Page 78 of Gloves Off

I reach for his belt, fumbling. He pushes my hands out of the way, pulls himself out of his boxers, and I gape at the size of his thick cock, jutting out with moisture beading at the tip.

Every quip I made about his age, about his difficulty in thebedroom, skips around my brain, taunting me. Volkov having a cock like that has got to be a joke from the universe.

“Intimidated?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Hardly.”

A low, quiet laugh. A condom appears, he rolls it on, before he hoists my thigh up, slides my panties aside, gaze lingering on my heels for a moment before he nudges inside.

My head falls back, eyes closed, jaw slack as I accommodate the intense thickness. My god, he’s big.

“Okay?” he grits out, and deep in my chest, something twists. He’s not supposed to be checking in on me during a hate fuck.

“Barely feel it,” I gasp, palms flat against the wall. “So tiny. Like a baby carrot.”

I can barely string words together, it feels so good, and he’s not even fully in. He lets out a low, silent laugh like he knows I’m a dirty little liar, his hips thrusting and his cock stretching me until he’s fully seated.

Pleasure spirals around the base of my spine at the deep, intense fullness. Oh god. My pulse pounds in my ears. He pulls out and sinks back in with a hard thrust, and my spine bends at the urgent, delicious heat spreading through me.

He thrusts again, and then again, finding a punishing pace and dissolving my thoughts. The weight of his gaze winds me higher. The pressure inside me grows, doubling, tripling, electric currents running up and down my spine, a desperate ache gathering between my legs.

I stare at his mouth, slanting and taunting me, and desire pounds through me. His eyes burn, pupils blowing wide.

“We said no kissing,” he reminds me in a low voice.

“I know.” I swallow.

His head falls forward, resting his forehead on the wall as he tilts his face into my hair, inhaling deeply. “I’ll make an exception if you ask very nicely.”

“No, thanks.” I try not to moan the words.

“You want to.”

“I don’t.” I do.

“Beg me, Hellfire. Beg me to kiss you and I will.”

I’m so, so tempted, but I’d die before I gave him the satisfaction. “Never. You’re bad at it anyway.”

“Keep telling yourself that,good girl.”

My muscles clench around him. Volkov fucks me harder, like he hates me. Like he’s putting all his frustration into this. His bowtie has come loose, dangling around his neck.

I hate that I’m going to be thinking about this for the rest of my life.

A spark ignites low in my abdomen. Oh god. This is actually working. No—absolutely not. I don’t come during sex. Like he can tell I’m having an existential crisis, my husband fucks me harder, faster, with more urgency.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself, Doctor.”

There’s something about his sarcastic, knowing, high-handed tone that makes tension coil tighter between my legs. I shouldn’t like being spoken to like that, byhim,but I do.

“Go fuck yourself,” I whisper. Not my wittiest insult but I’m struggling to remember my name. I’d rather burst every blood vessel in my brain than give him the satisfaction of a moan, though.

His mouth hooks in a cruel smile like he knows I’m holding back. “It’s okay, you can admit it.”

Hot. So fucking hot. Who knew he had this in him?

I stare at a spot on the other side of the room, unseeing, thinking about the grossest things I’ve seen in my job, scrabbling for control. Anything to distract myself.

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