Cravings in Scrubs

The moment Zara Valeska stepped into Room 308, she knew.

He was her type—freshly injured, semi-conscious, alone. No visitors. No wedding band. Just a smooth chest covered by a thin sheet, a faded tattoo curling across his left shoulder, and the soft, vulnerable breath of a man who hadn’t yet noticed her standing in the doorway.

She shut the door behind her slowly.

Click.

Sound carried differently at night. Quieter. More sacred. The air in the room felt heavy with stillness, but Zara brought something else—heat.

Her body moved on instinct: slow, fluid, deliberate. Her long black waves were tied loosely at the nape of her neck, but strands had fallen to frame her high cheekbones and sharp jaw. Her green eyes glinted in the dim light. And her scrubs—tight, navy-blue, perfectly fit to her exaggerated curves—clung like second skin.

Zara’s figure was impossible to ignore. Her breasts were large and natural, straining the scrub top with each breath. Her narrow waist dipped into wide hips, her full thighs wrapped in soft fabric, and behind her, the curve of her ass rose like a promise. Every step she took was a slow ripple of sensuality.

She approached his bedside with the grace of a predator.

His eyes opened slowly.

Brown. Soft. Cautious.

“Hey there,” she whispered, checking the monitor without looking at it. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He blinked. Cleared his throat. “N-not really.”

Zara smiled, small and knowing. “Pain?”

“A little.”

She nodded and pulled the clipboard from the wall. She didn’t need to check it. She already knew his name, his age, and his meds. But her fingers lingered on the pen, tapping it softly as she glanced at him.

“You’re Mr. Callahan. Twenty-nine. No allergies. Took a nasty fall at the construction site. Dislocated shoulder… some bruised ribs… couple stitches,” she said, almost to herself.

He shifted, the sheet sliding slightly down his torso. A ripple of lean muscle twitched beneath. Zara didn’t stare, but she didn’t look away, either.

“Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

He hesitated.

Zara stepped closer, standing at his hip now, her scent drifting over him—warm jasmine, sweat, and something darker.

“I can adjust your pillow,” she offered, placing a hand gently on his chest. Her fingers were gloved, but the pressure was intimate. Her touch didn’t move quickly. Instead, it lingered over the line of his sternum, tracing lightly down to his ribcage before pulling away.

His eyes locked onto her lips.

Good.

Zara leaned over the bed.

She adjusted his pillow, her breasts pressing gently into his arm, her ponytail falling across his shoulder. She exhaled close to his ear.

“There,” she whispered.

He shivered.

She straightened, stepping around the bed to the other side, where the wall blocked the view from the hallway camera. She drew the curtain closed—slowly. Silently.

Then turned back toward him.

“You’re tense,” she murmured. “Mind if I check your vitals?”

He nodded. “Y-yeah. Of course.”

She pulled the stethoscope from her pocket and slid it around her neck. Her gloved fingers found his wrist—feeling for his pulse. She held it longer than necessary, her thumb pressing just a little too firmly.

“You’re racing,” she said, eyes meeting his.

He chuckled nervously. “It’s late.”

“Mmm,” she agreed.

She set the stethoscope to his chest.

But didn’t ask him to lift the sheet.

She peeled it down herself.

Slowly.

His bare chest rose and fell beneath her fingertips, and her eyes followed the line of his pecs down to the faint trail of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his hospital-issued sweats.

Zara pressed the stethoscope to his chest—softly, sensually—moving it lower. Her body was bent at the waist now, ass tilted slightly as she leaned over him. The scrub pants hugged every inch of her lower half, from her wide hips to the thick curve of her thighs to the plump swell of her ass.

She felt his breath hitch as she dragged the bell of the scope across his skin. She pretended not to notice.

“You’re warm,” she said softly.

“I… you’re close.”

She smiled.

“I know.”

She pulled back, her fingers now brushing his jaw. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small pill bottle, then uncapped it one-handed.

“This will help you sleep,” she said, placing one pill on her gloved fingertip. “Open.”

He hesitated.

But obeyed.

She placed the pill on his tongue.

Then, without warning, she leaned forward—her lips just inches from his—and held a straw to a plastic water cup in her other hand.

“Drink,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his.

He sipped, throat moving as he swallowed.

Her eyes dropped to his lips. Wet. Slightly parted. Waiting.

She let her tongue dart out to wet her own.

Then stood upright again, adjusting her top—pulling it tighter across her full, round breasts.

“You should rest,” she said.

“Right.”

She reached for the sheet and pulled it up again, slowly, tucking it around his waist—but not quite high enough to hide the growing bulge.

Her eyes flicked down once. Then up again.

And this time, she did smile.

“I’ll check on you later,” she said, voice low.

She didn’t look back as she walked away—but she knew he was watching.

They always did.