Summary: During the Gala, Ethan and Brooke sneak off for a more private encounter.
This is a more detailed version of the office scene in Chapter 17, from Ethan’s POV.
PART ONE HERE.
once again, special thanks to: @openheartthot for providing the script that started this all ♥️
Dr. Ethan Ramsey doesn’t care.
It’s a point of pride for him. He does his job - and he does it damn well - but that chip that most people have, the one that makes them ache and burn and torment themselves over the thoughts and feelings of others—no.
That he does not have.
Which is why he finds himself unable to explain—unable to reconcile with his own perceptions of himself, why the woman beside him in this moment makes him ache and burn and torment himself, day in and day out. Why the only thing he finds himself caring about is her thoughts. Her feelings.
Why the feel of her hand in his, gripping him tightly, the trust that’s imbued in that simple gesture as they walk recklessly through the corridors of the quiet hospital, is enough to knock the breath out of his lungs.
Ethan Ramsey finds himself realizing that, for someone who had never cared, this seems to matter a whole lot.
His heart pounds a steady rhythm as they swiftly and silently approach the doors of his office. He lets them both in and then closes the door resoundly behind him.
“Here we are,” he says, hearing the gruffness in his tone and unable to utter the words any differently. “Alone at last.”
She looks up at him and, once again, breathing seems out of reach. It’s a feeling in his chest—one that he can’t explain away with logic or reason, the two tenets with which he’s structured his life.
“Any idea what we could get up to with such a rare moment of privacy?” She’s disarmingly contradictory—provocative and bashful, sincere and flirtatious. Every contradiction stirs his blood in unprecedented ways. He wants her, needs her—not just now, but always.
“I have a few,” he murmurs in response to her question, stepping forward and linking his fingers with hers, drawing her hands around his torso before leaning forward and touching her lips with his.
The kiss is softer, less performative than the one he’d given her downstairs. This one doesn’t need to prove a point to anyone other than himself. And the point he’s trying to prove is how necessary it is for him to be kissing her at this moment.
Pulling away, he takes in the sight of her. The gleaming auburn curls tumbling over her shoulders, the red dress that seized him by the chest the moment he saw her in it—she incapacitated him with her beauty.
He’d seen her at six in the morning and eleven at night (oftentimes in the same day). He’d seen her rested and exhausted. With makeup and without. He’d seen her—
He wills away the image that appears in his mind’s eye. The one of her that’s always a little blurred around the edges — as though he’s looking at her through a transparent barrier; since, of course, that’s exactly what he’d had to do. It’s the image of her unwell. Scared.
His heart thumps painfully as the fear returns again, an old, familiar feeling now, like a cloak that shadows his mind. The moments that he thought were numbered. Panic, the likes of which he’d never before experienced—
No. He won’t think of that now.
He forces his tone to be casual, but the depths of his emotion still seem to break through.
“I looked around and it's definitive. You were the most stunning woman in that room tonight.” The statement pales in comparison to the way he truly feels.
She dimples, pleased by his compliment even as she tries not to show it, and his heart soars.
“Are you trying to flatter me, Dr. Ramsey?” she teases.
All pretence of casualness is gone as he responds, his voice husky and low: “Is it still flattery if it's an understatement?”
Her cheeks redden and suddenly she’s even more of a vision, the rosiness of her face contrasting the colour of her hair and the hue of her dress in the most incredibly charming way.
She reaches up to caress his cheek softly and he feels himself lean slightly into her touch, unable to resist the allure of her body making contact with his.
“I’m glad you did that just now. Kissed me.” He sees her vulnerability and knows that he’s at the root of it—his damned fears and pride and sense of propriety and justice all being part of what almost ruined this for him. For them.
His public declaration - that she was his and, even more importantly, he was hers - was something they’d both needed more than either of them had realized.
“Trust me, Brooke.” He leans forward, whispering the next words. “I’m just getting started.”
Their lips meet and Ethan feels a hunger in his very soul; like he could devour her whole. A frenzied heat runs through him, his entire body thrumming with the anticipation of what’s to come. Now, now, now, are the only words his pounding heart speaks as he guides her to the first available surface: his desk.
Ethan is not a man prone to fantasy.
Even in previous relationships - more like arrangements - he’d always maintained a level-headed foundation to every encounter. The exchanges were simple at their core: the satisfaction of a mutual need. An itch to be scratched. And, once they were over, he barely gave them further consideration.
