Doctored Vows - Chapter 10

My hands itch to pull up the covers, to stay asleep for a few minutes more, but my grumbling stomach refuses to accept no as an answer.

It is starving, and so am I.

Its rumbles are understandable. My unexpected run-in with Maksim and his mother kept my mind occupied, so I haven’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday.

Although I have an extra twenty dollars I didn’t anticipate having after check-in, it could be used on something better than the food we could get for free at breakfast.

After a leisurely stretch, I sling my eyes to my cell to calculate how long I slept. My eyes bulge when I notice it is almost eleven.

It isn’t a record, but I set my alarm for ten, so why am I two minutes away from missing breakfast?

“Z!” I shriek while diving out of the bed and racing into the living room. “We’re about to miss breakfast!”

“Huh? What?” She rubs her eyes before flopping her head back onto the pillow and covering her ears with its overhang. “Why are you yelling? It’s too early to yell.”

“Breakfast! We forgot breakfast.”

With the alertness of the alarm that didn’t go off, she jackknifes into a half-seated position before gulping. “Breakfast?”

“Yes. We have two minutes.” I check my watch, grimacing when I notice how close the hour hand is to the twelve. “If that.”

I throw her the denim shorts discarded haphazardly on the floor before hightailing it to the door. “I’ll meet you down there. Hopefully I can stall them.”

“Okay,” she shouts through the rapidly closing door of our suite.

I jab the elevator button multiple times. If we weren’t on the top floor of the hotel, I’d be tempted to take the stairs, but the rapid climb of the elevator closest to me saves me from an early-morning cardio session.

“Yes,” I praise when it arrives in a record-breaking three seconds.

I slip inside before selecting the button for the foyer.

The doors are almost closed when a hand darts between them, forcing them back open.

“No…”

I realize I articulated my gripe out loud when Maksim’s handsome features harden a second before he steps into the almost-empty elevator.

“Sor—”

A low rumble in his throat cuts me off.

When he spins to push the close-door button, my eyes drop to the spectacular curves of his lower back.

His suit jacket is impeccably tailored and made from a thick woolen material most Russians are accustomed to, but it does little to hide the ridges and planes I pictured while bringing myself to climax.

Heated eyes steal my focus. Maksim is watching me in the brushed steel material of the elevator dashboard. He appears unappreciative of my prolonged gawk of his ass, so I try to think of something respectable to say.

When my comb through the limited supply of excuses in my head fails to yield anything decent, I shift my search to a part of my brain that rarely gets used—the personal side.

“Late brunch?” I ask when I notice he selected level two. That is where the restaurants and spa are located.

I don’t know why I’m making small talk. He is displaying clear signs that he’s disinterested in a conversation.

I’m just struggling with guilt that I used his face to bring myself to climax. I either pretend he is my friend or blurt out a confession I don’t want even my best friend to know.

She’d never let me live down the fact I climaxed over a man who rejected me.

I don’t even know if I’ll get over it.

It feels like Earth circles the sun a million times before Maksim finally replies, “Hoping to still catch breakfast.”

“Same. I could have sworn I set my alarm, but this week has been such a clusterf…”—when his eyes connect with mine in the steel dashboard, and he glares at me with the same intensity as when I tried to apologize, I switch out my cuss word for one that’s more appropriate, like I am speaking with my grandmother—“fudge, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

His smirk is barely visible, but I act like I got a standing ovation from the audience at a comedy club.

My insides gleam as brightly as my cheeks when my deviant head stores his facial quirks for future self-pleasuring expeditions.

I squirm like I’m busting to use the restroom, and the undeniable aroma of lust fills the elevator, which is awkward when we’re joined by a couple on the thirty-third floor.

“Morning,” I mumble before moving to the back of the elevator, fighting not to apologize for the atrocious conditions I forced them into.

When the elevator finally arrives on level two, Maksim gestures for the couple and me to exit before him. He could be being cordial because we’re not alone, but it makes my heart beat a little faster.

Maksim’s brow arches when I fail to follow the couple out.

“I’m going to the buffet,” I announce, struggling not to gleam like a pig about to eat out of a trough. That’s usually how I describe Zoya’s and my eating habits when treated to an endless stream of food.

Maksim’s crimped lips are more noticeable this time around. “The buffet is on the second floor.”

