Doctored Vows - Chapter 7

Outside departure gate 27, I crash into Zoya so viciously that I wind myself.

Since I exited Maksim’s chauffeur-driven car at the Pobeda gates, I had to hustle through several other airlines’ drop-off points before arriving at Aeroflot’s terminal.

“I am so sorry I’m late. I⁠—”

Zoya shushes me like she also loathes apologies. “You’re here now, and that’s all that matters.” She steals the last of the air in my lungs with a big hug before inching back and twisting us to face the airline worker at the boarding station. “This is who we were waiting for.”

“Wonderful.” I wonder just how late I am when the air hostess gestures for us to walk down the gangway a second after scanning the paper boarding passes Zoya hands her.

“She didn’t weigh my carry-on,” I whisper to Zoya as we walk side by side.

Since we redeemed credit card points for our flight, we’re not entitled to baggage—not even a carry-on. The rule is one personal item per passenger, such as a purse or a handbag. My carry-on is bigger than a gym bag and weighs over the two-pound limit stipulated on my ticket.

“I wasn’t charged for a checked-in bag either.” Zoya swivels around and walks backward before waggling her brows. “I thought it was because the baggage clerk was a breasts man.”

I laugh when she wiggles her rack from side to side. Her DDs are natural and rarely saw us purchasing our own drinks throughout college.

“If only your tatas could pay off student loans.”

She stops shaking her boobs before raking her teeth over her bottom lip.

“Z…” For one letter it drags out of my mouth for an extremely long time. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she denies with a shrug.

I don’t believe a word she speaks. Guilt crosses her features, as apparent as the deceitful flare darting through her impressive eyes.

She huffs at the mothering cock of my brow before announcing, “I got a new job.”

I wait, confident that isn’t the cause of the unease in her tone.

I’m right.

“It is at Le Rouge.”

My eyes bulge as words crack out of my mouth like a whip. “The strip club?”

She shushes me with more than a wave of her hand this time. She clamps it over my mouth.

“Could you say it any louder? The losers in economy missed what you said.”

I can’t answer her since she has my mouth fastened, but the worry blistering through me must speak on my behalf.

“I’ve looked everywhere. No one is hiring.”

When she removes her hand from my mouth with a heavy sigh, I say, “I could ask⁠—”

“No, Nikita. You can’t keep bailing me out.”

“You seem to forget how often you do that for me.”

She loops her arm around my elbow before continuing down the gangway. “I show up and sit with your grandma and grampies for a couple of hours. It’s nothing.”

“Seven hours isn’t a couple.” I air quote my last two words.

She brushes off my comment as if it is nothing. I learn why when she murmurs, “It’s good for my soul. They ground me.”

“Gigi will ground you for life if she finds out you’re working at Le Rouge.”

She tugs on her nonexistent collar before jumping a few steps ahead to hand the air hostess our boarding passes. She isn’t panicked about my threat because she knows as well as I do that I won’t expose her secret to anyone—not even my beloved grandparents.

Other than me, Zoya has no one in her corner.

I hate that even more than realizing her business degree could only secure her a position at an establishment owned by a criminal entity.

“Z…” My voice is as apprehensive now as when she said she works at Le Rogue when she commences walking toward the front of the plane instead of the back.

“I was as surprised as you when I collected our boarding passes,” she replies when we’re directed to lush cubicles with flat-lay beds, large monitors, and nooks filled with various snacks and beverages.

I removed a pair of jeans from the minimal selection of clothes I packed to ensure I had room for my Kindle since our ticket stated no inflight entertainment would be provided during the flight.

“This is me,” Zoya says in the middle of the first-class section of the Boeing 737. “You’re a few spots up.”

After accepting the boarding pass she’s holding out, I move to the suite marked next to my name on my ticket. It feels surreal—even more so when I notice silk pajamas and an amenities kit have been left on my seat.

“Don’t overthink it. Just enjoy,” Zoya says, scaring the living daylights out of me.

