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“Quiet,” I murmur.

Her laugh trembles. “Outside my own building?”

“Yes.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s practical.”

“You are such a doctor.”

I slide my hand up her thigh beneath her dress. Her whole body tightens. The joke dies.

Maggie pants against me, hands gripping my coat, eyes on mine as my fingers find the edge of her underwear.

She’s wet. Very wet.

I close my eyes for half a second because there’s only so much restraint a man can manufacture from nothing.

“You’re soaked,” I say.

Her face goes hot. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re pleased.”

“I am.”

She shudders.

I touch her slowly at first, two fingers moving over her through all that slick heat, watching her fight to stay quiet. Her hips move against my hand, helpless and impatient, and the way she tries to hide her face in my neck nearly ruins me.

“No,” I say, catching her chin. “Look at me.”

She does. Barely. Her pupils are blown, lips parted, breath catching every time my fingers circle her clit. The car is warm now, too warm, glass misted at the edges. My pulse is hard in my throat.

“Dalton,” she whispers.

That’s my undoing.

I push her underwear aside and slide one finger inside her. She clamps down around me with a soft, shocked sound.

“Sensitive,” I say.

She nods, biting her lip.

Hormones, maybe. Stress. Want. All of it together. I don’t care. I only care that she’s in my lap, shaking against my hand, trying not to fall apart where anyone could walk past and see nothing but a fogged car by the curb.

I add another finger.

Her forehead drops to my shoulder. “Fuck,” she breathes.

“That’s it.”

“Don’t talk.”

“You like when I talk.”