"Yes?"
"What kind of—" I couldn't think. Couldn't form sentences. His fingers were stroking me with devastating precision, finding the spots that made my brain white out, and he wasn't even trying. Just ‘investigating.’ "What treatment are you recommending?"
He withdrew his hand.
The loss made me whimper. Actually whimper, like an animal denied food.
"Treatment protocols will be determined after a thorough assessment." He circled back around to face me, and his eyes—hungry, finally showing the cracks in his composure—met mine. "Please position yourself on the examination table."
The desk. He meant the desk.
His desk, which had held intelligence reports and weapons manifests and all the documentation of a criminal empire, was now serving as a medical examination table for a woman who was about to lose her entire mind.
I moved toward it on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.
The wood was cold against my back when I lay down. Hard. Unyielding. I stared at the ceiling—exposed beams, industrial lighting, nothing like any examination room I'd ever worked in—and tried to remember how to breathe.
Kostya appeared above me. Stethoscope still around his neck, reading glasses still perched on his nose, looking down at me with an expression that was mostly clinical and fractionally feral.
"The treatment for your condition," he explained, "requires direct intervention."
Then his mouth descended to my breast, and I stopped thinking entirely.
His tongue circled my nipple with devastating precision.
Not the sloppy enthusiasm of someone caught up in the moment. Precise. Methodical. Like he'd mapped out exactly which nerve endings he intended to target and was executing the plan with surgical accuracy.
The irony wasn't lost on me. The untrained man was somehow the most thorough practitioner I'd ever encountered.
"Standard treatment for elevated arousal involves direct stimulation," he murmured against my skin. His breath was warm. His mouth was warmer. "The goal is to redirect excess energy through controlled release."
His hand slid between my legs again.
This time there was no pretense of examination. His fingers found my clit with the kind of certainty that came from months of learning my body, and he stroked—slow, deliberate, exactly the rhythm that made me see stars.
I writhed.
Couldn't help it. The desk was hard and cold against my back but I barely noticed. Everything had narrowed to his mouth on my breast and his hand between my thighs and the coiling tension in my core that was building toward something inevitable.
"Patient is responding to treatment," he observed, lifting his head just enough to speak. His thumb pressed harder, circled faster. "Vocalizations indicate positive engagement."
Vocalizations. Right. Because the sounds escaping my throat—whimpers, moans, something that might have been his name or might have been a prayer—were definitely medical data.
"Doctor—" I gasped, trying to remember the game, trying to stay in the scenario even as my brain was melting. "I don't think this is—"
"Are you questioning my professional judgment, Miss Cross?"
His fingers slid inside me as he said it.
Two fingers, thick and sure, crooking upward to hit the spot that made language dissolve into pure sensation. The question died in my throat, replaced by a moan so desperate it should have embarrassed me.
It didn't. I was too far gone for embarrassment.
"That's what I thought," he said, and went back to work.
He fucked me with his fingers while his thumb maintained steady pressure on my clit. Methodical. Clinical. Every stroke calculated to build the tension higher without pushing me over the edge. He'd learned my tells—the way my thighs tightened, the pitch of my moans, the rhythm of my breathing—and he was using that knowledge against me.
Bringing me to the peak. Holding me there. Not letting me fall.
