In the Ward Closet

She wasn't my patient, just another nurse on our shift. We started talking late one night after rounds. She's in her early thirties, fiery red hair and eyes that see through you. I've been married for ten years, but never felt so alive as when she pressed me against the cold metal of the supply closet. Her hands were everywhere, unbuttoning my scrubs, sliding down my pants. I wanted her, needed her, right there on the linoleum floor. She guided my cock inside her slick warmth, our breaths mingling in that small space. It was rough and messy, but it felt good to let go.