"And you don't take a hint." I push him harder, ignoring how solid he feels beneath my fingers.

Again, it doesn't do a lick of good. With one move, he slams the door to the hallway shut and leans against the door, blocking us both inside.

"I still have a gun, you know," he says casually.

My heart beats faster but I try to keep a calm demeanor. "If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it by now. And if you decide to hold me captive in here, I might request that. Put me out of my misery, you know?"

He chuckles. "You should be more scared of me, krasavitsa."

Is that Russian he just spoke? Whatever it is, it communicated directly with the heat between my thighs in a way that is equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Not that I'm willing to show this son of a bitch what he's doing to me.

"You ran away and hid from a fight. Is that supposed to have me quaking in my boots, tough guy?"

There's a growl of anger as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Boys stand their ground when they don't have a chance. Men know that you can't fight a war if you're dead."

"War?" I roll my eyes. "What are you, a drug dealer or something?"

He shrugs. "Let's go with 'something.'"

His shoulders are broad, chest tapering down to trim hips and strong thighs. He's the kind of built that comes from a magic mixture of genetics and working out vigorously. I imagine him lifting weights-shirtless, muscles rippling, sweat dripping down his tattooed skin...

Then my fantasy shimmers and shapeshifts and suddenly, it's me that he's manhandling. His large, strangely graceful hands claiming every inch of me as his muscles clench, pressing himself into-

"Time to go!" My voice is high-pitched and strained. A heat has built in my stomach. Almost certainly a side effect of adrenaline and fear mixing with lethal levels of horniness.

Let's be very clear: I do not want this man.

I've sworn off men like this. Men who show up with random wounds and bruises and broken bones. Men who put themselves-and me-in danger.

I'm done with that lifestyle.

But it doesn't seem to be done with me.

The man hasn't moved. "It could still be dangerous out there. For both of us. I think the best solution would be to stay here for a while," he says, uncrossing his arms and sliding his hands into his front pockets, his hips jutting forward. "I'm sure we could think of some way to kill the time."

The bulge at his crotch is like a homing beacon. It takes me three full seconds to pull my eyes away.

"You need to leave," I repeat, trying to reach around his body to find the doorknob. "Time to vacate the premises. You're all patched up and I need to get home."

He slides over and pins my hand behind his body. "Is there someone waiting for you at home?"

"My husband," I lie without hesitation.

Too quickly, he snatches up my left hand and holds it between us. The empty ring finger faces me.

"Give him a call, then," he chuckles, calling my bluff. "Tell him you'll be late getting home tonight. You might be a little worn out, though."

I try to stop from trembling too noticeably. "He's a, uh... police officer. On duty. Out protecting the city from people like you, so he isn't home right now. But he actually has a tracking device on my phone," I lie again, even more unconvincingly. "I'm sure he's already on his way to find out what's going on since I'm not home yet."

"Great. Then I'll keep you company until he gets here. You know... to make sure the guys after me don't find you instead," he says.

He taps his fingers against my wrist before brushing slowly down my arm. It feels like he's flaying me open. Heat radiates through my bones and settles between my legs.

I'm pulsing. Literally, full-on pulsing, like my whole body is one giant, frantic heartbeat.

"I'm serious." My voice is barely above a whisper. My heart is beating so fast it's hard to get air to my lungs. "You should go."

"I probably should. But that's not what matters."

"What matters then?"

He walks towards me, backing me up to the exam table. I'm pinned between the metal edge of the table and him.

His body heat scorches me through my scrubs. His head drops down until his lips are next to my ear. He smells like cedarwood. Gunsmoke. Blood.

"What matters is if you actually believe that I'm walking out of this room without tasting you," he whispers.

A shiver moves down my spine. Before I can answer, the man grabs my hips and lifts me onto the exam table. Without a second thought, I wrap my legs around his waist.

And just like that, my fate is sealed.

So much for a poker face. I've revealed my entire hand.

The man laughs softly and slides his hand under my shirt, the calloused skin of his fingers sliding up my trembling ribs.

"That's what I thought."

My entire body is on fire. The feeling of his warm body between my legs is enough to turn me into an animal.

Suddenly, I don't care about whether this is right and wrong. I don't care about the promise I made to myself eighteen months ago. I don't care who this man is or what will happen afterward.

The only thing I care about is the pure carnal need roaring to life inside of me.

Before rational thought can break through, I grab the man's head and pull his face to mine. Our bodies meld together-lips, chests, hips.

The table is tall, but so is he. Tall enough that our centers match up perfectly. While I reach down and unzip his fly, he grabs the waistband of my scrubs and yanks them down.

"What am I doing?" I ask out loud as I kick off my pants in a flurry of movement.

The man answers by grabbing the side of my cotton panties and ripping them clean off. Effortlessly powerful. He opens his fist and the flimsy material of my underwear flutters to the floor.

The table beneath me is cold, but I only have a second to think about it before he frees himself from his boxers.

"Fuck," I whisper. He's huge.

There are so many questions I should be asking him. So many doubts I should be having. Any normal person would hesitate here and reconsider.

But I'm lost in a haze of lust for a man I don't even know.

His breathing is heavy as he positions himself at my entrance. I don't wait for him to thrust-I pull myself onto him. Our bodies meet with a smack of connection as I toss my head back and revel in how it feels to be filled.

Really, really filled.

If I wasn't dripping wet, taking in so much all at once may have hurt. But as it is, I feel like I could come right now. Right at the first stroke.

The man grips the swell of my hips in his hands tightly, his fingers digging into my flesh, and pounds into me. Again and again.

The exam table is squealing in protest, metal cannisters of treats and cotton swabs vibrating off the table and scattering across the floor from our vigorous pace.

But I don't care.

Break the supplies.

Break the table.

Break me.

If it feels this good to be broken, I'll take it and beg for more.

"You're so big," I moan, opening my legs wider, giving more of myself to this stranger.

He curses under his breath and then presses a hand to my chest, laying me back on the table. I throw my arms over my head and grip the edges of the table for stability, which I need desperately as soon as the man brushes the pad of his thumb over my center.

I arch my back. The table jumps underneath me. The legs rise off the floor for a moment before crashing back down when this bloodied stranger fucks into me again.

"Harder," I beg, desperate for the feeling of a hand that isn't my own. "Touch me. Make me come."