Desperate Desires (Mergers & Acquisitions #3)

Chapter 4-y

I paced up and down the hallway, unable to rest, knowing the enormous stranger was conked out in my bed after I’d performed emergency surgery on him right on my fucking floor.

Shit.

Damn.

I clutched a hand over my heart and tried to slow the erratic pounding of said organ, but it was no good.

Neither was trying to lie to myself that his being a stranger was why I was so worked up.

Besides, I recognized him vaguely.

He was one of Sammy’s or Junior’s friends. I just couldn’t remember being introduced, and I knew I would have remembered him if not for his unusual name alone.

Ono.

What the hell kind of name was that?

He’d been shot. That I knew.

But by who?

And why?

And were they looking for him now?

My chest felt tight, and I could hardly breathe. All my previous aches and pains from the virus I thought I had fled under my present duress.

I was panicking. But that was to be expected.

Anyway, I was sure I’d seen him before at one of the countless parties or bars I’d attended with the Volkov Clan.

The men in that family were all big and handsome, with a stupid amount of muscles and tattooed skin.

And so were their friends.

It was grossly unprofessional to think about him like that, considering he was my patient. However unorthodox this whole thing was, I’d operated on him, so that was what he was.

My patient.

I’d no choice but to take off his clothes so I could assess his wound, making sure the one to his shoulder was the only life-threatening one.

At the time, he’d lost so much blood, I was really worried.

Luckily, all three bullets were easy enough to fix. Two were through-and-throughs and the third bullet had been whole when I extracted it. All were clean shots that hit nothing vital.

Tough Guy was lucky.

Now that the worst was over, I just had to wait for him to wake on his own. The first few hours, he’d developed a fever, but that was to be expected.

Now that his fever was gone, I was sure he was healing. He should have no complications, and that meant it was the right time for a mini breakdown.

I mean, I had every right to freak out. A man had broken into my home with gunshot wounds, for fuck’s sake.

Dammit. What do I do now?

I thought about calling Micky, but I didn’t want to upset or worry her. I could call one of the other girls, or maybe even their dads.

But something stopped me.

Ono hadn’t threatened me or anything. But he said no cops. My heart was beating steadily, the rhythm grounding me as I mulled this over.

Ono said trust me . And for some fucked up reason, I did.

He was in trouble. That much was obvious, and judging from the scars on his body, he was no stranger to it.

Okay, if I was risking my life to trust a stranger, I should probably at least let someone know he was there with me. I grabbed my cell phone and sent a text to Micky.

Me

Hey Mick, Sorry to wake you and no need to reply.

Just wanted to let you know I have someone staying with me who needed my help. I’m fine.

But if I don’t answer the phone, maybe send someone.

The second after I clicked send, my phone started ringing.

Shit.

I should have known better. I answered it, rushing to the other side of the apartment so we didn’t disturb Ono.

“What the heck is going on?” Micky shouted.

She had a tendency to get loud when she was upset, or excited, or just when she was talking.

“I said no need to reply, can’t you read?” I hissed.

“You text me there is someone with you then said to send someone if you don’t answer the phone. Are you out of your mind, Shelly? I’m calling Uncle Josef to send someone from Sigma ? —”

“No! Don’t you dare, Micky. I am fine.”

“Then why did you text me? And who the hell is in your house?” she screeched.

The sounds of Baby Michael wailing started in the background and exhaled a breath.

“Micky, go take care of the baby. I am fine. It’s nothing. Just a man!”

Shit. I should not have said that.

“Oh? Ohhh! Get it, Shelly! Okay, look, I gotta feed the baby, but if Dr. Davis is finally getting some, I damn well wanna hear all about it later!”

“Oh my God! Goodbye, Micky,” I whisper-screamed, closing my eyes as I clicked end.

The sound of Ono groaning reached my ears, and I ran back across the apartment in my socked feet, sliding more than a little bit of the way.

I entered the room— my bedroom —slowly.

The mattress was a queen sized, but it looked like a twin with him lying on top of it. I had no choice but to place him there to recover, since there was only one bedroom in my whole apartment.

“Shh,” I murmured, leaning over and touching his forehead to assess his temperature.

Warm, but not unexpected.

It was too soon for another round of ibuprofen and antibiotics and I’d rather he slept.

I did not want to wake him a second time unnecessarily.

I breathed slowly, just taking him in.

