I swallow, my pulse loud in my ears. “You didn’t.”
He holds my stare, and something shifts between us—a slow, heavy pull that starts low in my stomach and spreads outward until the whole room feels smaller, tighter, too charged. His hand lifts, hesitates for one fraction of a second, then settles on my waist, warm and heavy, pulling me closer.
“Come here,” he murmurs, barely audible.
I do. I’m standing between his legs, my hands still hovering uselessly near his bandaged arm, but he doesn’t care about that anymore. His other hand slides up my back, his fingers curling into the fabric of my scrubs, and the breath leaves my lungs in a sharp, helpless rush.
“Artyom,” I whisper, but it comes out too soft, too broken.
He leans forward, his forehead brushing mine, and the heat of him is overwhelming—his breath, his body, his anger, his relief, all of it pressed close enough to burn.
“You drive me insane,” he says, voice low, steady, dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with violence. “Every time you look at me. Every time you breathe near me. Every time you run from me and run toward me at the same time.”
My hands tremble where they rest on his shoulders.
“I’m not running,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “Then stop acting like you are.”
My breath catches, and for a moment I can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything except feel the way he’s holding me, careful but possessive. His uninjured hand slides from my waist to my hip, gripping just enough to pull me closer, and when my body presses against his, the tension between us snaps like a wire pulled too tight.
He kisses me first—hot and sure, pulling me down into him, his hands moving over my back like he’s trying to relearn every inch of me. The raw, metallic scent of the hospital room fades beneath the scent of his skin and the faint, coppery tang of drying blood that clings to his good hand. I kiss him back, my fingers curling in his shirt, my whole body lighting up with something sharp and overwhelming.
The kiss deepens, messier, more desperate, and he pulls me onto his lap, guiding me with slow, deliberate pressure until my legs straddle him. My thighs land on either side of his hips, the fabricof his jeans rough against me, and the hard, stiff weight of him beneath me makes me gasp.
His hand slides under the hem of my top, warm against my skin, trailing heat up my ribs until his thumb brushes the edge of my bra. The heat of him pressed between my thighs makes my breath stutter. He murmurs something against my mouth, almost a growl, and the sound sends a shiver straight down my spine.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, his lips brushing my jaw, his breath ragged.
“I think I do,” I whisper, my hips shifting instinctively, because I feel the tension in his body, the way he grips my hips like he’s holding himself back, the way he watches me like he’s memorizing the moment.
He pulls my top up and over my head in one swift motion, discarding it onto the floor with the gentle clatter of the metal table behind us. He follows, shrugging out of his jacket and shirt in a sequence that shows the bruising on his ribs I hadn't seen until now.
He lifts me slightly, guiding my hips against his, and the slow, grinding contact pulls a strained sound from my throat. His eyes darken at the sound, his fingers tightening in my hair as he pulls me back into another kiss, deeper and hungrier than the last.
My hands go to his belt, fumbling with the heavy leather until the buckle gives. He surges against my mouth, tearing his lips away only to whisper, “Don’t stop. I need you to do this to me.”
I push his jeans down with a desperate urgency, following the line of his hips, letting my palm trace the taut, hot skin of his stomach. His hardness presses against the denim of my jeans, and the friction is instantaneous, painful, and absolute.
He stands, lifting me easily, and without breaking eye contact, pulls my jeans and underwear down my legs. He drops onto the edge of the bed, spreading my legs wide, and the sudden, overwhelming exposure makes my chest tighten. He looks up at me, his gaze scorching, possessive, and hungry.
“I’m going to make you forget everything but this room,” he promises, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
He surges upward, claiming me in one powerful, immediate movement. The impact steals the air from my lungs, the depth of it settling heavy and full, pushing the pain and the guilt of the last two days out of my mind. I gasp, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, careful to avoid the bandages, and then he starts to move.
He sets a punishing rhythm, slow enough to draw it out, hard enough to be a demand. I hold him tight, my heels digging into his back as I meet his force, trying to pull him deeper, closer. The bed creaks beneath us, the sound loud in the quiet hospital room, and I don’t care. The tension spills into touch,into breathless whispers, into hands and mouths and heat until there’s no space left between thought and want.
Somewhere between a kiss and a gasp, he breaks away just enough to look at me, his breathing uneven, his voice low and raw.
“I love you,” he says, like the words cost him something, like he’s forcing them past every instinct he’s ever had.
My heart stops.
Then it crashes back into motion, the rhythm of his body inside mine the only thing that makes sense. I lift a hand to his face, my fingers trembling, and meet his dark eyes, almost terrified.
“I love you too,” I whisper. It feels like a freefall. It feels like the easiest truth I’ve ever said.
He pulls me into him again—this time with something new in his touch, something that feels like surrender and promise and possession, all tangled together. He locks his hands on my hips and angles me sharply, forcing himself deeper inside me, and the intensity hits instantly, stealing the air in my lungs. He begins to move with a brutal, single-minded focus, the rhythmic collision of our bodies a loud, desperate sound in the quiet room.
