We didn’t need to.
Our mouths met—slow at first, tentative, testing.
Then something broke open. The kiss turned hungry, desperate, edged with months of pain and longing and fury.
I devoured him like I’d been starving; he kissed me back with a ferocity that made the room spin, like he was drowning and I was air.
His hands hesitated at the hem of my blouse—uncertain, asking permission even now.
I answered by reaching for the buttons of his hospital gown, popping them open one by one until I could push the fabric off his shoulders.
Lean muscle still corded his frame, but the sharp edges of ribs showed beneath skin.
He helped me shrug out of my own top, fingers trembling. Then he stood—unsteady, but determined—scooped me up with surprising strength, and laid me back on the narrow hospital bed.
He stripped off the rest of his clothes quickly, climbing over me, skin fever-hot against mine.
“You haven’t eaten in three days,” I whispered against his mouth. “You’re sick. You just fainted.”
“I’m strong enough for this,” he growled, voice rough with need. “I’ve waited years for this.”
He slammed his lips back to mine, swallowing my moan.
The kiss turned wild—teeth and tongues and hands everywhere, relearning every inch we’d once known by heart.
His body pressed me into the mattress, careful of the IV line still taped to his arm, careful of me.
I arched beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer, deeper, as though I could erase every wound we’d inflicted by sheer force of want.
The narrow hospital bed creaked beneath us, protesting the sudden shift of weight as Dmitri’s hands—rough from years of violence yet impossibly tender now—found the waistband of my panties.
He didn’t ask; he didn’t need to.
One sharp tug and the fabric tore away with a soft rip that sounded obscene in the sterile quiet of the room.
Cool air kissed my skin for half a heartbeat before he aligned himself and drove forward in one long, controlled thrust.
The intrusion was gentle in its aggression—deep, deliberate, stretching me open with a burn that bordered on bliss.
I cried out, a raw mix of scream and moan, the sound bouncing off the white walls.
He sank so far inside me I swore I could feel the blunt head pressing against the deepest part of my core, right up against my womb.
My back arched off the mattress; my nails dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons.
His mouth crashed back to mine at the same moment his fingers found my nipple—pinching, rolling, tugging just enough to send lightning straight to where we were joined.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first—agonizingly slow—pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with punishing precision.
Each retreat left me aching, empty; each return filled me so completely I forgot how to breathe.
The rhythm built quickly. Harder. Faster.
The slap of skin against skin echoed louder than the cardiac monitor still beeping somewhere behind us.
“Dmitri—” His name tore from my throat on a broken moan. “Oh God... yes... fuck me... harder—”