My Love Is Toxic But He's Addicted

Ivy's POV

I'm sitting on Alexander's desk, deliberately letting my skirt ride up to mid-thigh.

In my hand is an oleander stem I brought from my greenhouse today. The pink petals look innocent and beautiful under the fluorescent lights.

"You know this flower can kill a person?" I watch him from a few steps away, slowly twirling the stem between my fingers. "Kind of like how I'm killing your self-control right now, Dr. Hunt."

His tie is loose, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. It's nine at night, and the entire neurosurgery wing is empty except for us. He stands there, eyes dark, jawline tight.

"Get down." His voice is low, carrying a warning.

I smile, deliberately crossing my legs. "Make me."

The tension in the air is almost audible.

He stares at me for three seconds. I can see his throat work, fingers clenching. Those hands that hold a scalpel steady through twelve-hour surgeries are clearly struggling to maintain control.

Then he moves.

Three strides and he's in front of me, hands gripping my waist, pulling me down. The oleander hits the floor.

His kiss is fierce and desperate.

My heart goes wild, breath catching as I grab his shirt. The world tilts. When we break apart, we're both gasping.

"You're playing with fire," he says, voice rough.

I rise on my toes, lips barely touching his. "I like the burn."

Three months ago, I didn't know Alexander Hunt existed.

I just knew I needed medical data for my research paper on plant neurotoxins and their effects on the nervous system. My advisor gave me a name: Dr. Hunt, neurosurgery, top expert in brain trauma research.

"You need an appointment," his lab assistant said, blocking the doorway.

"I only need five minutes."

"Dr. Hunt doesn't see walk-ins—"

"It's fine. Let her in."

First time I heard his voice. Calm, authoritative, absolute.

I walked into the lab. He was standing at a microscope, didn't look up. Everyone around him moved carefully, respectfully, like he was something dangerous.

I went straight to his workbench.

"Dr. Hunt. I'm Dr. Thorne, botany. I need your help."

He finally looked up.

Gray eyes, sharp features, expression cold as marble. He assessed me—the deep red hair, the tattoo peeking from under my sleeve, the jeans and boots.

In this lab full of white coats, I looked like an intruder.

"Why does a botanist need a neurosurgeon?"

I pulled a water hemlock stem from my bag and placed it directly on his microscope slide.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Your brain research is impressive, Dr. Hunt," I said. "But you know this plant can shut down a brain in minutes? Nature's way more efficient than your scalpel."

Silence. The entire lab went quiet.

Nobody talked to Dr. Hunt like that.

But I saw it—that flicker. Not anger. Interest. His gaze shifted, actually seeing me now instead of looking through me.

"Interesting." He picked up the hemlock, examining it closely. "What do you want to study?"

"Neurotoxin mechanisms. I have the botanical data, need medical validation."

"That takes time."

"I've got time."

He looked at me, corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close.

"Alright. Wednesday, three PM. Bring your research."

As I turned to leave, I heard his assistant murmur, "Sir, your schedule—"

"Adjust it."

After that, I became a regular at the hospital.

I learned his surgery schedule—Mondays and Fridays, mornings. His office hours—two to seven every afternoon. His coffee preference—the shop on the ground floor, black coffee, no sugar.

I started showing up.

Behind him in the coffee line. Running into him in the hospital corridors. Discussing research in his office, wearing low-cut tops, leaning over papers.

I could tell he was attracted to me.

Every time I got close, his breathing would change. Jaw tightening. Fingers curling into fists. Those tiny tells of losing control were practically screaming from a man famous for his composure.

But he never made a move.

Always professional distance. Always polite and detached.

Until one night.

We were discussing a complex neural pathway problem. Past ten. Office empty except for us. I stood up, walked behind him, placed my hand on his chair, leaned over to look at his computer screen.

My hair fell forward, almost brushing his face.

I felt him go completely rigid.

"Ivy." His voice was strained.

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

I moved around to face him, perched on the desk edge, met his eyes.

"I want you."

He froze. "This isn't appropriate."

I smiled. "I've never been appropriate, Doctor. That's the whole point."

I waited for him to refuse. To say ethics, professional boundaries, all those cold excuses.

But he didn't.

He stood, hand cupping the back of my neck, kissing me until I couldn't think straight.

When we pulled apart, his composure was gone.

"My place. Now."

I said, "Okay."

From that night on, we were together.