Her airline-supplied pajamas tickle my arm when she scoots by me. She would never look a gift horse in the mouth and turn down its unexpected offerings.

We’re so different. I’m shocked we’ve been friends for as long as we have.

Before she disappears behind a wall at the front of the plane, Zoya asks, “Do you think you’ll sleep?”

My screwed-up nose should answer on my behalf, but my thumping head thinks I can be persuaded. “How long is the flight again?”

Zoya twists her lips. “Around six hours.”

I mimic her nonchalant response before answering, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

I give up on my endeavor to sleep five minutes after takeoff. With my hours drastically reduced over the past two weeks, I’ve secured approximately six hours a night. My body refuses more.

After dinner is served, I use the downtime well. I study with the online textbooks I downloaded illegally on my Kindle and ace the quiz on the inflight entertainment system.

I’m a little bored now, though. I don’t usually have time to twiddle my thumbs. This is the first time I’m glad I don’t have a lot of downtime. My life may be chaotic, but it is better than being bland.

I pretend to stretch, but I’m actually peering over at Zoya’s cubicle to see if she’s awake. She passed out before the hot towels were handed out.

When I notice she’s still napping, I twist back to face the front of the plane. I’m about to plop back into my seat, when the quickest flash of a superhero Band-Aid peeking out the bottom of a cuff stops me in my tracks.

It can’t be Maksim, surely. From what my Google search has unearthed, his family usually travels by private jet, so why would he be on a commercial flight? The first-class suites are more luxurious than anything I’ve experienced, but wouldn’t compare to a chartered jet.

Too curious for my own good, I slip out of my cubicle and go to the front of the plane. The bar for business class travelers is as showy and varnished as the cubicles that offer unexpected privacy when traveling long distances. Bottles of expensive liquor line the wall behind the glossed bar, and a handful of travelers fill the stools in front of the oak counter.

The décor is the only thing of value in this section of the plane, though.

Most of the men seated around the bar are drunk and eyeballing me like I’m more appealing than the three-course meal they were served at the commencement of our flight.

“What can I get you?” asks the bartender, foiling my quick getaway.

His question catches me off guard. I was snooping, not looking for a drink, but I reply remarkably fast for someone not adept at thinking on the spot. “Bourbon and Diet Coke, please.”

When he dips his chin, I continue to scan my fellow travelers.

I must have been hallucinating. A man with an aura like Maksim’s would stand out in a crowd, so it should be almost suffocating in the small confines of a plane’s bar.

“There you go.” The bartender places my order between two men with bulky shoulders and seedy mustaches.

“Thank you.”

My breasts squash against one of the man’s shoulders when he fails to budge so I can collect my drink. His breaths quicken like my budded nipples are from his demoralizing gawk instead of the cool conditions, and when he licks his lips with a zealous amount of spit, it is the fight of my life not to barf.

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” the stranger asks with a laugh when I veer for the exit. “The bathroom is in the other direction.” His tone could only be more insinuating if he spoke while removing his wrinkled dick from his pants. “That’s where you want us to meet, isn’t it?”

My eye roll stops halfway when an unexpected pocket of turbulence shakes the plane. Its shudder is so firm the chuckles of the drunk travelers dull to a simmer, and half of my bourbon and coke splatters onto the crisp white shirt of the passenger in Seat 1A.

Not even proof that I’m not going mad will stop me from apologizing to the man with soul-stealing eyes and a dislike of apologies.

“I’m so sorry. Your shirt. It’s… ah…” My reply veers in another direction when I spot a bottle of soda water in the selection of beverages in his travel cubicle.

“Fixable. Soda water will draw that stain right out. It can remove bloodstains, so I’m sure it can handle some bourbon.”

Maksim remains quiet when I pluck him from his seat and veer him toward the bathroom the drunk passenger nudged his head at earlier. The rowdy crowd quietens so ruefully when we walk past them that you’d swear the seat belt sign had been illuminated.