“Oh.” When I step out of the elevator, the undeniable scent of bacon, eggs, and sausages can’t be missed—and neither can the concerned face of my best friend.

How did she beat me? We only stopped to collect one set of passengers.

“They’re not letting us in,” Zoya announces, heading my way. “They said the cutoff is eleven, and there are no exceptions for anyone.” Her disappointed huff ruffles my unbrushed hair. “I think I have some mints in my bag.”

I butt shoulders with her before joining her watch of the dismantling of the food we were hoping to consume. “It’s okay. I have that twenty dollars I had planned to use for an upgrade. We could grab a day’s worth of supplies with that.”

It dawns on me that our penny-counting ways are being witnessed by the last person I want to subject them to when Maksim’s demanding tone prickles the hairs on my nape. “Wait here.”

Zoya eyeballs me as if my reaction to Maksim approaching the restaurant hostess will be more entertaining than their exchange.

She isn’t far off the mark. I’m more jealous than pleased when Maksim’s presence switches the hostess’s personality from bitchy to bubbly in under a second.

She practically fawns over him, her gloating only ending when she tilts out of his shadow and signals for us to enter the restaurant behind Maksim and her.

“Don’t be jelly,” Zoya teases as we enter a space that could seat hundreds. “Even if the buffet weren’t included in his room package, I’d let him in too. He’s hot!”

“Shut up,” Zoya demands when her waddle out of the restaurant has her midsection swaying like she’s in the last month of pregnancy. “I had to sneak in extra because you forgot to bring your coat to breakfast.”

We’re high-end grifters. We don’t steal buffet food by walking it out in our hands. We hide it in our clothes. I just can’t today because my sleepwear leaves little to the imagination.

I can’t even hide a banana.

Well, I could, but that could gain me even more questioning looks than I got throughout breakfast.

The flirty hostess left shortly after seating us, but the staff required to replace the supplies they began dismantling when the clock struck eleven didn’t conceal their surprise.

You’d swear they’ve never worked a minute of overtime.

I’m reminded why my maturity has dropped into an abyss the past twenty-four hours when Zoya says, “I’ve heard Greek yogurt is good for thrush, but I thought you were meant to eat it, not have it dribble down your thighs.”

She often tells me doctors mature backward since they endure twelve years of nonstop studying and exams. I’m not meant to hit the teenage rebellion I missed out on during high school for another two years.

When Zoya grimaces, I inch back and lower my eyes to the back of her coat. “Are you leaking?”

I stop checking for any slip hazards she may have left for unsuspecting hotel guests when she replies, “Not any worse than you.”

She nudges her head to the cleanup crew once again dismantling the buffet. “They’re not mopping up apple juice.”

Since I know her better than I know myself, I rib her with my elbow. It silences her for barely a second.

“I get it. He’s hot, and his leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes only make me want to gawk at him more. But when he scowls…”—a moan vibrates her lips—“even my panties get sticky.”

I almost laugh until I remember it will encourage more nosy-Nancying. “You need to stop bringing your panties into every conversation we have.”

Shockingly, my voice is professional, without the quiver of the giggles in my chest.

Zoya appears disgusted. “Why? I have a best friend for a reason.”

When we reach the elevators, the closest one is open but packed with hotel guests.

Zoya wiggles her brows when one of the male riders exits so the “heavily pregnant lady” can take his spot. “I’ll meet you up there.”

I nod, and once the elevator carting her away reaches the third floor, I push the button to call another.

It arrives in under ten seconds.

“Ladies first,” croons the unnamed man who gave up his spot for a fraudster.

I’ll give credit where credit is due. He has charm by the mile and a face that matches his gentlemanly ways.

He could be quite the catch. I just don’t see his charm rubbing off on me. He seems a little too nice, and I learned fast during medical school that a saintly title rarely equates to its owner being an upstanding member of society.

After cursing my inability to let bygones be bygones, I enter the elevator first, as offered, before praising the stranger for his thoughtfulness. If I can forgive Maksim for leaving me hanging, I can forgive Dr. Schloss for not calling after a “thorough medical examination” of my vagina.

“Thank you. That is very chivalrous of you.”

Shockingly, the hairs on my arm stand to attention when he shadows me into the elevator.

I realize the error of my ways when a stern demand quickly follows the elevator car’s brief dip. “You can get the next one.”

