Page 54 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
No. Absolutely not.
I yank the shower to a violent cold, trying to suffocate the memory. Finish the shower. Read something. Distract yourself, Yulia. Be normal. Be a doctor.Be logical.
After my shower, I dress in the most modest outfit I can find—jeans and an oversized sweater from the collection of clothes Trifon provided. Armor against whatever awaits me downstairs.
When I finally venture out, the house is quiet. No sign of Trifon. I exhale, relief mingling with an emotion I can’t believe is sweeping through me.
I’m…Disappointed?
Fuck no.
I find coffee in the kitchen, helping myself to a mug while studiously avoiding eye contact with the housekeeper, who’s arranging fresh flowers on the counter. Does she know? Can she tell just by looking at me that I was sprawled across the living room couch last night, coming beneath her boss’s tongue?
Stop it, Yulia.
I carry my coffee to the library, needing to be alone with my thoughts. The shelves tower around me. I run my fingers along the spines, but I’m not seeing titles. I’m seeing Trifon’s face between my thighs, looking up at me with those ice-blue eyes.
This is ridiculous. I should be able to compartmentalize a sexual encounter.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
All those years, all those lackluster experiences—fumbling college boyfriends who treated my body like a puzzle they couldn’t be bothered to solve, med school flings too brief and stress-filled to ever really catch fire—I’d convinced myself that explosive orgasms were just a myth, a fiction women perpetuated to make men feel better.
And then Trifon happened.
One night. One hour. And everything I thought I knew about my own body crumbled.
He made it look easy. Made me feel easy, like I’d been the simple one all along—not the men who couldn’t figure me out. Like all it took was someone who actually gave a damn about my pleasure instead of their own.
I sink into a leather armchair, pulling my knees to my chest. The clinical part of my brain—the part that got me through med school—tries to rationalize it. Physical responses to stimuli. Chemical reactions. Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin.
But the rest of me? The part that arched and moaned and came so hard I nearly blacked out? That part doesn’t care about neurotransmitters. That part only knows his name.
And he’s seventeen years older than me. Practically old enough to be—no, that’s a stretch.
But still, there’s something about that age gap, about his confidence, his experience, that makes me feel simultaneously safe and terrified. Like I’m falling without a net, but somehow trusting he’ll catch me.
I try to distract myself by picking up a medical journal I find on the table. Anesthesiology research. Perfect. Nothing less sexy than dosage calculations.
Except every paragraph I read dissolves into memories of his hands, his mouth, the rasp in his voice when he called me beautiful. I slam the journal shut, frustrated with my own lack of focus.
Maybe I just need more sleep. I didn’t get much last night, after all.
I curl up in the chair, letting my eyes close. Just for a few minutes. Just to reset my brain.
I drift off almost immediately.
I’m standing in front of the mirror in that emerald gown. The slit’s higher, the neckline lower, like the dress itself has decided to misbehave. My lipstick is smudged, mascara smoky. I look like sin. Like, I know exactly what I’m doing.
And the second I turn? He’s behind me.
Trifon.
In a black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the collar open. His jaw’s dark with stubble, and his hair’s slightly mussed, like he just ran a hand through it. The kind of hair men kill for, straight out of GQ.
He doesn’t speak.
Just steps up behind me and drags his knuckles along my bare shoulder. I shiver.
