Chapter 10 Lev
Lev
Polina’s hospital has a strict visitor policy, and I’ve never followed it.
We argued last night, and she hung up on me. She’s never done that before.
On the surface, it was about my schedule. She’s frustrated with the trips that keep getting longer, the meetings I can’t explain, and the calls I take in the other room.
She asked straight questions, and I gave careful non-answers. She said she was tired of asking things I wasn’t going to answer.
At least, that’s what it looked like from the outside. It was really about the thing we still haven’t said out loud: we both know exactly what our names mean.
We’ve been acting like a name is just a name—like it doesn’t come with blood, history, and enemies. And it’s getting harder to maintain.
She’s not angry about my schedule; she’s angry because she knows I’m keeping something from her, and she’s right.
So, I show up at Moscow General at 7:45 a.m., with two coffees and no clear explanation for why I can’t just let it sit.
The woman at the front desk recognizes me from the number of times Polina and I have had lunch since we’ve started dating and I sign in under Luka Sorkin—again.
A nurse near the surgical floor eyes my visitor sticker and says, “I can page Dr. Kozlov, but you’ll need to wait.” Two minutes later, Polina is the one opening the side corridor door.
When she sees me, the look on her face is the best and worst thing I’ve seen all week. Fury first. Then something underneath it that she covers, but not fast enough.
I follow her in without asking.
“You cannot be here,” she says.
“And yet...” I hold out the coffee.
She doesn’t take it. “I’m serious, Lev. My colleagues will start talking.”
“Then we need to go somewhere else.” I tip my head toward the hallway. “Now.”
“We’re not done talking about last night.”
“That’s what I’m here to do. Somewhere without worrying about being interrupted.”
She takes the coffee and walks out past me, which I take as agreement. She stops a passing nurse in the corridor.
“Who’s got exam four today?”
The nurse checks her tablet. “Nobody. Dr. Zhukov’s still on leave, and they haven’t reassigned his rooms yet.”
“Good. I need it for a consult. Can you make sure we’re not disturbed?”
“Of course, Dr. Kozlov.”
The nurse moves on without a second glance. Polina leads me down the corridor, past the supply rooms and the staff bathroom, and then ducks into an exam room. I follow her in and turn the lock behind me.
She turns on me the second I do. “This is insane. You know that?”
“You hung up on me.”
“You were being evasive.”
“The trips are getting longer because the situation is moving faster than I planned. I can’t give you more than that right now. Can’t and won’t. Both.” I watch her face tighten, and I take a step toward her. “I’m sorry, but I think we both know why I can’t.”
She lets out a short breath and looks away from me, but I see her turning it over, deciding whether what I said is enough or whether she’s going to keep pushing.
She decides to let it go. For now.
When she looks back at me, the fury is still there, but underneath it, she’s made a decision, and her chin comes up. She does that when she wants something and won’t reach for it herself.
I’ve been watching her do it for weeks, and we still haven’t crossed that line. We haven’t done much of anything since the night I fingered her in this hospital, because I’ve been waiting for her to tell me she’s ready.
But right now, with her in this locked room, in her hospital, with nowhere else to be, I decide we’re done waiting.
I take another step toward her. She doesn’t back up. “Tell me to leave.”
“You need to—”
“Make sure you mean it, Polina.”
But she’s already looking at my belt. Her hand moves before she can say it again, and she tugs me toward her by the leather.
“We are not doing this here.” She pulls me closer as she says it.
“In your hospital?” My mouth twists into a grin. “You sure about that, Doctor?”
“Tell me that again.” I watch her hands work my buckle.
When she doesn’t, I slide my hands across her hips and to her ass before I lift her onto the table. The involuntary squeak she makes goes straight through me. Her legs open, I step between them, and she’s already got my belt undone and is working the button of my trousers.
“Someone is going to hear us,” she whispers.
“Then you’re going to have to be very quiet.” I find the waistband of her scrubs and push them down to the floor along with her underwear. Then, I drop to my knees before she can register what’s happening.
“I want you shaking and silent, Doctor.” I kiss her inner thigh. “Think you can manage both?”
She’s fucking soaked.
She gasps as my tongue finds her clit, and her thighs clamp around my head.
I take my time with it. I’ve been thinking about this since the night she kissed me and closed the door in my face.
Long, slow strokes of my tongue, learning where she’s most sensitive, where she tries to muffle herself and fails.
“Soaking wet.” I drag my tongue slowly. “In your own hospital. Does that turn you on?”
“Shut up.” It comes out ragged. “Just do it.”
She tastes sweet and hot and distinctly her, and I know this will be the thing I think about at the worst possible times, in the worst possible places. There’s not a damn thing I can do about that now.
I slide two fingers inside her and feel her clench tightly around them, slick and hot as I curl them forward and find the spot that makes her hips buck hard off the table.
“God,” she breathes before she claps her hand over her mouth.
I pull back just enough to look up at her. Her scrub top is still on. Her face is flushed and furious and wrecked. She’s biting her palm, looking down at me with desperate, furious eyes.
“There you are,” I murmur, like I’ve found something sacred.
