He slides one finger inside me, and I clench around him, gasping. A second follows, curling forward, hitting the spot along my front wall that makes my thighs shake.
“That’s it,” he mumbles against my skin. “Fuck my fingers, just like that. I know you need this.”
He slides his thumb across my clit in a steady rhythm while his fingers move inside me, and I lose it. The orgasm rips through me without warning. Every muscle in my body locks, my legs tighten around his waist, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck to muffle the cry that tears out of me.
He keeps curling, pressing, and drawing every last tremor out until I’m panting and shaking and struggling to remember my name. My inner walls constrict around him in waves, and each one sends another shock through my system that leaves me gasping.
When I finally come down, my forehead is pressed to his collarbone, and my body feels like it’s been rewired. I can feel my pulse everywhere. In my throat, in my fingertips, and between my legs where his fingers are still inside me.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
My nails are still embedded in his shoulders, and I can feel him hard and throbbing against my inner thigh. When I pull back to look at his face, his blue irises are nothing but a thin ring around wide pupils. The fact that I did this to him, that I reduced thisdangerous, impossible man to this, sends a secondary wave of heat through my lower belly.
He leans in to kiss me again, and I almost let him. I almost wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer and beg him to keep going, because my body is still riding the high, and the thought of what his cock would feel like inside me is making it impossible to think straight.
And that’s when I see it.
Red. Blooming through the white fabric over his abdomen, right where the incision sits. A dark, wet stain that means he’s torn at least one suture, probably more.
“You’re bleeding.”
He glances down. “I don’t care.”
“Well, I do.” I gently push him backward. “You just proved my point about ripping your sutures. Congratulations.”
His jaw ticks. “Polina?—”
“Don’t.” I slide off the counter and straighten my scrubs. My underwear is soaked, my legs are jelly, and I can still feel the ghost of his fingers inside me. But none of that matters right now. “I’m sending a nurse to redress that wound because I can’t think clearly enough to do it myself. Stay in this room.”
The groan he lets out when I reach for the door handle is the most frustrated, desperate sound I’ve heard from a man. It rolls through me like an aftershock, and it takes everything in me to keep from turning around.
I walk out and close the door behind me. As I stand in the corridor with my back to the wall with my pulse still thudding between my legs, I try my best to remember how to be a doctor.
But I can still taste him. I can still feel the phantom pressure of his thumb on my clit and the way his fingers curled inside me. If I close my eyes, I’m back on the counter with my legs wrapped around him and his voice in my ear.
Oh, my God. I kissed a Morozov.
Dmitri would never forgive me. My cousins would never look at me the same way. My sister would say I’ve gone insane. Everything I’ve sacrificed to be more than a bratva daughter with a famous last name would burn to the ground.
And the worst part is that if I had to do it again, I wouldn’t change a thing.
I am in so much fucking trouble.