But Ethan Ramsey would be a stone-cold liar if he’d ever said that he hadn’t had a recurring, relentless daydream - and occasional night dream - of taking Dr. Brooke Spiers on top of this very desk in a multitude of imaginative, creative, and depraved ways.
And now, now at the cusp of this almost two-year fantasy coming to life, it feels as though something inside of him has truly, finally been unleashed.
Keeping his lips crushed to hers, Ethan cups Brooke’s round bottom, squeezing appreciatively before dragging his hands down the sequined fabric of her thighs until he can gain enough purchase to do what he really wants: lifting her effortlessly, he defers all her weight to one arm while using the other sweep every goddamn thing off his usually-meticulous desk. Pens and paper trays clatter to the floor as Ethan lays Brook gently across the desk, with a precise calmness he doesn’t truly feel.
She lets out a disbelieving laugh as she pulls away slightly, hands carding through his hair.
“What’s gotten into you tonight?” she breathes against his lips, joy and unrestrained pleasure in her tone.
“Whatever it is,” he replies, pressing his lips to hers briefly before continuing, “I think it’s long overdue.”
“True.” She shimmies her way further up the desk, before reaching for him. “Which is why you shouldn’t keep me waiting.” Grabbing his collar, she drags him on top of her, lips colliding once more in a frenzy of taste and touch. He feels her lithe fingers give his hair a sharp tug and he groans against her mouth.
“Brooke.” He’s panting now, unable to get his heart rate under control. “I need you.”
Leaning in once more to take her again, he’s surprised when she leans away, pressing a finger to his lips. The expression on her face stops him and he finds himself stumbling back a step as she pushes him gently and climbs off the desk.
She moves a few feet away and looks at him coyly, one eyebrow and the corner of her mouth hitched slightly upwards.
“Brooke…” She’s killing him. Does she know she’s killing him?
Probably.
“Shh…” she admonishes, lightly. “Just watch.”
Slowly she turns and Ethan drinks in every curve - from the dip in her waist to her well-rounded bottom. Reaching up, her slender fingers snag the gold zipper resting at her nape and she slowly tugs it down.
Ethan swears he can hear every excruciating millisecond of that zipper’s descent, even over the thundering pulse in his ears, as he watches it go down… down… exposing the creamy white skin of her perfect back, inch by inch.
It stops just below the small of her back, right above the cleft of her bottom, two familiar dimples taunting him. The opening of her dress has gaped over her shoulders and she looks at him one last time over her shoulder, her smile luminescent, before letting the garment fall to the floor in its entirety. Turning back around, she strikes a coy pose, one hand flipped up and the other on her cocked hip, as if to say “Well?”
He takes in her pink-tipped breasts, the perfect size for the palm of his hand. The indented waist that he can span if he so chooses. The swell of her hips, hugged in black lace. Her shapely legs, long for her height.
And the heels. That she’s still wearing.
He almost swallows his tongue.
Well, indeed.
Ethan reaches her in a single stride and pulls her towards him, cupping the nape of her neck as his lips reach hers with a soft reverence. He can feel the heat of her naked body against his, warm and electric, and he steps back only for a second to tear his own clothes off, barely considering the buttons that will need to be re-buttoned, or the obscenely expensive suit jacket that probably shouldn’t be left in a heap on the floor.
All that matters, all he can consider, is his all-consuming need to feel her body against his, unimpeded by clothing.
He tilts her jaw so that she’s looking up at him. He can’t help but be pleased to see that her breathing is irregular, too, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her nipples poking sharply into his chest. When she’s this close, he can see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. The light smattering of freckles not entirely hidden behind her concealer.
God, he loves her.
The words come to him, unbidden yet familiar. A truth he has known for much longer than he cares to admit. He hasn’t told her yet, not really. But he hopes he’s shown her in all the ways that he’s let her in - into places no one has ever reached - and in all the ways he’s tried to care for her, to protect her, to nurture her and to guide her. And soon—
Soon, the words will come, as well.
For now, he settles for speaking another truth: “You’re so beautiful, it sometimes takes my breath away.”
It’s how he’s always felt around her; like the air has gotten a little lighter. His lungs a little shallower. He sees her and the visceral response of his body to hers feels like a sucker punch.
Every.
Damn.
Time.
Her eyes spark, a light glistening that foretells the chance of tears. They cause the irises to grow brighter, greener.
“Don’t tell me,” she says finally, swallowing hard. “Show me.”
