Anya
The warm water cascaded over my hands as I scrubbed the remnants of our breakfast from the plates.
The kitchen light hummed softly above me, casting a golden glow over the sink.
It had been a long shift at the hospital — another twelve hours of stitching wounds and dodging interns' questions — but being here with Desmond made it all fade.
Eight weeks after the accident and three after Ezra’s impromptu visit, and I still felt myself pausing. Listening to the sound of his breath, a grumble while he watched television, his snoring. Anything that reminded me he was here.
I heard the faint click of his temporary prosthetic against the tile floor before I felt him behind me.
Desmond had been adjusting to it for weeks now: the clunky device that stood in for his lower leg after the accident.
At first, he'd been hesitant, self-conscious about the way it altered his gait, but tonight, there was a unique energy in his approach.
No hesitation. He pressed close, his body heat seeping through my thin scrub top, his hand sliding around my waist to rest on my hip.
“What is it?” I asked, leaning back just enough to feel the solid wall of his chest against me.
We'd been navigating this new normal carefully — where I'd take the lead on top to ease the pressure on his leg.
It had kept things intimate without risking strain, but I could tell it frustrated him, made him feel less like the man who'd always taken the lead in the bedroom and the trauma bay.
His hand tightened on my hip, fingers digging in with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down my spine.
“I'm done with that careful bullshit,” he growled, nipping at my earlobe.
The prosthetic shifted slightly as he adjusted his stance, pressing his hips forward.
I felt the hard length of his cock already straining against his pants, nudging insistently against my ass.
Heat pooled low in my belly, a familiar ache blooming between my thighs, but I couldn't ignore the slight wobble in his balance.
“Desmond, wait,” I said softly, turning my head to glance at him over my shoulder. My eyes flicked down to where the prosthetic met his knee, the plastic and metal gleaming under the light. “Are you sure about this? The prosthetic — it's still so new. We don't have to rush. I don't want you to—”
He cut me off with a low groan, his lips trailing fervent kisses along my neck, stubble scraping my skin.
“Anya, stop talking,” he rasped, his free hand sliding up to cup my jaw, turning my face toward him for a brief, demanding kiss.
His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting of need and frustration, before he pulled back just enough to speak.
“I've been cooped up all day. For weeks. I need this. Need you. Now.”
I hesitated, my heart twisting at the raw edge in his voice.
As his resident, I'd seen him command rooms full of surgeons without flinching, but this vulnerability — the way the accident had shaken him — made me want to protect him even more.
“But your balance,” I pressed, my voice gentle as I set the sponge down, water still running in a steady stream.
“If it gives out, you could hurt yourself.
Let me turn around, or we can go to the couch. It's okay to take it slow.”
His chuckle was dark, almost feral, as he ground his erection harder against me, the friction making me gasp despite myself.
“Slow is all we've done for weeks,” he muttered, his hand slipping under my top to trace the curve of my waist. “Watching you ride me like that — fuck, it's hot, but I miss pinning you down, feeling you take every inch while I drive into you.”
The prosthetic creaked faintly as he widened his stance, bracing his good leg for support. It wasn't seamless; there was a subtle hitch in his movement, a reminder of the adjustments he was still making.
I bit my lip, torn between concern and the growing wetness between my legs.
“Des, talk to me. How does it feel tonight? Any pain? The socket — does it pinch?” I reached back, my fingers brushing the edge of the prosthetic where it attached, feeling the warmth of his skin above it.
He'd been diligent with the physical therapy, but I knew the mental hurdle was bound to be a steeper climb.
“It's fine,” he snapped, though there was no genuine anger in it — just desperation.
His hand captured mine, guiding it away and pressing it against the counter instead.
“Tight, yeah, but bearable. Stop doctoring me, Volkov.
Right now, I'm the man who's going to fuck you right here until you forget your own name.” He punctuated the words by shoving my scrub pants down roughly, along with my panties, the fabric tangling at my ankles.
The cool air hit my bare skin, making my pussy clench in anticipation.
“Okay, okay,” I whispered, kicking the clothes aside and spreading my legs slightly, my hands gripping the sink's edge.
But even as I yielded, words tumbled out.
“Just... promise you'll tell me if it's too much. I love you like this — strong, taking what you want — but I hate seeing you push too hard.” My voice wavered as his fingers dipped between my thighs, finding me slick and ready.
He stroked through my folds, parting them with two fingers, and I moaned, arching back.
“Love you too, but shut the fuck up, honey,” he demanded, his breath hot against my ear. He fumbled with his zipper — the reach awkward with the prosthetic throwing off his center of gravity — but soon his cock was free, thick and veined, slapping against my ass with a heavy thud.
“Do you want this?” He asked, fingers digging into the curve of my hip.
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself, Des.”
“That’s not what I asked you. Do you want this?”
“Yes,” I breathed, using all of my self-control not to push back on him. “Of course, I do.” Precum smeared across my skin as he gripped the base, rubbing the head along my slit. I could feel the slight tremor in his hips, the effort it took to hold steady, and it only made my concern deepen.
“Is everything secure?” I asked breathlessly, even as I pushed back against him, craving the stretch. “Desmond, please—”
He thrust forward suddenly, the tip breaching me in one firm push, silencing my words with a sharp cry. “God, yes,” he groaned, inching deeper, his hand on my hip pulling me onto him.
It was clumsy at first — the angle off by a fraction, his prosthetic scraping the cabinet below as he adjusted. But the fullness of him, the way his cock throbbed inside my pussy, overrode everything. He paused halfway, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he caught his breath.
“Talk later,” he panted, starting to move with shallow rocks of his hips. Each drag pulled at my walls, sending sparks up my spine. His free hand roamed up to squeeze my breast through my top, pinching the nipple until I whimpered. “So wet for me already. You want this as badly as I do.”
I nodded, words failing as pleasure built, but I managed a soft, “Just... be careful with your weight.” My body betrayed me, clenching around him, drawing him deeper.
The sink dug into my stomach with every thrust, water splashing as my elbow nudged the faucet.
He was desperate now, thrusts growing harder, more insistent, his good leg planted firm while the prosthetic held just enough to keep him upright.
“Fuck careful,” he growled, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles that made my knees buckle.
“I need to feel you come around my cock, Anya. Need to fill you up.” The awkwardness lingered — a hitch here, a pause to rebalance there — but it fueled the intensity, making every slide feel earned, raw.
Sweat slicked our skin, the kitchen filling with the wet sounds of him pounding into me. I turned my head, capturing his lips in a messy kiss, tasting his urgency. “Des — oh god, yes,” I gasped, the coil in my core tightening unbearably. “More.”
“Come on, doc,” he urged, voice breaking as he chased his own release.
His thrusts stuttered, the prosthetic protesting with a faint click, but he didn't stop.
One hand braced on the counter beside mine, the other working my clit relentlessly.
The pressure shattered me — my pussy pulsing around him, orgasm ripping through me in waves as I cried out, body shaking.
He followed with a guttural moan, slamming deep one last time, cum spilling hot inside me. We slumped together, his weight partially on me, breaths ragged. Slowly, he pulled out, a mix of our fluids trickling down my thigh. “Better?” I murmured, turning in his arms despite the ache in my legs.
Desmond kissed my shoulder, his hand stroking my side gently now. "Much better than cowgirl," he murmured, a tired smile in his voice.