"Excellent responsiveness," he murmured against my throat. His tongue traced my pulse point, felt my heartbeat hammering against his lips. "The treatment appears effective."
"Please—" The word came out wrecked. Broken. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need, Miss Cross?"
"To—" I couldn't say it. Couldn't form the words with his fingers still moving inside me, still keeping me exactly where he wanted me: desperate and hovering and unable to think about anything except the release he wouldn't give me.
He slowed.
Not stopped. Just slowed. Fingers dragging out, pressing back in with agonizing patience. Thumb circling my clit in lazy patterns that kept me right at the edge but wouldn't push me over.
"Please," I begged again. "Please, I need to come, please—"
"The treatment protocol requires patience." His voice was rougher now. Cracking at the edges. "These things can't be rushed."
He was enjoying this. Bastard. Absolute bastard.
His free hand came up to grip my jaw, tilting my face toward his. Those grey eyes met mine through the reading glasses that had no business looking that hot, and I saw it—the hunger behind the clinical mask. The desire he was barely containing. The man underneath the doctor, waiting for permission to devour me.
"What do you call me?" he asked.
The question cut through the haze. Specific. Loaded. A door he was offering me that would end the game and start something else.
I hesitated. The roleplay had been good. So good. The clinical detachment, the power dynamic, the sensation of being examined and assessed and treated—all of it had wound me tighter than I'd ever been.
But I didn't want the doctor right now.
I wanted him.
"Daddy," I whispered.
Something shifted in his expression.
"Please," I continued, the word tumbling out faster now that I'd started. "Please, Daddy, stop teasing and just—I need you, I need to come, please—"
The clinical mask shattered.
One moment he was Dr. Besharov with his measured movements and professional distance. The next he was Kostya—my Kostya, my Daddy, my monster who'd been holding himself back and finally didn't have to anymore.
He kissed me hard enough to bruise.
His fingers withdrew from between my legs, leaving me empty and whimpering, but before I could protest he was moving. Hands on my hips, dragging me to the edge of the desk. The sound of his belt unbuckling, his zipper coming down, the rustle of fabric being shoved aside.
"The doctor's appointment is over," he growled against my mouth.
And then he was inside me.
One thrust, deep and claiming, and we both groaned with it. The reading glasses were gone—knocked off somewhere, lost to the floor. The stethoscope clattered to the ground as he pulled it over his head and threw it aside. All the props of the game discarded because we didn't need them anymore.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on.
He fucked me the way he did everything—thorough, intense, completely focused on taking me apart. The desk creaked beneath us, groaning in protest, but I didn't care. Couldn't care about anything except the drag of him inside me, the weight of his body over mine, the sound of his breath harsh in my ear.
"Mine," he rasped.
"Yours," I agreed, because it was true. Had been true since the basement. Would be true until I stopped breathing.
He changed angle, somehow hitting deeper, and I shattered.