With pleasure, he thinks, navigating her towards the desk again.
As if reading his mind, she’s already halfway there, boosting herself up and pulling him with her. She scoots back again along the smooth surface and he follows her; a predator, his lovely prey trapped between his arms.
“I mean,” she says blithely, her hair fanning around her like a crimson halo, “you did such a good job cleaning it up.”
He bites back a grin at her teasing tone and dips forward to nip at her throat.
“I was hoping you’d notice,” he murmurs against her skin.
She turns her head, guiding his face to hers, and kisses him fiercely on the lips. He responds in kind, tasting and licking at the sweet fullness of her mouth.
Keeping his lips on hers and one hand braced on the desk, he glides his other hand down her smooth skin until his fingers reach the lace of her panties. Teasingly, he plays with the little bow at the front, running his fingers lower, overtop the lace-covered mound, teasing the dampness he finds below.
She moans against his lips and he brings his hand back up, tucking it under the material, touching her skin, finding the slick heat underneath it all.
Biting back a groan, he dips his middle finger down lower, finding the wet give of her body and bringing some of that essence back to the tiny nub at the top of her entrance. Rubbing in slow, deliberate circles, he pulls back to watch her face.
Her head is thrashing lightly as she moans quietly at his touch.
“Someone’s...eager…” she pants, arching against the shiny, cool mahogany, her nipples peaked and straining towards the sky.
“I’ve been dreaming of this moment for months, Brooke,” he says, unable to resist the allure of those pink nipples, beckoning for his touch. His mouth latches onto one and he runs his tongue around the dusky areola before grazing his teeth over the distended tip. She whimpers and bucks under his hand, growing wetter at each moment that passes.
“The chance to be with you without hiding from anyone,” he continues, moving to the other nipple and giving it the same treatment, his middle finger still working her in an agonizingly slow caress.
“Now that it’s here—” He shifts the finger back down to the entrance of her body, filling her with it, unable to help the groan that escapes him as he feels her clench around him.
“—I can hardly help myself,” he ends in a strangled groan. His desperation reaches a fever pitch. All he wants is for her to feel good, to shatter around him, to be brought to the brink and over the edge because of him—
“Show me what you want.” His voice sounds hoarse, pleading, even to his own ears. “What I can do to make you feel good.”
“How about,” she breathes, a slight sheen over her heated skin, “you use—” She breaks off, blushing slightly, before persevering. “How about you use your mouth instead? I’m enjoying your dexterity but—”
She breaks off with an awkward laugh, eyes going skyward as if she can’t believe her own gall. Her face is almost the same colour as her hair and if he wasn’t so worked up he would laugh, too.
“Say no more.”
He takes his time in kissing his way down her body, marking every pale freckle and scar he finds along the way. He moves over her stomach and she giggles breathlessly at the tickle of his stubble. Further down he goes, before finally he’s kissing her over the lace of her panties, breathing in the familiar scent of the most intimate part of her. Reaching up, he pulls the underwear down and off, sending them flying in the same general direction as his clothes’ heap.
He stares down at her for a beat, pink and red and perfect all over, her pale skin marred in places by the scratch of his beard, the rosy nipples beckoning him still, the neat tuft of dark auburn curls between her legs, her trembling thighs and shaky intakes of breath. Her Titian beauty strikes him once more and it’s all he can do, not to prostrate himself between her gorgeous thighs and worship at the altar of those private curls and glistening petals.
Instead, he approaches her with what he hopes is a shred of dignity, tucking his face between her legs and kissing the part of her that he covets the most. Savouring the intimate and familiar taste of her; the taste of coming home.
He feels her fingers thread through his hair, tugging almost sharply as her hips lift underneath his chin, but he’s too immersed in his task to notice. He runs his tongue over her in a measured rhythm, slipping a hand down once more to join in his ministrations, inserting one finger and then two, as she opens easily for him.
“Ohhh.” Her loud moan from above his head is nearly his undoing and he presses a hand against himself, hard, to stay his own desires for the moment.
“I love tasting you,” he murmurs against her, crooking his fingers slightly as he presses deeper inside her.
“I love the way you do it,” she pants in response. He can feel her unravelling, can feel it in the liquid heat surrounding his hands and mouth, can feel it in the increasingly erratic movement of her body beneath his.
“I want you so badly, Brooke,” he groans and, against the vibrations of his confession, she shatters.
