Page 64 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

With them gone, it’s just us.

I roll my shoulders, suddenly aware of the knots that have formed there over hours of bending over patients.

“Long day?” Trifon asks, stepping closer.

I nod, suddenly self-conscious. I probably look like hell.

“You look tired,” he says, confirming my suspicions.

“Thanks,” I mutter sarcastically. “Just what every woman wants to hear.”

His lips quirk. “I didn’t say you don’t look beautiful. Just tired.”

Heat blooms in my cheeks. Even after that night—after his mouth between my thighs, after the dreams that followed—I still don’t know how to handle his compliments.

“Turn around,” he says suddenly.

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“Because I asked nicely. Turn around.”

Something about his tone makes me obey. I turn, presenting my back to him. I hear him step closer. Feel the heat of him before his hands settle on my shoulders.

“What are you—” I begin.

“Shh.” His fingers dig into the knots of muscle. “You’re wound tighter than a spring.”

He’s not wrong. I close my eyes as his thumbs find a particularly stubborn knot between my shoulder blades and work it loose. A small, breathy whimper escapes my lips.

“Good?” he asks, voice dropping lower.

“Mmm,” is all I can manage. His hands are magic. He knows exactly how much pressure to apply, when, and where. Another knot releases, and I nearly moan.

His palms slide lower, working the muscles along my spine. My body starts to relax, melting beneath his touch. I think I should pull away and remember all the reasons I shouldn’t let him touch me like this.

But God, it feels too good.

“Better?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

I nod, eyes still closed, leaning back slightly against his chest. His hands dip to my lower back, then up again. Each stroke seems to linger a little longer, press a little deeper. And god, at some point, I begin to feel each touch between my legs.

I’m not sure when the massage shifts from therapeutic to something else. Maybe it’s when his fingers brush the sides of my breasts as he works my shoulders. Maybe it’s when his chin grazes my neck as he whispers into my ear. Maybe it’s when my breath hitches and I don’t pull away.

His hands move lower, massaging along my shoulder blades, fingertips brushing the slope of my spine. My breath catches.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

The words shouldn’t mean anything. But they sink in deeper than I want them to.

His hands keep moving.

I lean into the touch before I can stop myself.

One hand grazes the curve of my hip, and I turn around.

Our eyes meet—and the air changes.

It goes thick and charged, the kind of tension that crackles between thunderstorms and confessions. I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. I just look at him.