Anya shifted closer. Just enough that her hip touched mine. The contact steadied me more than the crutch.
Ezra exhaled. “Alright,” he said, picking up his coffee again. “I’ll keep your scandal to myself.”
“This is not a scandal.” I argued, but Anya buried her face against my side, hiding.
“It’s absolutely a scandal.”
Anya shifted, raising an eyebrow at him. “If you tell anyone before we do, I will assign you the worst ER bay for a month.”
He blinked, pointing a finger at her. “You are terrifying. I miss the quiet, Doctor Volkov.”
My brow furrowed, anger rising up in my chest. “Ezra Becker?—”
“I’m kidding, Doc. Settle down before you have a coronary, old man.” I looked at them — at my oldest friend and the woman who had quietly rearranged my entire life — and felt something settle into place.
The accident had taken something away.
But it hadn’t taken this.
Ezra clapped his hands once. “Okay. I’m leaving before this turns into domestic bliss and I have to reevaluate my own life.” As he headed for the door, he paused. “Hey,” he said, softer. “You’re still you.”
I looked down at the crutches. In the absence where my leg used to be. Then at Anya. Still warm against me.
Chapter 46
Anya
The warm water cascaded over my hands as I scrubbed the remnants of our breakfast from the plates. The kitchen light hummed softly above me, casting a golden glow over the sink. It had been a long shift at the hospital — another twelve hours of stitching wounds and dodging interns' questions — but being here with Desmond made it all fade.
Eight weeks after the accident and three after Ezra’s impromptu visit, and I still felt myself pausing. Listening to the sound of his breath, a grumble while he watched television, his snoring. Anything that reminded me he washere.
I heard the faint click of his temporary prosthetic against the tile floor before I felt him behind me. Desmond had been adjusting to it for weeks now: the clunky device that stood in for his lower leg after the accident. At first, he'd been hesitant, self-conscious about the way it altered his gait, but tonight, there was a unique energy in his approach. No hesitation. He pressed close, his body heat seeping through my thin scrub top, his hand sliding around my waist to rest on my hip.
“Anya,” he murmured, his voice low and rough from exhaustion,lips brushing the shell of my ear. His breath was warm, carrying the faint scent of the coffee we'd shared earlier. I paused, sponge dripping suds into the basin, a smile tugging at my lips even as a flicker of concern stirred in my chest.
“What is it?” I asked, leaning back just enough to feel the solid wall of his chest against me. We'd been navigating this new normal carefully — where I'd take the lead on top to ease the pressure on his leg. It had kept things intimate without risking strain, but I could tell it frustrated him, made him feel less like the man who'd always taken the lead in the bedroom and the trauma bay.
His hand tightened on my hip, fingers digging in with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down my spine. “I'm done with that careful bullshit,” he growled, nipping at my earlobe. The prosthetic shifted slightly as he adjusted his stance, pressing his hips forward. I felt the hard length of his cock already straining against his pants, nudging insistently against my ass. Heat pooled low in my belly, a familiar ache blooming between my thighs, but I couldn't ignore the slight wobble in his balance.
“Desmond, wait,” I said softly, turning my head to glance at him over my shoulder. My eyes flicked down to where the prosthetic met his knee, the plastic and metal gleaming under the light. “Are you sure about this? The prosthetic — it's still so new. We don't have to rush. I don't want you to?—”
He cut me off with a low groan, his lips trailing fervent kisses along my neck, stubble scraping my skin. “Anya, stop talking,” he rasped, his free hand sliding up to cup my jaw, turning my face toward him for a brief, demanding kiss. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting of need and frustration, before he pulled back just enough to speak. “I've been cooped up all day. Forweeks. I need this. Needyou. Now.”
I hesitated, my heart twisting at the raw edge in his voice. As his resident, I'd seen him command rooms full of surgeons without flinching, but this vulnerability — the way the accident had shaken him — made me want to protect him even more. “But your balance,”I pressed, my voice gentle as I set the sponge down, water still running in a steady stream. “If it gives out, you could hurt yourself. Let me turn around, or we can go to the couch. It's okay to take it slow.”
His chuckle was dark, almost feral, as he ground his erection harder against me, the friction making me gasp despite myself. “Slow is all we've done for weeks,” he muttered, his hand slipping under my top to trace the curve of my waist. “Watching you ride me like that — fuck, it's hot, but I miss pinning you down, feeling you take every inch while I drive into you.”
The prosthetic creaked faintly as he widened his stance, bracing his good leg for support. It wasn't seamless; there was a subtle hitch in his movement, a reminder of the adjustments he was still making.
I bit my lip, torn between concern and the growing wetness between my legs. “Des, talk to me. How does it feel tonight? Any pain? The socket — does it pinch?” I reached back, my fingers brushing the edge of the prosthetic where it attached, feeling the warmth of his skin above it. He'd been diligent with the physical therapy, but I knew the mental hurdle was bound to be a steeper climb.
“It's fine,” he snapped, though there was no genuine anger in it — just desperation. His hand captured mine, guiding it away and pressing it against the counter instead. “Tight, yeah, but bearable. Stop doctoring me, Volkov. Right now, I'm the man who's going to fuck you right here until you forget your own name.” He punctuated the words by shoving my scrub pants down roughly, along with my panties, the fabric tangling at my ankles. The cool air hit my bare skin, making my pussy clench in anticipation.
“Okay, okay,” I whispered, kicking the clothes aside and spreading my legs slightly, my hands gripping the sink's edge. But even as I yielded, words tumbled out. “Just... promise you'll tell me if it's too much. I love you like this — strong, taking what you want — but I hate seeing you push too hard.” My voice wavered as his fingers dipped between my thighs, finding me slick and ready. He strokedthrough my folds, parting them with two fingers, and I moaned, arching back.
“Love you too, but shut the fuck up, honey,” he demanded, his breath hot against my ear. He fumbled with his zipper — the reach awkward with the prosthetic throwing off his center of gravity — but soon his cock was free, thick and veined, slapping against my ass with a heavy thud.
“Do you want this?” He asked, fingers digging into the curve of my hip.
