TO BE F*CKED BY MY RIVAL ATTENDING (3)
1457 Words
NIKOLAI.
It’s been three days since Alexei’s office, and I haven’t seen him once.
Not that I’m looking.
I’m definitely not looking.
Tuesday morning, I’m leading rounds with my team when I spot him—standing at the nurses’ station with Dr. Volgin, our Chief of Surgery. Both watching as I approach.
Perfect.
“Dr. Volkov,” Volgin calls out. “A moment?”
I hand my tablet to my resident and walk over. “Chief.”
“I was just telling Dr. Morozov about your transplant patient. Remarkable recovery time.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Alexei leans against the desk, arms crossed. “Remarkable. Though I’d argue luck played a significant role.”
“Luck?” I smile. “Is that what we’re calling skill now?”
Volgin’s eyebrows rise. “Gentlemen.”
“Apologies, Chief,” Alexei says smoothly. “Professional disagreement. You know how it is.”
“I do. Which is why I wanted to speak with you both.” Volgin glances between us. “The board is convening next month to discuss the Chief of Surgery position. They’ve asked me to observe both your performances closely. Team dynamics. Leadership. Decision-making under pressure.”
My stomach tightens. “Understood.”
“Good. I expect you both to conduct yourselves professionally. The hospital’s reputation is at stake.” He nods and walks away.
Silence.
Then Alexei says, “Well. This should be interesting.”
“Thrilled for you.”
“Three days,” he says quietly. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been working. Unlike some people, I don’t have time to wander the halls looking for—”
“My office. Noon. Don’t be late.” He pushes off the desk and walks away before I can respond.
Arrogant bastard.
I show up at 11:58.
ALEXEI.
He walks into my office at exactly noon, and I lock the door behind him.
“Punctual,” I note. “Impressive.”
“What do you want, Morozov?”
“What do I want?” I move closer. “I’ve been thinking about that all week.”
“Have you? I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. It’s been extremely inconvenient.”
“Poor baby. Must be hard being distracted.”
“It is, actually. I don’t like distractions. I don’t like not being in control.” I’m standing in front of him now. “And you’ve been in my head since Tuesday. That pisses me off.”
“So this is my fault?”
“Yes.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because you made me curious. You made me want—” I stop. “You made this complicated.”
“I didn’t do anything. You invited me here, remember?”
“And now I’m inviting you again. Except this time, we’re doing things my way.”
His eyebrow raises. “Your way?”
“Yes. Last time, you were in control. This time, I am.”
“What makes you think I’ll agree to that?”
“Because you’re curious too. Because you want to see what I’ll do.” I step closer. “Because you’ve been thinking about me just as much as I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Presumptuous.”
“Accurate.” I grab his scrub top. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
He doesn’t.
“That’s what I thought.” I pull him into a kiss—hard, aggressive, claiming. He responds immediately, hands fisting in my hair, and for a moment we’re just fighting for dominance.
Then I pull back.
“Strip,” I order.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Take off your clothes.”
“Who the f**k do you think—”
“I think I’m the one who’s been fantasizing about this for three days. I think I’m the one who couldn’t focus during surgery yesterday because I kept remembering how you sounded when you came. I think I’m the one who’s going to make you beg today.” I smile. “So strip. Or leave.”
He stares at me. Then, slowly, pulls off his scrub top.
“Good. Keep going.”
He shoves down his pants and boxers in one movement, and f**k—I forgot how good he looks naked. All muscle and scars and raw masculinity.
“On the couch,” I say. “On your back.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. And because you’re curious about what I’m going to do.”
He moves to the couch, lies back, and I can see he’s already half-hard.
“Interesting,” I murmur, climbing over him. “All that attitude and you’re already responding.”
“Shut up.”
“No. I don’t think I will.” I wrap my hand around his c**k and he inhales sharply. “I’ve been thinking about this. About how to make you lose that control you guard so carefully.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Oh, I don’t need luck. I have a plan.” I stroke him slowly, watching his face. “See, I realized something last week. You’re competitive. You want to win. Even in this.”
“So?”
“So what if winning becomes impossible?” I increase my pace until he’s fully hard, hips starting to move. “What if I don’t let you come?”
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“You heard me. What if I bring you right to the edge—” I stroke faster and his breathing hitches. “—and then stop?”
“That’s—”
“Cruel? Maybe. But effective.” I feel him getting close, see the tension in his shoulders, and then I press my thumb firmly against his tip.
He makes this frustrated sound. “What are you doing?”
“Stopping you from coming. Didn’t I just explain this?”
“Alexei—”
“Yes?”
“Move your f*****g thumb.”
“Why? So you can come? I don’t think so.” I keep the pressure firm. “Not until I decide you can.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“This is control. My control. Over you.” I wait until he’s breathing normally again, then release the pressure and start stroking. “Let’s try again.”
I work him back up—slow, deliberate, watching every reaction. When he gets close, I press my thumb down again.
“f**k!” He arcs up. “Alexei—”
“Beg.”
“What?”
“Beg me. Beg me like you mean it.”
“I’m not going to—”
I stroke him again, faster this time, and stop just before he tips over.
“f**k—you bastard—”
“Beg. Or we can do this all day.”
“Please—”
“Please what?”
“Please let me come.”
“Not convincing enough.” I start again, building him up, stopping at the last second. He’s trembling now, desperate, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Alexei—please—I need—”
“What do you need?”
“Need to come—please—let me—”
“There it is. The great Nikolai Volkov, begging.” I stroke him firmly, no teasing this time. “Come for me. Show me I win.”
He does, spilling over my hand with a broken groan, and the look on his face—desperate, undone, completely at my mercy—is perfect.
I keep stroking until he’s pushing at my hand, oversensitive.
“Satisfied?” he asks roughly.
“Very. You?”
“I hate you.”
“I know. But you still came harder than you probably have in months.”
“f**k off.”
“Eloquent.” I clean my hand. “Same time next week?”
“You’re assuming I’ll come back.”
“You will. Because now you’re wondering what else I’ll do. What other ways I can make you lose control.” I lean down, lips near his ear. “And because you liked it. Liked giving up control to me, even if you won’t admit it.”
“I didn’t give up anything.”
“Sure you didn’t. That’s why you begged so prettily.”
He sits up, grabs his clothes. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Of course not. Just two rivals working out tension.”
“Exactly.”
But when he leaves, I catch him adjusting himself. Still affected.
Still thinking about it.
Good.
Because I’m already planning what I’ll do next week.
How else I can make him fall apart.
This competition just got a lot more interesting.
- Writer