She lets out a shout and he holds her in place as her body trembles, gooseflesh rising under his hands and on his cheek where it rests on her thigh. His own body feels shaky, tremulous, as he waits for her to come down.
“I want you to have me, Ethan,” she says finally, her voice hoarse and low. “Now.”
He almost weeps with relief.
“I was hoping you would say that. I honestly wasn’t sure I could hold off any longer—” His gratitude gets caught in his throat as she tremulously slides off of the desk and looks at him, almost bashfully, but with that familiar coyness that he’s grown to love.
She cups his face in her hands and their eyes meet, her greenish-hazel with his electric blue.
“Then don't.”
And then she turns and leans forward, forearms on his desk, ass propped up in front of him, those sky-high heels bringing her to the perfect level for—for—
Ethan feels the air depart his lungs in full force, his knees almost giving way underneath him. He looks at her bottom blankly, before searching her face. She’s smiling at him softly, those damn perfect teeth biting that damn bottom lip, a face perfectly designed to be the death of him. She inclines her chin slightly, as if to say: Are we doing this?
It’s all the permission he needs as he takes himself in hand and positions himself at the entrance of her body. Pushing back slightly, she accepts him immediately and easily, her back arching to take him further, deeper, as her palms flatten against the desk.
The moment he’s fully seated within her, she gasps, and that slight intake in breath is enough to almost make him come on the spot. Her gasp settles into a quiet moan as they find an easy rhythm, bodies moving together in perfect synchronicity.
“Ethan,” she says breathlessly, her fingertips pressing into the mahogany. “Harder.”
Thank Christ.
“I don’t know how much longer I can last,” he admits in a strangled tone as he feels the wholehearted pleasure of their union overwhelm him, body and soul. Never before has he felt such a connection beyond the physical. When she grasps him inside her, when he feels the clutch of her body, intimately connected to his, it’s an emotion beyond reasoning.
A hefty admission, for someone who’d structured his whole life around reason and reason alone.
But now, “reasonable” is a far cry from how he feels as he moves his hands over her body, tracing the arch of her spine, the curve of her waist, before settling there, thumbs almost touching across the span of her back as he rocks into her, his pleasure building by the second.
He groans loudly, unable to control himself. “You feel incredible, Brooke.”
She whimpers in response and he quickly checks her face to ensure she’s alright. All he sees is her flushed cheek pressed to the desk, her full lips parted in a soft, perpetual moan, the imprint of her heated palms leaving streaks on the dark, shining wood as she drags her hands to the edge of the desk and holds on tight.
His vision whites out and it’s all the warning he can give her—
“Brooke… I’m—”
“Yes, Ethan—!”
The force building inside of him erupts in a blinding flash of undulating pleasure, skyrocketing through every extremity of his body.
Brooke’s own cries echo through the empty office as he feels her body rhythmically clenching his oversensitized flesh. A wave of exhausted, satiated rapture threatens to overtake him as he braces his hands on the desk, his bare chest meeting her bare back. Once he’s certain his legs can hold him, his arms shift into an embrace, wrapping around her torso and gathering her cooling body against him.
He holds her tightly against him for a beat, before lifting her up effortlessly. Her head lolls against his shoulder as he carries her to the couch in his office. He sits first, shifting her weight in his lap, and then he lays back, bringing her back with him. As she settles herself into his chest, he finds himself kissing her hair over and over again, the feeling of total adoration threatening to spill from his chest.
They stay like that, wrapped around one another, for a moment or two when he hears her mumble something indiscernible against his shoulder. Stroking her hair back from her face, he tilts his chin down to look at her.
“Hmm?” he murmurs, wondering if his own gaze reflects the same heavy-lidded contentment that he sees in her eyes.
“I said, ‘do we have to go back’?” she repeats, her voice still a replete murmur.
He chuckles softly, kissing her head again. Go back. He knows that she’s referring to the Gala, to their friends and colleagues gathered on the first floor of the decorated hospital. But in Ethan’s mind, it’s a more involved and complicated question than that.
No, they’re not going back.
They won’t be going back to the way things were.
To secrecy and shame, to denial and frustration.
They also won’t be going back to the job they knew, in the ways that they’ve known it. Before touching his lips to hers in that public display he’d performed down there, he’d known exactly which direction the Diagnostics Team would be headed in and what that meant for him, for her, and for the nature of her relationship.
It had been a long time since Ethan had felt anything resembling superiority over Brooke and now, they would both truly be at the same level, in every way that mattered.