When my eyes shoot to the unnamed man, who is still stationed outside the elevator, he tries to fire off an objection, but Maksim’s warning glare proves why the good guys need to scheme their way into a woman’s panties.

They can’t compete against men who unequivocally don’t care about the consequences of their actions.

It is how my father won over my mother.

He always said it is safer to side with a wolf than a wolf in sheep’s clothing because you know what you’re getting with a man who doesn’t hide his intentions.

I stop recalling the number of wolves in sheep’s clothing working in the medical field when Maksim says, “Your friend dropped this.”

A smile creeps onto my face when his twist exposes a banana, but since I don’t want to look more pathetic than I already do, I ask, “Are you sure it was hers? Maybe it was one of the many other patrons at the buffet with us.”

“I’m sure,” he answers, following my ruse that the buffet wasn’t solely re-opened for us. “It fell out of her coat halfway to the elevators.”

“Oh…” I snatch the banana out of his hand. “Then that would be my lunch.”

He either misses the humor in my tone or loathes budget-conscious people.

I’d say it is a bit of both.

When I issue him my thanks in a more respectable manner, with a smile, he dips his chin before he turns back to face the elevator dashboard.

We climb eleven floors before I break the silence this time around. “Are you here on business?”

I hear him swallow before he answers, “You could say that.”

“Will you be here long?”

Thud, thud, thud. That is the only noise I hear while waiting for him to reply.

For how long he delays in answering, I expect more than a one-word response. “Depends.”

I wait, hopeful for more.

I get a smidge, but nowhere near as much as I want.

“Some contracts barely last a minute. Others can stretch into weeks.”

“What are you hoping for? Minutes, days, or weeks?”

His tone is clipped when he answers, “What I want doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. Your wants are as important as anyone else’s, Maksim.” My voice comes out huskier than intended. It can’t be helped. The temperature in the elevator is roasting, and it has me conjuring up the many ways we could achieve the same sweat-slicked skin scent outside of this tin box.

It takes him half a lifetime to answer. “Do you know what I want?” He isn’t looking at me but must spot my nod because he continues rather quickly. “I want to know why I think I’d know if you were lying when I don’t even know you. I want to know why you won’t leave my fucking head after everything you did.”

Everything I did? What did I do?

Before I can articulate my questions to the person capable of answering them, Maksim crowds me against the wall and sneers through clenched teeth, “But more than anything, I want to know what hand you used.”

His anger worries me, but since I’d need more than eight hours of sleep to give it any justice, I veer for the nonviolent checkbox on his wish list. “Hand I used for what?”

When his eyes lift from my chest to my face, my breath catches. He’s angry, but his fury isn’t directed at me. He seems furious at himself, so you can picture my shock when his response is nothing like I am anticipating.

“Which hand you used to climax while pretending it was my head buried between your legs.”

My eyes widen as my throat dries.

The situation between my legs is on the opposite end of the humidity scale, but I won’t let him know that.

The only time a wolf isn’t dangerous is when it is standing across from one.

“I did no such thing.”

“You’re a shit liar, Doc.” My heart races when he snatches up my left hand. He removes the banana I’m clutching for dear life with so much force it turns to mash.

“You’re ambidextrous. You use your right hand as often as your left, so I kept jumping between the two when I pretended it was your hand stroking my cock last night.”

My thighs shake when he unballs my hand and drags his nose down my sweaty palm.

His growl sets my skin on fire, but instead of taking a second whiff as my wicked head is hoping, he drops my hand back to my side before gathering up my right.

I don’t object when he follows the same routine as earlier. I’m too mesmerized by the lusty glint in his eyes to do anything. I don’t even pay attention to the elevator arriving at our floor.

Maksim looks as hungry as I felt before I gorged my weight in greasy breakfast food, but the only item on his menu is me.

I like that more than I should admit.

“You used your right hand,” he murmurs a second after sniffing the palm of my right hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything last night.”

I choke on my last word when he tugs me forward so fast that I crash into his chest. Then I moan his name like I did last night when he slides my hand down the front of his pants. He’s hard, veiny, and the tip of his cut penis is weeping with pre-cum.

The silky droplets coat my palm in no time.

The same can be said for my panties.

I’m drenched, but before I can ashamedly beg for Maksim to finish what he started last night, he pulls my hand out of his pants and says, “Now I’ll be able to hear and smell you next time,” then exits the elevator like his head isn’t spinning as ruefully as mine.