Doctored Vows - Chapter 9

The creak of a door slowly closing breaks into the living room of the monstrous suite I’ve been milling in for the past hour.

Zoya cringes about the noise similar to someone dragging their nails down a chalkboard before tiptoeing across the room. “That came many years later than expected, but followed a similar path to what I had envisioned.”

She spent the last hour convincing her sister and her tipsy bridesmaids that 4 a.m. isn’t the best time to go clubbing. That is usually when the good half of society returns from the club scene.

After filling a whiskey glass with a generous serving of vodka, Zoya spins to face me. “Are you sure you’re okay with them staying here with us?”

“I’m sure,” I reply, still unconvinced this is our room.

You can’t really call our hotel room a room. It is more of an apartment with a kitchen, two bedrooms, a grand piano, and an endless supply of liquor.

“Are you sure you didn’t mix up our keycards with Aleena’s? A destination bachelorette party screams old money, and only someone spending their daddy’s money could afford this room.”

Zoya rolls her eyes at the unease in my tone. “I’m reasonably sure Aleena’s room is on the floor she entered the elevator, but it’s hard to get anything out of her when she’s a blubbering idiot.”

There’s no malice in her tone. She is simply trying to act like she’s not delighted by her sister’s excitement that she arrived at her bachelorette party without an official invitation.

“I told you you had nothing to worry about.” After removing the glass from her hand, I wrap her up in a warm hug. “I’m sure she understands why you left.” When her exhale beads condensation on my neck, I add, “And if she doesn’t, I’m not opposed to convincing her otherwise.”

That gets a smile out of her. “I love you, Kita.”

“I love you too… enough I’m willing to share a bed with you.”

She wiggles out of my hold when I drag her toward the untouched bedroom on our right. “The last time we shared a bed, you humped my leg.”

“That was you!”

She pffts me. “Whoever it was, girl-on-girl action isn’t on the agenda this weekend.” She moseys to her bag and removes a small package. “And to make sure it stays off, I bought this for you.”

When she tosses me the box, I catch it. “What is it?”

Not looking at me, she replies, “Sleeping pills.”

I cock a brow before rattling the box. “It doesn’t sound like sleeping pills.”

When she gestures for me to open my unexpected gift, I rip it open like I’ve never received a present. My cheeks turn the color of beets when my sluggish head clues in to what the small silicone device is.

“You bought me a sex toy?” I don’t give her the chance to reply. “How the hell is this supposed to help me sleep?”

Zoya stares at me like I have a second head. “You use it to orgasm yourself into the sexual coma the limp dick on the plane should have placed you in.” With shock keeping me quiet, she moseys my way, her hips swinging, her smile bright. “When was the last time you got a solid eight hours?”

I attempt to lie.

I don’t know why. Zoya sees it from a mile out and squashes it like a bug.

“In that little cabin at Kolomna. Demyan had a peanut for a cock, but made up for what it lacked with a magic tongue and gifted fingers.” She secures the trickle of desire the memory caused by adding, “I heard your screams from the lake, but I had to wait to tease you about it since you were passed out for eight… whole… hours.” She says her final three words as dramatically as you’re imagining.

“I was zonked from the alcohol we drank.”

She gives me her best don’t-fuck-with-me look. “You never drank when we went out. You didn’t want to face the repercussions of underage drinking with your father, and none of the boys we hung out with were stupid enough to give you alcohol. Not if they wanted to live.” She freezes before she cusses under her breath. “I’m an asshole who doesn’t dese⁠—”

I don’t want to fight, especially since everything she said is gospel, so I interrupt her. “You’re right. I did wonder what his response would have been, which is exactly why I didn’t drink.” I jingle the package in my hand. “But I still don’t see this helping.”

Zoya shrugs. “You won’t know unless you try.” She pulls her ‘luggage’ off the sofa she dumped it on before pulling out the made-up bed beneath. “Look at that, a fancy-schmancy bed solely for me.”

“Remember those words when you’re whining about a sore back in the morning.”

She shoos off my warning with a wave of her hand like a bad back isn’t a regular grumble of hers. Zoya is only twenty-eight, but she has the joints of an eighty-year-old.

“Are you sure you don’t want to share a bed with me?” I raise the package in my hand. “I could test this out in the bathroom. It seems to be my venue of choice of late.”

Zoya looks tempted to nibble on the bait I just threw out but thinks better of it when she spots the dark circles plaguing my eyes. “I’m sure. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Since she seems just as eager for some alone time, I tell her I love her before entering the main bedroom of our suite.

It is as opulent as the rest of the hotel. The king-size bed looks tiny in front of a wall that hides his-and-her walk-in closets. The bathroom is bigger than my entire apartment, and there is a jetted tub next to a double-headed shower.

“You should see the size of the bathroom, Z. It is massive.” I assume I miss Zoya’s reply because my voice is echoing in the bathroom, but I am proven wrong when my return to the living room unearths an empty space. The sheets on the foldout bed aren’t even ruffled. It appears Zoya left the instant I was out of eyesight.

