Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Dr. Hemway will always be the only man who can read me.
“I’ll grab it,” I say, interrupting his request for the receptionist to return to his examination room to gather the brochure on preferred sex positions for endometriosis patients.
“Are you sure?” he checks. “Usually the nurses have to drag you into my examination room kicking and screaming.”
“Because you get too much pleasure torturing your patients with below-freezing duck bills and unheated lube to buy heat-able instruments.” My twenty-seven-year-old head pays more attention to the quickest flash of heat that creeps across his cheeks than my seventeen-year-old head ever would have before I remind him that his colleague is waiting for him. “I’ve also taken up enough of your unpaid time.”
“All right,” he caves. “But if you don’t arrive for your appointment next month, I’ll take a temporary placement at Myasnikov Private. There’s no reason for you to live in pain, Zoya, and if the only way I can prove that to you is through forced intervention, I’ll do that. You’re not just a patient to me. You are family.”
I never thought I’d get hit with the feels during a trip home, but his last two comments smack me in the gut with sentiment.
He waits for me to jerk up my chin before he farewells me with a smile and then joins his colleague at the side of the reception desk.
I’m tempted to leave without the brochure he handed me in the examination room. My wailing libido just refuses to accept another voiceless promise.
It has been issued many false pledges the past two years. Almost every one of them involved sex.
I don’t bother knocking when I reach Dr. Hemway’s examination room. His last patient of the day is the very essence of a man, so there’s no way he’d be in a room devised solely to remind women why we will always be the superior race.
If we can survive missed medical advancements for hundreds of decades, we can survive anything.
My breath catches in my throat when my intuition leads me astray. It isn’t solely the rarity of my misassumption leaving me breathless, but also the brochure the mysterious stranger is perusing. He’s stopped at page thirty-three, and his head is as angled as the modified doggy-style position the cartoon characters have adapted.
Since I skipped the examination every woman loathes when visiting her gynecologist, my mood is playful. “It’s all about modifying the incline of entry,” I murmur, startling him. “Well, that was my take on the position the first time I took it in.”
His angered expression slackens when he realizes who is approaching him unannounced, altering to magnetism. I’ve never met a man with so much natural arrogance. It should suffocate in the examination room’s sterile confines. All it entices is excitement, however.
After a second rake of my body, as lengthy as the first, Andrik asks, “Have you tried it?”
His voice makes the hairs on my arms stand to attention and is so thick I’m convinced he is a born and bred Russian. I don’t hear a hint of another accent.
I’m saved from being baked under the intensity of his watch when his snarled top lip reminds me that he asked a question.
I shake my head, too enamored by my body’s reaction to his voice to formulate a better response. It is like hot chocolate sauce drizzled over a generous helping of whipped cream—too sinfully delicious to warrant only one taste.
Andrik seems pleased about my nonchalant reply of my pitiful sex life, so it is only fair that I rile him. “More because I’m having a hard time moving past page seventeen’s suggested position.”
It takes several abated breaths for him to remove his eyes from mine so he can flick through the extensive brochure at a slow, leisurely pace.
I can tell the exact moment he reaches page seventeen. Not only do his nostrils flare, but so does the crease in his trousers.
After working his jaw from side to side, he returns his eyes to mine. Their sheer authority would usually raise my hackles. Today, they achieve the impossible.
They make me horny.
“I would congratulate your husband… если бы я верил, он дает тебе то, что тебе нужно.” He returns to English when my expression announces that I struggle to decipher Russian. “He isn’t, though, is he?” My heart thuds in my ears when he steps closer. Barely two feet of air is wedged between us, but his slow, prowling steps make it seem much more. “Or you wouldn’t look at me how you are.”
“How am I looking at you?” I know how. I can feel the lust doubling the thickness of my veins, feel it slicking my skin with sweat. I’ve just always believed in playing hard to get.
I’m also not sure he is a man I should mess with.
He’s standing in an office predominantly designed for women, yet oozing enough testosterone to make hormone therapy unnecessary.