Immaculate Deception

Chapter 3 Episode 3

“You need to leave,” I repeat, trying to reach around his body to find the doorknob. “Time to vacate the premises. You’re all patched up and I need to get home.”

He slides over and pins my hand behind his body. “Is there someone waiting for you at home?”

“My husband,” I lie without hesitation.

Too quickly, he snatches up my left hand and holds it between us. The empty ring finger faces me.

“Give him a call, then,” he chuckles, calling my bluff. “Tell him you’ll be late getting home tonight. You might a little worn out, too.”

I try to stop from trembling too noticeably. “He’s a, uh… police officer. On duty. Out protecting the city from people like you, so he isn’t home right now. But he actually has a tracking device on my phone,” I lie again, even more unconvincingly. “I’m sure he’s already on his way to find out what’s going on since I’m not home yet.”

“Great. Then I’ll keep you company until he gets here. You know… to make sure the guys after me don’t find you instead,” he says.

He taps his fingers against my wrist before brushing slowly down my arm. It feels like he’s flaying me open. Heat radiates through my bones and settles between my legs.

I’m pulsing. Literally, full-on pulsing, like my whole body is one giant, frantic heartbeat.

“I’m serious.” My voice is barely above a whisper. My heart is beating so fast it’s hard to get air to my lungs. “You should go.”

“I probably should. But that’s not what matters.”

He walks towards me, backing me up to the exam table. I’m pinned between the metal edge of the table and him.

His body heat scorches me through my scrubs. His head drops down until his lips are next to my ear. He smells like cedarwood. Gunsmoke. Blood.

“What matters is if you actually believe that I’m walking out of this room without tasting you,” he whispers.

A shiver moves down my spine. Before I can answer, the man grabs my hips and lifts me onto the exam table. Without a second thought, I wrap my legs around his waist.

And just like that, my fate is sealed.

So much for a poker face. I’ve revealed my entire hand.

The man laughs softly and slides his hand under my shirt, the calloused skin of his fingers sliding up my trembling ribs.

My entire body is on fire. The feeling of his warm body between my legs is enough to turn me into an animal.

Suddenly, I don’t care about whether this is right and wrong. I don’t care about the promise I made to myself eighteen months ago. I don’t care who this man is or what will happen afterward.

The only thing I care about is the pure carnal need roaring to life inside of me.

Before rational thought can break through, I grab the man’s head and pull his face to mine. Our bodies meld together—lips, chests, hips.

The table is tall, but so is he. Tall enough that our centers match up perfectly. While I reach down and unzip his fly, he grabs the waistband of my scrubs and yanks them down.

“What am I doing?” I ask out loud as I kick off my pants in a flurry of movement.

The man answers by grabbing the side of my cotton panties and ripping them clean off. Effortlessly powerful. He opens his fist and the flimsy material of my underwear flutters to the floor.

The table beneath me is cold, but I only have a second to think about it before he frees himself from his boxers.

“f**k,” I whisper. He’s huge.

There are so many questions I should be asking him. So many doubts I should be having. Any normal person would hesitate here and reconsider.

But I’m lost in a haze of lust for a man I don’t even know.

His breathing is heavy as he positions himself at my entrance. I don’t wait for him to thrust—I pull myself onto him. Our bodies meet with a smack of connection as I toss my head back and revel in how it feels to be filled.

If I wasn’t dripping wet, taking in so much all at once may have hurt. But as it is, I feel like I could come right now. Right at the first stroke.

The man grips the swell of my hips in his hands tightly, his fingers digging into my flesh, and pounds into me. Again and again.

The exam table is squealing in protest, metal cannisters of treats and cotton swabs vibrating off the table and scattering across the floor from our vigorous pace.

If it feels this good to be broken, I’ll take it and beg for more.

“You’re so big,” I moan, opening my legs wider, giving more of myself to this stranger.

He curses under his breath and then presses a hand to my chest, laying me back on the table. I throw my arms over my head and grip the edges of the table for stability, which I need desperately as soon as the man brushes the pad of his thumb over my center.

I arch my back. The table jumps underneath me. The legs rise off the floor for a moment before crashing back down when this bloodied stranger f***s into me again.

“Harder,” I beg, desperate for the feeling of a hand that isn’t my own. “Touch me. Make me come.”

I squeeze my eyes closed and focus on his body beating against mine, beating inside of me. I focus on the feeling of having someone close, of being connected to someone—even if that “someone” is a gun-toting stranger.

In the end, that is what tips me over the edge.

Not the mindblowing way he fills me or the way he strokes at my center until I scream.

It’s that he’s real. He’s here.

I’m so f*****g lonely that I come harder than I’ve ever come before, simply because he’s a living, breathing man and he’s touching me.

Wave after wave rips through me ruthlessly. I can’t breathe, see, or speak for what feels like an eternity.

And then, as so often happens, shame follows the pleasure.

I finish before he does, my body still warm and limp when he slams into me one last time and shudders. I can feel him unleashing inside of me and the doubts I should have had earlier arise.

He’s a stranger. A stranger who pointed a gun at me. Who locked me in an exam room and—

Well, he didn’t force himself on me. I wanted this.

But that only makes my shame worse.

The man pulls out of me and zips up his jeans. “Kakogo chyorta. That was…”

“A mistake,” I finish, scrambling off the table to grab a roll of paper towels from under the sink to clean up with. My panties are destroyed, so I’ll have to flag down a taxi while rolling commando. Fan-f*****g-tastic.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell Police Officer Husband about this,” he reassures me with dark laughter on the edge of his voice.

Finally dressed, I glare up at him. His face is still hidden. The only illuminated light is positioned just behind his head, casting his hooded figure in silhouette.

Suddenly, I realize he kept his hood on the entire time. I still don’t know what he really looks like.

Maybe that’s for the best.

“God, this is a nightmare,” I mutter.

I wave him away from the door. This time, he lets me pass. When he does, I practically leap into the hallway.

Outside the room, the reality of what I’ve just done sinks in more and more. It’s like coming out of a dream, reclaiming control of your mind and body, being forced to reckon with the decisions you made while you weren’t really you.

Except I was me. The woman who asked a stranger to make her come was me.

“Not up for a round two, then?” the man taunts, calling down the hallway.

I ignore him and duck into the bathroom. Avoiding my reflection—nothing good can come of looking myself in the eye right now—I pee, splash water on my face, and fix my ruined ponytail.

After a few deep breaths, I march out of the bathroom, ready to send the man on his way before I call the cops.

Except, when I walk into the hallway, I can see the back door of the clinic is slightly ajar. The night breeze whispers through the crack.

“A mutiny?” I shake my head and stand up, stretching my spine. “You gotta be kidding me. Are we f*****g pirates?”

“Even pirates aren’t as ugly as you,” my lieutenant Gennady says wryly.

“Watch it,” I warn. “Or I’ll shove a peg leg so far up your ass you’ll get splinters in your tongue.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, chastened. “That’s a little grim, even for you, Dima Romanoff.”

Our smiles sort of linger for a moment before fading away. The truth is that this s**t isn’t funny. Not by a long shot.

I’m the don of the Romanoff Bratva. A mutiny means someone is telling me they want that title for themselves.

And I plan to remedy the situation very f*****g quickly.

“A mutiny,” I say again, mostly to myself. “f*****g hell. I’ll sort this out.”