The Hall of Famer

The blue, watery light of dawn was just beginning to bleed through the sheer curtains when Nia’s internal alarm clock jolted her awake. For a disorienting second, she didn’t recognize the ceiling—smooth, grey, modern, completely devoid of the water stain that plagued her own bedroom. Panic flared briefly until the heavy, solid warmth of an arm draped possessively across her waist anchored her back to reality. Ford.

She turned her head carefully on the high-thread-count pillow, watching him sleep. His face was softened by the morning light, breathless and peaceful, a stark, almost jarring contrast to the intense, primal animal he had been hours ago. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks, and his chest rose and fell in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that tempted her to match it. She wanted to stay. God, she wanted to curl back into the warmth of his body, burying her face in his neck to inhale the scent of him and wake up slowly with coffee and a very necessary round two. But the harsh reality of her life was waiting across town in a lease she couldn't break yet and a twelve-hour shift that started promptly at 7:00 AM.

She slipped out from under his arm with the grace of a cat burglar, holding her breath as the mattress shifted. She gathered her red silk dress and heels from the floor where they had been discarded in the heat of the moment, the fabric cool and slippery against her bare skin. Finding a notepad, she scribbled a quick note, her handwriting shaky—Had to run. Incredible. Xo.—and left it on his nightstand before letting herself out into the silent hallway.

The Uber ride back to her apartment was a sober transition, the city waking up in greyscale around her. Creeping back into her own home felt illicit, like she was trespassing in a life she had already outgrown. The apartment smelled of stale air and stagnation. Her ex was still asleep in his room, the door shut, thank God, but his presence hung in the hallway like a damp fog. She moved past his door like a ghost, tiptoeing on the floorboards she knew would creak, shedding the scent of Ford and sex as she stepped into the shower.

She scrubbed her skin pink, washing away the physical evidence of the night while trying desperately to hold onto the memory. The water was hot, but it couldn't replicate the heat of Ford’s hands.

Getting ready for work was usually a purely functional routine—hair up, face washed, uniform on—but today it felt charged with a secret energy. As she pulled on her navy blue scrubs, she caught her reflection in the steamy mirror. The drawstring pants were designed for comfort and utility, but on her, they were a suggestion. They hugged the high, heart-shaped shelf of her posterior and clung to the thickest part of her thighs before flaring out at the knee. She tied the waist tight, the fabric gathering to accentuate the dip of her midsection, creating a silhouette that was decidedly unprofessional if one looked too closely.

She brushed her hair back into a practical bun, smoothing down her edges, but her mind was miles away. She was back in Ford's bed, suspended in the dark. She closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the sink as a phantom sensation washed over her, so vivid it made her knees buckle slightly. She could still feel him inside her—the phantom pressure of his thickness stretching her walls, the way he had filled her completely, leaving no space for doubt. It was a heavy, aching fullness that lingered between her legs, a ghost of his cock that made her core throb. She remembered the look in his eyes as he hovered over her, dilated and wild, and the way he had pulverized her with those deep, rhythmic thrusts that seemed to rearrange her insides. She bit her lip, a flush rising to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the steam from the shower and everything to do with the memory of his weight pressing her into the mattress.

The hospital was chaos, as usual. Twelve hours of triage, patient charts, and the relentless, rhythmic beep of monitors that usually composed the soundtrack of her day. But today, Nia moved through it in a haze of dopamine. The smell of antiseptic couldn't mask the scent of him that seemed stuck in her nose. Every time she had a quiet moment—charting at the station, waiting for a lab result—her hand drifted to her pocket, checking her phone, waiting for a sign of life.

On her lunch break, she found herself in the empty staff locker room, needing a moment to breathe. The lighting was fluorescent and harsh, buzzing overhead, but she felt radiant, glowing from the inside out. She pulled her phone out and opened the camera app, finding the full-length mirror inside her locker door.

She posed, turning to the side to catch the profile he had worshipped with his hands. She arched her back, popping her hip so the navy scrubs pulled tight across the curve of her ass, outlining the heart-shaped shelf that refused to be hidden. She pulled the V-neck of her scrub top down just an inch, hinting at the cleavage beneath—a tease for his eyes only—and snapped a picture. She looked professional, competent, but to him, she knew she would look like a meal he hadn't finished eating.

She typed out the caption, her fingers flying across the screen: Distracted today. Can't stop thinking about how you felt inside me. My legs are still shaking. Can't wait to feel you again... and hopefully, next time I get to finish what we started. 😉

She hit send and held her breath, the silence of the locker room suddenly deafening.

The response came three minutes later, vibrating against her thigh while she was updating a patient's chart. She practically ran behind the nurses' station to check it, shielding the screen from prying eyes.

Ford: Jesus, Nia. You’re trying to get me fired. I’ve been staring at this photo for five minutes. I can’t focus on anything else.

The dots danced for a second, signaling he was typing more.

Ford: And I am so sorry about last night. I lost my mind. I was so hungry for you I lost all control. I promise you, next time I’m not stopping until you’re shaking for a different reason. You’re going to cum more than you ever have in your life. That’s a promise.

Nia let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, a genuine, giddy smile breaking across her face. He wasn't defensive; he was determined. The promise settled deep in her belly, coiling tight with anticipation.

Ford: Are you free this weekend? I want to take you to the Art Museum. There's an exhibit on modern sculpture I think you’d like. And then dinner. Somewhere quiet, somewhere we can take our time before we go back to my place.

Nia: I’d love that. It’s a date.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket as the charge nurse called her name, snapping her back to the present. Her stomach was doing backflips, a swarm of butterflies rioting against her ribs. It wasn't just the sex, though the promise of his redemption had her thighs clenching together involuntarily. It was the museum. The dinner. The fact that he wanted to see her with her clothes on, to stimulate her mind before her body.

She walked back down the hall to check vitals, her heart rate the only one on the floor that was dangerously, deliciously elevated.