The man was just too damn good looking for words.

He was big, too.

Hulking, really, and it wasn’t like I was small or anything, but he made me feel positively petite. That was a first.

Micky and I often joked about needing big men to handle our ultra curvy girl bodies. In her family, the men were all larger-than-life, and the women were bigger than society’s standards.

Maybe that was why she was always so confident.

It wasn’t always easy for women with a little bit of weight to feel good about their appearance, but the Volkovs seemed more than fine with it. They had a healthy appreciation for the female form and that helped me as an awkward and overweight teenager.

See, my mom had been slender and petite. She was a loving mother and never made me feel bad about myself for taking after my father’s side of the family. The women were what you called thick.

I missed my parents. My dad was awesome, and my mom, too. They loved each other a lot. Losing them sucked.

It was the worst time of my life.

When I went to live with Aunt Agnes, I’d been put on a diet at the very first. She was a thin, hard woman who did not approve of my shape.

I was a big girl, which was putting it delicately. I had always carried around more than a little extra padding. And no, it had nothing to do with laziness or diet like Aunt Agnes and so many other people believed.

It was so easy to fat shame.

But unless you walked in someone else’s shows, you had no idea what made them what they were.

Some things could not be helped.

Like genetics.

My thighs were always going to be big. Apparently, aside from Aunt Agnes, I came from a family of big-bottomed women on my father’s side.

Just like my height. I was five foot three inches tall, no more no less. All the Davis women were five foot three.

Now, from my mom I’d received a pair of tip-tilted breasts. Compared to my ass, they were kind of small. But they remained perky even after turning thirty, which I just had.

I was glad about that, bras being the bane of my existence.

I hated the things.

But I always wore them when I worked. I skipped one time, trying a camisole instead, and Dr. Cross’ eyes had been glued to my chest during a meeting in one of the subzero temperature conference rooms in the hospital.

There was nothing I could do about it. I mean, I couldn’t prove he’d been leering at me, but ever since then, I made sure to have substantial padding to cover my nipples.

On my days off, I wore tank tops or camisoles. For me, it was all about comfort. Like the shoes I wore. Mostly sneakers and Crocs.

Even my choice of hairstyle was less for fashion’s sake, and more for my own sanity. I was currently in my microbraid era and was so damn glad my stylist had talked me into it.

It was easy to maintain, and I could wear my hair up or down, add sexy curls when I wanted to dress up, or just pull it into a ponytail to get the weight off my neck when I was working.

I’d been toying with dying my hair, but for now I kept my tresses a glossy dark brown color.

My skin was good, and I had a great routine for moisturizing and keeping pimple free—something I was extra thankful for, knowing how difficult it was for those with skincare issues to maintain healthy self-care regimes.

I’d had acne in high school, and it was a bitch. Coral, Micky’s cousin, suffered from the same hormonal acne and we found a great dermatologist we went to together. It was a hard road, but it was fine now, and luckily, I had no scars from the experience.

The point was, I was a hard worker. I accepted my flaws as my own, and I worked on them. But no matter what I did, I still tipped the scale at one-ninety.

Yes, I did exercise regularly, fuck you very much . My diet was fine, too. Even when I was on call, I did my best to eat well.

After all, I was a doctor. It was sort of programmed into me to avoid fried foods and sugary, grease-filled things. But what I did eat, I guess I just ate a lot of it.

I had a very healthy appetite.

My self-esteem was fine. I was a realist, and I knew I was plump, but I was also smart, honest, and yes, pretty.

Maybe not Ono pretty.

But pretty all the same.

Shit.

This was getting ridiculous. The man was hurt and in danger. I had no idea if that meant I was in danger, too, and that should be the first thing on my mind. Or maybe the second.

Really, I should be thinking of ways to get him the hell out of my house. I should definitely not be imagining the bat-sized cock that had been outlined in his boxer briefs.

Or the way his cobalt blue eyes seemed to glow in the darkness.

Or the feel of his pillow soft lips when he’d kissed me.

Why did he do that, anyway?

Maybe he was out of his mind with pain? But that seemed unlikely.

I’d jokingly called him Tough Guy, but really, he was one. It was a rare man who remained awake through most of treatment I’d given him.

He was that, and then some. Rare, beautiful, mysterious.

Beautiful?

“You are losing it, Shelly Davis,” I muttered to myself and sat down on the small rocking recliner I kept in the bedroom.