TO BE F*CKED BY MY RIVAL ATTENDING (7)
1197 Words
NIKOLAI.
Six days later, someone buzzes my apartment at eleven PM.
I check the camera.
It’s Alexei, looking wrecked in a black coat, jaw tight with what I recognize as barely controlled anger.
I buzz him up.
When I open the door, he stalks in without greeting.
“Nice place,” he says, voice clipped. “Didn’t know cardiac surgeons made this kind of money.”
“Investments. Inheritance. None of your business.” I close the door. “Why are you here?”
“You know why.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t play games with me, Nikolai. I’m not in the mood.”
“Then why are you here?”
He turns to face me, and I can see the war in his eyes. Pride versus want.
“Because you were right,” he says finally, the admission clearly costing him. “I can answer your question now.”
“Then answer it.”
“You want to know why it has to be you? Fine.” His jaw clenches. “Because you’re the only person who’s ever challenged me. The only one who doesn’t worship my family name or fear my reputation. You look at me and see—me. Not the Morozov heir. Just me.”
“Keep going.”
“You’re arrogant and infuriating and you drive me insane. But you also—” He stops, frustrated. “You make me feel safe. Which is absurd because we’re competing for the same position and you should be the last person I trust. But I do. I trust you not to use this against me. Trust you to—to see me lose control and not think less of me for it.”
“And?”
“And I can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t focus on anything else. It’s affecting my work, my sleep, everything. And I hate it. I hate wanting someone this much. I hate needing—” He stops.
“Needing what?”
“You.” The word comes out angry. “I need you. Not just want. Need. And that terrifies me because I’ve never needed anyone. But here we are.”
The honesty is raw, angry, defensive.
Exactly like him.
“What do you need from me?” I ask.
“I need you to f**k me.” He’s direct with it. No hesitation now. “I need to know what it feels like. I need to stop imagining and just—know.”
“And after?”
“After we figure it out. Or we don’t. I don’t know. But right now, I need this.”
I study him for a long moment.
This is what I wanted—honesty, vulnerability, even if it comes wrapped in anger and frustration.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll f**k you.”
Relief flashes across his face, quickly masked by his usual arrogance. “About time.”
“But on my terms.”
“Naturally. You’re controlling even in this.”
“Says the man who needs to control everything.”
“Not tonight,” he says, and there’s something vulnerable beneath the irritation. “Tonight I’m giving that to you. Don’t f**k it up.”
I smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it. My bedroom., follow,”
He follows me, and I can feel the tension radiating off him—anticipation mixed with nervousness masked by his annoyance.
In the bedroom, I turn to face him. “Strip.”
He does, aggressive and efficient, like he’s angry at his own clothes.
When he’s down to boxer briefs, I stop him. “Those stay for now. Bed. On your back.”
“Bossy.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
But he climbs onto the bed, and I take a moment to look at him.
Alexei Morozov, in my bed, trying to look annoyed while clearly nervous.
Perfect.
I strip and grab supplies. When I climb onto the bed, he’s watching me warily.
“Nervous?” I ask.
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Fine. A little. Happy?”
“Very.” I pull off his boxer briefs and wrap my hand around his half-hard c**k. “Relax.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“It is, actually. Because I know what I’m doing.” I stroke him slowly. “Trust me.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
I work him up methodically—hand on his c**k, mouth on his neck, his chest, his hipbones.
By the time I slide one slick finger inside him, he’s fully hard and panting.
“f**k—”
“Relax. Breathe.”
“I am breathing—”
“Deeper. Let me in.”
He does, and I work one finger, then two, then three. Finding his prostate and making him gasp.
“There—god—right there—”
“I know.” I abuse that spot deliberately. “Ready for my c**k?”
“Yes—stop asking and just—”
I pull out my fingers and roll on a condom. “Impatient.”
“Observant.”
I line myself up and push in slowly. Just the head.
We both groan.
“More,” he demands.
“Patience.”
“I don’t have patience—”
“Learn some.” But I push deeper, inch by inch, until I’m fully inside him.
He’s tight and hot and making these sounds that drive me crazy.
“Okay?” I ask.
“Yes—move—”
I start slow, careful, but he wraps his legs around me and pulls me deeper.
“Harder,” he orders.
“Bossy bottom. Who knew?”
“Shut up and f**k me properly.”
I do, increasing my pace, f*****g him harder. My hand wraps around his c**k and we find a rhythm.
“Touch yourself,” I order.
He does without argument, and I can feel how close he is.
“Come for me,” I growl. “Show me this was worth the wait.”
He comes with a curse, spilling between us, and I follow right after.
We collapse together, both breathing hard.
After a moment, I pull out carefully.
“Sore?” I ask.
“Obviously. You’re not small.”
“Complaining?”
“Observing.”
I clean us up and lie back down beside him.
Silence.
“So,” he says.
“So.”
“We did that.”
“We did.”
“And now everything is complicated.”
“Extremely.”
“And we’re still competing for Chief.”
“Unfortunately.”
More silence.
“I don’t regret it,” he says, his tone defensive.
“Good. Neither do I.”
“This doesn’t change anything between us professionally.”
“Agreed.”
“We’re still rivals.”
“Obviously.”
“Who occasionally fuck.”
“Apparently.”
He turns to look at me. “You’re infuriating.”
“Right back at you.”
He throws a pillow at my face.
I catch it and grin.
And despite everything…
Despite the disaster this is becoming—
It feels worth it.
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