“Maybe she wanted to give you some privacy,” I murmur to myself.

I love Zoya, but I’d rather dig a pen in my ear than hear her in ecstasy.

Perhaps she feels the same.

After showering and setting my alarm clock, I climb into a bed that is as soft as a cloud. It should take me no time to fall asleep. It is almost dawn, I’m mentally exhausted, and my body is acting like I underwent eight grueling rounds with World Champion Jacob Walters. Still, no amount of pleading sees me falling asleep.

I do the trick my sleep therapist suggested when my mother took me to her for advice during my senior year of high school. I pretend each limb in my body is weighed down and heavy from my toes to my neck, but the instant I reach my face, a thought pops into my head, and my muscles loosen up.

Zoya’s gift catches my attention when I roll onto my side to rest on the cool half of my pillow. It isn’t close to heatwave temperature here, but it is far nicer than the weather we’ve been experiencing in Myasnikov.

Zoya wasn’t lying when she said that night ten years ago was the last time I slept solid. I haven’t had over six hours in a decade.

Although I’m skeptical about her theory, with how weighed down my limbs have been since Maksim left the washroom, I test it by sliding my hand beneath the panties and silky pajama shorts combination I’m wearing under a loose T-shirt.

Shockingly, my clit is still firm and buzzing with excitement.

I swallow the thick knot of anxiety lodged in my throat before brushing my fingertip over the nervy bud. Excitement bubbles through me when the briefest touch elicits a ton of friction. It reminds me of the waves that rolled through my stomach when Maksim touched me for the first time, and how euphoric it felt when he slipped his finger inside me.

Within seconds, my fingertips dampen, and a faint lust-inspiring scent streams through my nostrils.

Pleasure skitters through me when I roll the tips of my index and middle fingers over my clit. I stimulate it until there’s no doubt of my aroused state, and my limbs sink deeper into the mattress.

My shoulder blades almost join when I switch my fingers for my thumb. I swivel my clit like Maksim did while fucking me with his fingers before lowering my fingertips to the wet crevice between my legs.

“Please,” I plead when a sensation I’ve never experienced when attempting to self-pleasure commences forming. It isn’t as blistering as it was when Maksim brought me to the brink of climax, but its intensity can’t be denied.

I’ve tried to get myself off many times in the past decade. This is the closest I’ve come to experiencing anything near enjoyable.

I groan when tingles race across my pussy before I lift my hips, seeking firmer contact. I pretend that the thumb toying with my clit doesn’t belong to me. That it is a part of someone far more appealing—someone far more dangerous.

“Yes…”

The knuckles on my hand not driving me to the brink turn white as my grip on the bedding firms.

I’m so close to the edge that I may break a record. It usually takes a lot to make me come, but I’ve not even been stimulating myself for two minutes, and I’m on the verge of combusting.

I don’t deserve all the accolades. I’m not even sure I should receive a mention. Nothing happening to my body right now is because of anything I’m doing.

Maksim deserves all the praise.

I remember his words and how good it felt to have his hands on me.

I think back to how he growled when he felt how wet I was for him.

Fuck, Doc. You’re saturated.

As similar stars form now as they did then, I finger fuck myself faster. I plunge them in and out of my pussy over and over again while I use the heel of my hand to incite my clit.

Waves of pleasure roll through me, making me pant and my thighs shake, but I don’t fully surrender to the bliss I’m seeking.

“Please.”

When I curl the tips of my fingers like Maksim did, I almost vault off the bed.

There’s the extra pressure I need—the fuel I’m seeking to get this fire fully lit.

“Oh…”

I whimper desperately when the fingers inside my pussy and my thumb on the outside massage my clit simultaneously. The friction is addictive, but it isn’t the sole cause of the sheets growing sticky. It is recalling that Maksim replaced the shirt I stole but didn’t remove my scent from his skin.

He still smelled like me, and the memory has my knees pulling together and stars blistering behind my tightly snapped-shut eyes.

As my thighs tremble, I picture him using the feminine scent I left on his hand to stimulate himself. Is he stroking his cock with the same hand? Moaning my name as I am his? Is my face once again the sole motivator of his release?

You wouldn’t think I knew the word “rejection” with how tightly coiled my body is. It felt how mouthwateringly thick and long his cock was when he pushed me up against the vanity of the washroom and then when he pulled it out and the lighting above caught the glistening droplet on the end.

“Ohhh…”

Desire burns through me when I pretend it is Maksim’s head between my legs, lapping up my arousal, instead of the silky bottoms of my pajamas.

I imagine him peering up at me occasionally because he doesn’t want to miss witnessing my face in ecstasy, but his desire to taste me returns his mouth to my pussy often. He fucks me with his mouth. Punishes me with his tongue. Then he…

“Oh… oh… oh…”

I slam my hand over my mouth to lessen my moans as shockwaves dart through me. My orgasm is long and draining. It steals the last of my energy and reminds my limbs of the blissful heaviness they were denied earlier until I fall into a peaceful slumber.