He smiles softly as he rubs his cheek against the top of her head, listening to her even breaths.
There still isn’t much that Dr Ethan Ramsey cares about.
[Bryce Lahela x Olivia Hadley Masterlist] [Keiki Lahela]
Pairing: Bryce Lahela x Olivia Hadley (F!OC)
Other Characters: Keiki Lahela
Book: Open Heart: Book 2
Rating: Teen due to brief language use
Word Count: <700
Prompts: @choicesaugustchallenge : sword
Synopsis: Bryce, Olivia, and Keiki have finally finished moving in and are ready to celebrate their new apartment. [fluff, humor (hopefully?)]
"Uhh—Bryce, what do you think you're doing?" Olivia's eyes widened as she took a tentative step back. "Be careful with that thing!"
"Yeah...I'm gonna have to agree with Liv on this one." Keiki's brow rose as she surveyed her brother. "No way this ends well."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," He scoffed, claiming offense. "Need I remind you both that I have magic hands? I've got this!"
"Sure, sure. Totally sounds convincing. Don't mind me capturing this epic fail to post in all its glory on the internet." Keiki held her phone in front of her, focusing on her brother. If this was going to end in disaster, she certainly wasn't going to miss it. "Smile for the camera, B!"
"I'm sure we can christen the new apartment without any of us losing an eye or a limb." Olivia held her arms open, encouraging him to come to her.
"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing," he insisted, toying with the weapon in his hands. "I'm highly skilled with a knife."
"But, that's a sword, Bryce."
"What's a sword, if not just a giant scalpel?" He scanned the blade, lining it up with the bottle in his other hand.
"A sword's a sword! ! A scalpel is a scalpel! They're not the same! Not even remotely!"
Bryce shrugged, unmoved. "It's still a blade that requires precision, same as a scalpel."
"It's a sword!" She repeated more forcefully, still trying to process the turn of events. She had only left him alone in the kitchen for a few minutes while she changed from work. "Not even a champagne saber—an actual sword. Where do you even get a sword like that?"
"Not sure saying the word sword repeatedly is changing anything," Keiki said out of the corner of her mouth, her phone still trained on Bryce.
"Ramsey. He said some prince gave it to him for saving his life a while back, but I bet he just bought it at an antique store—like he knows a prince."
"And he just let you borrow it?"
"Blah, blah, blah! So much talking," Keiki grumbled, getting bored with the lack of destruction. "Let's do this thing!"
"That's the spirit!" Bryce lined the tip of the blade up with the neck of the champagne bottle he was holding in his gloved hand. He'd seen this done many times growing up at his parent's fancy dinner parties.
"5....4....3" He practiced moving the blade gently down the neck to the annulus.
"Please be careful." Olivia cringed, afraid to watch, but too curious to turn away.
"...2....1!" With one swift motion, he firmly slid the sword down the seam of the bottle, cleanly cutting the top.
"Woah." Keiki's jaw dropped.
Olivia's face scrunched in disbelief. "You did it?"
"I did it?" Bryce stood still, his face equally shocked until a sharp shattering sound pierced the open kitchen.
"Epic!" Keiki cheered as the bottom of the bottle smashed to the floor; champagne sputtered everywhere.
"Shit." Bryce instinctively jumped back from the broken glass and liquid spilling across the floor.
Olivia clapped her hands over her mouth, partially in shock, partially to suppress her giggles at the sight of his shocked face. "So much for those magic hands."
"Oh, that hurts!" Bryce pouted, feigning heartbreak, which didn't last long as the three of them burst into a round of laughter.
After composing themselves, it didn't take long before the three of them had cleaned up the mess, setting everything back as it was.
Olivia grabbed the bottle of sparkling cider they had bought for Keiki. "I think I better handle this one." She winked at Bryce, making a show of effortlessly opening the screwtop bottle. She poured three glasses, handing each out.
"To new beginnings!" Bryce lifted his glass.
Keiki hesitantly held hers up, her gaze shifting from her brother to Olivia. "To family."
Her heart swelled, filling her chest with warmth. Olivia tried to hide her growing smile as she raised her glass, "to our home."
"Our home," Bryce nodded in agreement. "Cheers!"
They clinked their glasses together, each toasting to their new home and the love that would blossom there. The night lingered on until their cheeks hurt from grinning and laughing, the sound of their joy filling their new home.
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this. I headcanon that Bryce and Olivia move in together during the course of book two.
Tags in a reblog, please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.