“You don’t have to be good in here. Not with me.”
I hold eye contact and add a third finger. She’s falling apart on my fingers in her hospital and trying desperately not to let me see it. I intend to make sure she can’t hide it.
“You’re supposed to be quiet,” I remind her.
A cart rattles past the door. Voices. Close. Her eyes flare and she freezes—then she grinds down harder like the danger flips a switch.
“Then stop doing that,” she grits out from behind her hand.
“That’s not going to fucking happen.” I work my fingers in a slow, merciless rhythm, crooking forward on every stroke as I drag my tongue back across her clit. I feel her fight it and lose.
Her free hand tangles in my hair as her hips start moving with me, chasing the friction, and I give it to her. More pressure, deeper, faster. Watching Polina Kozlov lose control is the best thing I’ve ever had a front-row seat to.
“Beautiful,” I murmur. “Fucking beautiful.”
I feel the moment she stops fighting it.
Her thighs switch from resistance to desperation, and her hips roll hard against my face.
Her fingers yank my hair, pulling me closer instead of holding me off.
She wants this. She’s wanted it since she opened the door and saw me standing there, and we both know it.
I increase the pressure, drive my fingers deeper, and feel her come apart around them, clenching hard, her body shaking.
A muffled sound tears out from behind her palm that I feel more than hear.
She rides it out with her thighs shaking on either side of my head, and I stay with her until the last shudder passes.
Then I stand up.
She’s breathing hard, looking at me with dark eyes, and still holding onto the edge of the table with white knuckles.
“Such a good doctor,” I murmur. “So used to holding it together.”
“Don’t call me that,” she reaches for me.
“Ask nicely,” I say.
“Now, Lev. Right now.” Her voice has gone rough and shaky. She reaches for me, gets her hand around my cock, strokes once, and the noise that comes out of me is not something I’m proud of. “Now, Lev.”
“You want my cock inside you? I need to hear it.”
“I’m not saying that.”
I pull back and hold still. She digs her nails into my arm. I don’t move. She wiggles her hips, trying to force it, and I hold my position and wait her out.
“I want it,” she finally concedes. “Fuck me, Lev.”
I line up against her and push inside in one slow stroke. She’s tight and soaking and perfect, and I have to brace a hand on the table and breathe through it. She digs her nails into my forearm and rolls her hips impatiently, because even now, like this, she’s still trying to hold back.
I pull back and drive into her harder this time while she grabs my shoulder to stay upright. She bites down on it to keep the sound in, and I feel her teeth through my shirt. Whatever was left of my patience is gone.
“You’re taking me so well,” I rasp. “Made for me.”
I set a pace that isn’t careful or slow, and she meets every stroke.
Her legs lock around my hips to pull me deeper.
I feel every sound she swallows against my neck.
She’s hot and impossibly tight, and she keeps clenching around me like her body is trying to keep me from pulling back. I’m going to lose control.
“Look at me,” I order.
She lifts her head. Her pupils are massive as she holds my gaze while I fuck her. The image of her lips parted and her cheeks pink will stay with me for the rest of my days.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she accuses.
“Yes.” I drive into her again.
“You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
She makes a sound, and I feel it vibrating against my skin.
“Stay,” I order, low. “Right here.”
I wrap one hand around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, and feel her pulse hammer against my palm before I slide my thumb between us, find her clit, and swipe across the little nub.
Her body jerks, but I don’t let her pull away. I hold her right there. Her nails score down my back. She comes with her face crushed against my shoulder, her body shaking, clenching so hard it steals my control.
I drive in deep, holding onto her hips, and stay there while my orgasm moves through me. For a moment, the only sounds in the room are our breathing and the noise from the hallway.
Then, her pager goes off.
She drops her forehead to my chest and lets out one long breath. Then she’s off the table and pulling her scrubs back on, and I step back and button my trousers.
She checks her pager and swears under her breath, already back in her head.
“I need to go.” She picks up her coffee and takes a long sip.
Her chin is up, her scrubs are straight, and she looks almost entirely like a doctor again, except for the flush still working its way down her throat.
She won’t quite look at me, but the corner of her mouth does something.
“Staff exit. End of the hall, turn left.”
“Polina—”
“We’ll talk,” she assures me. “We will.” And then she’s out the door and moving fast, and I hear her footsteps shift into a near-run as she rounds the corner toward the OR.
I stand in the empty room for a moment. Her coffee is still on the counter where she left it. She didn’t even finish it.
I finish mine and set the cup next to hers.
She’s still furious with me, and she should be. I’m keeping things from her that will fuck everything up when they come out, and the longer I wait, the worse it gets.
But she called me when she was falling apart a few nights ago, and she led me down this corridor this morning instead of telling me to fuck off, and none of that is the behavior of a woman who’s done with me.
I keep coming back to the same point. She’s smart enough to know she should end this, but she hasn’t.
Neither have I.
The floor is busy when I step out. No one looks twice. I make it to the staff exit and slip out.
Next time, we need to talk about what this means.
There will be a next time. I’ll make sure of that.