My mouth falls open when we enter the bathroom. It isn’t the standard washroom you find on most commercial planes. It’s three times the length and double the width. The vanity has sample-sized lotions, perfumes, and aftershaves available, and to the far left is a shower.

A shower!

I remember the reason I forced a man into a bathroom with me when Maksim snickers at my parted lips and hued cheeks. He’s clearly accustomed to the finer things in life.

His dislike of my earlier request for some penny-saving tips is a surefire sign of this.

After walking to the vanity, I snag a handful of paper towels from the dispenser. Except they’re not paper towels. They’re rich and luxuriously soft cotton towels that deserve more than one brush before soaking them with soda water.

“This was the first skill I picked up at medical school. I went through socks more than any other clothes my first month.”

Once the cloths are damp enough to compete with the stain on Maksim’s shirt, I spin to face him.

“The big clamps they use to open the chest plate during surgery are super clunky. They’re dropped during almost every operation…” My words fade for a moan when the image that confronts me far exceeds the extravagance of a ten-thousand-dollar airline ticket.

Maksim has removed his button-up shirt, and even though he is wearing an A-shirt like the night we met, since it is white and fitted, it clings to every cut line of his pectoral muscles, stomach, and arms as if he were shirtless.

The visual is enticing. So much so that I almost choke on my swelling tongue.

My eyes shoot up from the bumps in Maksim’s midsection to his face when he says, “What are you going to do now, Doc?” My mind goes instantly to the gutter. I fantasize about the many places I’d love to run my tongue across but realize that isn’t what his question was referencing when he mutters, “There’s nowhere for you to run this time.”

“I wasn’t running last time,” I lie.

His sultry grin sends a pulse straight to my needy pussy. “Really?”

He steps closer until I’m crowded against the vanity, and his lips brush the shell of my ear.

I won’t lie. The briefest contact has me on the edge of combustion.

“You’re a shit liar. It’s almost on par with your ability to issue a heartfelt apology.”

I sense his eyes on me as I stammer out a reply. “My apologies are based on the severity of my crime, so I rarely need to fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness.”

My nostrils flare when he leans in so deep it announces I’m not the only one turned on by our closeness. He’s hard.

“Is that so?”

I can’t speak, so I nod.

He inches back and locks our eyes. I see anger there, but that isn’t all they’re displaying. “What if I believe you should?”

I bounce my eyes between his, which are more hooded now than earlier, before asking, “Should what?”

I melt like a popsicle when he answers, “Get on your knees and beg for forgiveness.”

“You’d first need to tell me what I’m meant to be apologizing for.”

The smoothness of my reply would have you convinced I’m not seconds from falling to my knees as requested. They’re already buckled. It is just the placement of Maksim’s thigh between my legs that has stopped me from toppling.

My pulse beats in my ears when he spins me to face the mirror stretched across one wall. “Why don’t you tell me, Doc?”

“I have nothing to… tell.” The gap in my reply is compliments to one of Maksim’s hands gripping my throat while the other moves to the waistband of my stretchy black pants.

If his hold is meant to be threatening, he needs to try another tactic.

I only see it as erotic. My pants are thin enough for him to feel the heat of my pussy, and his aggressive hold on my neck has wetness pooling between my legs at a rate I’m certain will dampen his fingers in mere seconds.

I’m not the only one recognizing the sudden cause of my red cheeks and dilated eyes.

After flaring his nostrils like his nose is an inch from my pussy, Maksim loosens his grip on my throat, opens my pants with a flick of his wrist, and then slips his hand inside the cotton panties I’m now wishing were lacy and scant.

An unladylike moan rips from my throat when he braces two girthy fingers against the opening of my recently waxed pussy.

They’re not deep enough to break the seal no one has pierced for over three years but intrusive enough to announce how wet he’s made me.

“Fuck, Doc. You’re saturated.”

As he locks eyes with me in the mirror, he glides one finger between the folds of my pussy, opening and preparing me, before he slowly pushes it inside me.

His growl slicks his hand with wetness. “I knew you’d be tight. How long has it been?”

