudged my clit.
My hands flew to his hair—fingers tangling, pulling. I didn't know if I wanted to push him away or pull him closer. It was too much. Too good.
"Kieran—" I gasped, voice high and broken. "Oh god—please—"
He hummed against me—the vibration shooting straight through my core.
One hand slid up to find my breast—cupping, kneading, thumb flicking my nipple through the gown. The other gripped my thigh, holding me open for him.
He sucked my clit into his mouth—gentle at first, then harder—tongue flicking fast, relentless. My hips rocked against his face—shameless, desperate.
Wet sounds filled the room—his mouth on me, my slickness, my ragged moans.
The monitor beeped faster—warning, warning—but he didn't stop. Just lifted his head long enough to rasp, "Breathe, baby. Slow. I've got you."
Then he dove back in—tongue plunging deep, lips sealed around my clit, sucking hard.
I broke.
The second orgasm hit like lightning—sharper, wilder than the first.
My back arched off the bed, thighs clamping around his head, a raw, keening cry ripping from my throat.
My inner walls pulsed hard—gushing wetness over his tongue, his chin. Stars burst behind my eyelids. My whole body shook—violent, helpless pleasure ripping through me.
He didn't stop until I was whimpering, oversensitive, tugging weakly at his hair.
Only then did he ease back—lips glistening, chin wet, eyes dark and wild.
He crawled up my body—careful, slow—until he hovered over me. His erection strained against his slacks, thick and obvious, pressing into my thigh. He didn't grind—just rested there, heavy, hot.
"You okay?" he whispered, voice trembling now. "Did I hurt you?"
I shook my head frantically, tears streaming again—joy, relief, awe. "No… no… it was….I don't know how to say..... "
He kissed me then—deep, hungry. I tasted myself on his tongue—salty, sweet, intimate. He groaned into my mouth, hips rocking once—instinctive—before he caught himself and stilled.
"I want you so fucking much," he rasped against my lips. "But not tonight. Not until I know it's safe."
He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my eyelids—soft, reverent.
Then he gathered me close—gown still rucked up, (my breast was already revealed) my bare breasts against his clothed chest, his arms tight around me.
"Sleep, baby," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm not leaving."
I drifted off like that—safe, sated, loved—his heartbeat steady with mine , his hand stroking my hair in slow, endless circles.