TO BE F*CKED BY MY RIVAL ATTENDING (2)
1422 Words
NIKOLAI.
His office is obscene.
Corner suite, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Moscow’s lights, furniture that costs more than most people’s cars.
Very Mozorov.
The door closes and we’re standing there, staring at each other like two wolves circling.
“So,” he says. “Are we doing this or are you going to keep staring at me like a starving peasant at a feast?”
“Starving peasant? That’s the best you’ve got?” I move closer. “I’m trying to figure out if you actually want this or if this is just another way for you trying to prove you’re better than me.”
“I am better than you. This is just—recreation.”
“Recreation. Right. That’s why you’ve been eye-f*****g me for months.”
“I have not been—” He stops. Recalibrates. “I’ve been observing the competition. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because the way you watch me in the OR isn’t how someone observes competition. It’s how someone watches something they want.”
His jaw tightens. “Your ego is showing, Volkov.”
“So is yours. At least I’m honest about what I want.”
“And what do you want?”
“To f**k you until that smug expression disappears. To see if the great Alexei Morozov is as controlled in bed as he is everywhere else.”
“Then you’ll be disappointed. I don’t lose control.” He steps closer. “And I don’t bottom.”
“You’ve mentioned that. Several times. Almost like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“I’m establishing boundaries.”
“Boundaries. Right.” I grab his scrub top and pull him into a kiss.
He responds immediately—aggressive, demanding, trying to dominate. His hand fists in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting.
I bite his lip in retaliation.
He pulls back. “Did you just bite me?”
“You pulled my hair.”
“You kissed me without asking.”
“You wanted me to.”
“Presumptuous.”
“Accurate.”
We stare at each other, both breathing hard.
“You kiss like you’re trying to win a fight,” he says.
“You kiss like you’re trying to maintain control of a hostile takeover.”
“Maybe I am.”
“It won’t work. I don’t submit easily.”
“Neither do I.” His eyes gleam. “This should be interesting.”
He pulls off his scrub top in one smooth motion. “Are we doing this or are you going to keep talking?”
I look at him—lean muscle, pale skin, the kind of body that speaks of personal trainers and expensive gyms.
“Trying to intimidate me with your genetics?” I ask.
“Do you feel intimidated?”
“Not even slightly.” I pull off my own top. “Though I should warn you—I’m not going to be gentle.”
“Good. I didn’t ask you to be.” His eyes travel over my chest, and I see the moment his breathing changes. “You’re bigger than I expected.”
“That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
His hand goes to my waistband, hesitates.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Never touched another man’s c**k before?”
“f**k you.”
“You keep saying that.”
But his hand is moving now, undoing my drawstring, sliding inside. When he wraps his fingers around me, we both inhale sharply.
“Happy?” he asks.
“Getting there. Now move your hand.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Someone has to. You’re just standing there like you’re waiting for instructions.”
“I’m figuring out what works.” He strokes me once, experimental.
“That works. Keep doing that.”
“Bossy.”
“You love it.”
I undo his drawstring and slide my hand inside. He’s hard and hot and leaking, and when I wrap my fingers around him, he makes this sound—half gasp, half moan.
“What was that about me being presumptuous?” I ask.
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
His free hand goes to my throat—not squeezing, just holding. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that. See? You’re getting the hang of this.”
“I hate you.”
“I know. It’s mutual.”
We work each other, and then he says: “This is insane.”
“Completely.”
“We’re competing for the same position.”
“I know.”
“This could destroy both our careers if anyone finds out.”
“Probably.”
“And you’re still—” He groans when I twist my wrist. “—still doing this?”
“Are you asking me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then shut up and enjoy it.”
His hand tightens around me. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you’re compensating for something. All this bravado. It’s armor.”
“And yours isn’t?”
“Mine is justified. I actually am superior.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
His hand tightens and I grunt.
“Hit a nerve?” he asks.
“You’re going to make me come if you keep doing that.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not if you want this to be over quickly.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I want to prove I can make you lose control first.”
“Everything’s a competition with you.”
“Everything’s a competition between us.”
He’s right. And I hate that he’s right.
I increase my pace and he gasps, hips jerking forward.
“Who’s losing control now?” I ask.
“Not—losing—anything—”
“Liar. You’re about to come all over my hand.”
“So are you.”
I slide my other hand lower, fingers pressing behind his balls, and he practically sobs.
“What—what are you—”
“Prostate. External stimulation. Thought you’d know that, being a neurosurgeon and all.”
“I know—what it is—f**k—”
“There it is. The great Alexei Morozov, finally speechless.”
“I’m going to—Nikolai—”
“Do it. Come for me.”
He does, spilling over my hand with a choked-off groan, and the sight of him—flushed, desperate, completely undone—sends me over the edge too.
We stand there for a moment, both breathing hard.
Then reality crashes back.
He steps away first, grabbing tissues. “Well. That was satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory?”
“Expectations were met.”
“You’re really going to critique this like it’s a surgery?”
“What else would I critique it like?”
I laugh despite myself. “You’re insane.”
“Says the man who just jerked me off in my own office.”
“You jerked me off too. Let’s not pretend you were a passive participant.”
“I’m never passive.”
“I noticed.”
We clean up in silence.
“So,” he says finally. “Same time next week?”
I look at him, surprised. “You want to do this again?”
“Why not? It was satisfactory. And we’re both clearly under stress. This seems efficient.”
“Efficient. How romantic.”
“I told you, I’m not looking for romance.”
“Neither am I.”
“Good. Then we understand each other.”
“Do we?” I head for the door. “For the record? I’m gay. Always have been. Everyone knows. So if you’re using me to figure out your sexuality, just know I’m not keeping secrets about mine.”
“I’m not using you.”
“Sure you’re not.” I pause at the door. “And Alexei? Next time, try relaxing. You might actually enjoy yourself.”
“I enjoyed myself fine.”
“Did you? Because you seemed pretty tense for someone who was allegedly enjoying himself.”
“Maybe that’s just how I am.”
“Or maybe you’re afraid if you let go completely, you’ll lose control.”
I leave before he can respond.
This is dangerous. Playing with fire. Competing for the same position while f*****g on the side.
But god, watching him unravel is going to be worth it.
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