Tooting Temptress

Marcus had been in St George's for a week with a broken leg—motorbike accident on the South Circular. The food was terrible, the bed was uncomfortable, but the night nurse made it all worth it.

Blessing. Even her name was perfect.

She was Nigerian, maybe forty, with curves that her blue scrubs couldn't hide and a smile that made his heart monitor spike every time she walked in.

"Mr. Williams," she'd say in that melodic accent, "your blood pressure is high again. What are you thinking about?"

If she only knew.

Discharge day finally came. Marcus was mobile on crutches now, and his flat in Tooting was only fifteen minutes away.

"You have someone at home to help you?" Blessing asked, reviewing his papers.

"No. Just me."

She paused, pen hovering. "That's not good. First few days are important. You shouldn't be alone."

"I'll manage."

Her dark eyes held his for a long moment. "Give me your address. I'll check on you after my shift."

"Blessing, you don't have to—"

"I know." Her smile had an edge he hadn't seen before. "I want to."

She arrived at midnight, still in her scrubs, smelling of hand sanitizer and something floral underneath. His flat was small but clean—he'd spent most of the afternoon tidying with one leg.

"How's the pain?" she asked, professional mode engaged.

"Manageable. The pills help."

"Good." She moved closer, checking his leg, her hands warm and practiced. "The swelling is down. You're healing well."

"Thanks to good nursing."

She looked up at him, and the professional mask slipped. "You know, the whole week, I couldn't stop thinking about you. Not as a patient. As a man."

"Blessing..."

"Shh." She straightened, standing between his knees where he sat on the couch. "I've been divorced for two years. Working doubles, raising my daughter, no time for anything. But you... something about you."

Her hands went to her scrubs, pulling the top over her head. Her bra was plain white, functional, but what it contained was anything but plain. Full, heavy breasts that strained the fabric.

"Is this okay?" she whispered.

Marcus answered by pulling her down onto his lap, broken leg be damned.

She was careful with him at first, mindful of his injury, but her hunger quickly overtook her caution. She rode him on that couch, scrub bottoms discarded, magnificent body on full display.

"So long," she gasped. "So long since I felt this full."

Her thick thighs gripped him as she bounced, her full breasts swinging with each movement. Marcus held her hips, guiding her rhythm, and she threw her head back in ecstasy.

"Yes! Oh, yes! Right there, right there!"

She came with a cry that surely woke the neighbors, but she didn't stop. She needed more. He could feel it.

"Turn over," he managed. "Hands on the coffee table."

"Your leg—"

"Forget my leg."

She obeyed, presenting that incredible backside. He entered her from behind, using his good leg and the couch for leverage. The angle made her scream.

"Marcus! Oh God, Marcus!"

He took her hard, harder than he should have, the pain in his leg nothing compared to the pleasure. When they came together, it was explosive—two people starved for connection finally feeding.

Afterward, she helped him to bed properly—nurse mode back on, but with tender kisses between instructions.

"I'll come back tomorrow," she said. "To check on you."

"Is that medical advice?"

She grinned, that smile that had haunted his hospital days. "It's whatever you want it to be."

Blessing let herself out, and Marcus lay there, throbbing leg and throbbing heart, thinking that maybe getting hit by that car was the best thing that ever happened to him.

His Tooting temptress would return. And he would be ready.