Malpractice Makes Perfect

Vicki Chase smirked at the monitor, still half-stunned herself. Sinn Sage reached for the phone to call it in. "Are you fucking serious?" Vicki slapped her hand down. "She was sixty and coding on arrival. She probably got four extra pills in the dialysis bag. No one will prove a damn thing." Sinn’s eyes went wide. "Protocol says—" Vicki moved fast, backing the nurse against the counter. "Protocol buries bodies. I don’t want buried beside mine." Sinn felt her throat tighten but her thighs already threatened to betray her. God, those smug brown eyes inches from hers, lips curved like she was daring her to fold. Vicki knew exactly what she was doing, how one little sniff at Sinn’s neck had the nurse leaking heat she’d never admit. She pressed closer, letting her chest brush across Sinn’s, gliding one thigh between hers, rubbing just enough to promise something filthy after they figured out how to seal this secret between bites and sighs. "All you have to do is stay quiet," she whispered, rubbing that slick promise up tighter, "and let me quiet that tongue myself when we’re alone tonight." Sinn’s breath hitched—pure outrage, pure want—her lips parting in spite of every moral flicker inside her chest. Vicki grinned, already dragging her tongue along Sinn’s earlobe, spinning guilt and electricity into one sharp bite.