“A while,” I gasp out as the spasms of my clit extend to my thighs.

“How. Long?”

I whimper when his thumb circles my clit, before answering, “Th-three years. Coming up three years.”

With a pleasing moan, he increases the speed and length of his pumps. He finger fucks me for several long minutes, and the friction is delicious.

It takes everything I have not to come on the spot. I’m only holding back because an unexpected pocket of turbulence reminds me of the unusual location where I decided to re-find my libido.

If we were anywhere but in a washroom at thirty thousand feet in the air, I would have crumbled by now.

When Maksim adds a second finger into the mix and curls the tips to milk my G-spot in rhythm to the frantic throbs of my clit, the furious pulse raging through my body almost has me missing what he breathes into my neck.

“Do you have any fucking clue how many times I’ve imagined seeing you exactly like this the past two weeks?”

Wetness slicks between my legs when he rocks his hips forward, grinding his thick cock against my ass. “Every. Fucking. Day. Your face forced me to seek release with my hand every day for two weeks straight.”

His punctured words exhibit anger, but since they’re also delivered with precise swivels of his thumb on my clit, I push them to the back of my mind. I can’t talk. Think. I can’t do anything but surrender to the madness engulfing me.

I’m losing control. Consumed.

I am mere seconds from climax.

“Please…”

I feel too good to be embarrassed that I’m begging.

I’m feeling nothing but pleasure.

“Oh god, Maksim, I’m going to come.”

“No.”

I freeze as the fantasy surrounding me crashes back to reality.

“No?” I ask, certain I heard him wrong.

I didn’t.

“Not yet. I want to be inside you when you come.” He removes his hand from inside my panties and cleans his fingers with his tongue before he yanks my pants and modest cotton underwear to my knees.

I’m naked from the waist down, so I should feel exposed, but when he pops open the button on his pricy trousers and frees his fat cock, I can’t conjure up spit, let alone an emotion no woman could ever experience when being eyed with so much zeal.

While returning my needy stare, Maksim grips the base of his lengthy cock before giving it a teasing stroke. “This is what you wanted when you walked in on me in the shower, isn’t it, Doc?”

Strands of dark hair cling to my sweaty neck when I shake my head. “I… I…”

Talking is still above me. Watching him stroke his cock is better than I could have possibly imagined. It beads the crown with pre-cum and pushes my moans from husky mewls to wheezy screams.

After using the pre-cum pooled at the end of his gloriously long cock to wet the girthy head, Maksim says with a smirk, “You’re still a shit liar, Doc. You’ve imagined this as often as I’ve pictured you on your knees, sucking my cock.”

Now is not the time to be professional. I’m naked from the waist down in a washroom, for crying out loud, but I can’t help but bite back when riled about disregarding an oath I pledged many years ago.

“I thought you were a patient in need of assistance.” My dainty laugh echoes around the washroom. “I thought you were your mother.”

Bringing up his mother during sexual escapades probably wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, but I could have never fathomed Maksim’s response. Instead of responding with the self-assuredness he oozes by the bucketload, his cock softens as the angry glint his eyes had earlier returns more potent than ever.

“That’s right. You were there to help my mother.” He licks his lips like they’re as dry as my throat, his nostrils flaring when he tastes me on his mouth.

Don’t ask if it is a good or bad flare, as I couldn’t tell you.

“The woman who birthed me. The woman who raised me. The same woman whose admission was never documented on any official paperwork. My mother was as fit as an ox before she arrived at your hospital.”

He steps back before tugging up his pants with the same aggression he used to remove mine.

“I can’t believe I forgot that’s what started all of this.” When he gestures his hand between us, he doesn’t look at me like he did only moments ago. I would say he hates me, but since he’s looking past me, not at me, I’m going to assume some of the fury is directed at himself.

“I’ve often been told I put my cock before anyone.” His eyes are back on me, hot and angry.

“Never believed it until now.”

Disappointment flashes through his eyes for the quickest second before he exits the washroom without glancing back my way.