Katerina
By the time we return to the apartment, Moscow has turned black and gold outside the car windows.
The city looks different at night. Softer in some places, harsher in others. Lights float on the river. Snow collects on ledges and rooftops. The streets shine beneath the passing cars, and every building seems to hold its own secret behind glowing windows.
Dinner had been lovely.
A small restaurant with candlelight on the tables and frost blooming along the corners of the glass.
Roman had ordered for us again, and this time I had only argued a little because everything he chose tasted better than anything I would have picked.
Warm bread, rich soup, fish with butter and herbs, honey cake so delicate I almost forgave him for being impossible.
I didn’t drink. Not wine. Not champagne. Not even one tiny glass of vodka when Roman offered it with that unreadable look in his eyes.
I wanted my head clear.
That’s what I told myself all evening while his knee brushed mine under the table and his fingers skimmed the inside of my wrist when he passed me a spoon. I wanted to know, without alcohol, without panic, without humiliation clouding the edges, whether I still wanted him.
By the time we step into his apartment, I have my answer.
I want him so badly I can barely breathe.
The door closes behind us with a soft click.
The living room is dim except for the fireplace and the city lights beyond the windows. Snow moves against the dark glass like ash. Roman takes off his gloves slowly, one finger at a time, and I stand near the sofa in the green dress he bought me, feeling every inch of fabric against my skin.
He looks at me.
The whole day has been full of looks, but this one is different.
There’s no one here to interrupt us, no plane aisle, no locked bathroom, no polite lie about being newlyweds.
Only Roman.
Only me.
Only the silence stretching between goodnight and whatever comes after.
“I should let you sleep,” he says. His voice is calm.
“Yes,” I say.
Neither of us moves.
Roman’s eyes drop to my mouth. “You had a long day.”
“I did.”
“You’re tired.”
“Very.”
The words are sensible. Perfectly sensible. I should turn around, walk down the hall to the guest room, close the door, and lie awake pretending I do not know what his hands feel like on my body.
Instead, he takes one step back, as if giving me space to do exactly that.
And something in me snaps.
I cross the room before I can think better of it.
Roman catches me when I reach him. Not because I fall, but because I come at him too fast, hands already on his coat, mouth already finding his. He makes a rough sound under his breath, the kind of sound that feels torn out of a man who had been holding himself still for too long.
Then he kisses me back.
God.
His hands close around my waist and pull me hard against him. My coat falls open between us. I push at his shoulders, not to get him away but to feel more of him, to get past wool and buttons and all the layers that kept us civilized in public.
Roman walks me backward until my hips hit the edge of the sofa.
The kiss turns hungry.
His tongue slides against mine, deep and demanding, and I open for him without hesitation. My hands go into his hair, ruining the perfect order of it. He growls softly when I tug, and the sound goes straight through me, low and hot.
He breaks the kiss just enough to look at me. “You did not drink tonight.”
“No.”
His gaze roams over my face. “Tell me why.”
My breathing is already unsteady. “Because I wanted to know.”
“Know what?”
“That this is real.” I swallow, my fingers tightening in his hair. “That I want you when I’m sober.”
His jaw flexes. “And do you?”
I press myself against him, feeling the hard length of him through his trousers. “Yes.”
His eyes darken.
That’s all the warning I get.
Roman turns me in his arms, his chest against my back, his mouth at the side of my throat. His fingers find the zipper of my dress and draw it down slowly, so slowly that the sound of it seems indecent in the quiet living room.
The dress falls apart under his massive, calloused hands.
I close my eyes as cool air touches my skin.
He pushes the fabric off my shoulders, kissing the bare place he uncovers. His mouth moves from my neck to the curve of my shoulder, then lower, and my head falls back against him. The dress slides over my breasts, my waist, my hips, pooling at my feet in a dark green circle.
I’m left in lace and stockings in the middle of his living room, with Moscow spread beyond the windows.
My first instinct is to cover myself.
Roman stops me before I can.
His hands catch mine and hold them at my sides.
“No,” he says against my ear. “Let me look.”
My body turns molten under those words.
He steps around me. For a long second, he only looks.
I feel his gaze everywhere. On the lace barely covering my breasts. On the curve of my stomach. On my hips. On the tops of my stockings. On the place between my thighs where I’m already wet for him.
Roman looks at me like he wants to ruin every rule that ever touched me.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
It’s simple. Almost harsh.
I believe him. That frightens me more than the hunger in his eyes.
He drops to his knees in front of me.
My breath catches. “Roman.”
He looks up, hands sliding over the backs of my thighs. “Yes?”
I forget what I meant to say.
His mouth touches my stomach first. A warm kiss just above the lace of my panties. Then another, lower. He drags his beard along the soft skin near my hip, and my knees almost buckle.
He catches me easily. “Steady,” he murmurs.
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.” The command should annoy me. Instead, I moan.
His mouth curves against my skin.
He takes one breast in his hand, pushing the lace down until my nipple spills free, tight and aching. His mouth closes over it, hot and wet, and every thought in my head scatters.
I clutch his shoulders.
He sucks me slowly at first, then harder, his tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make my hips jerk. His other hand works the other cup down, baring me completely. I’m trembling now, exposed in the glow of the fire, and he treats my body as if every inch deserves attention.
His mouth moves from one breast to the other. My fingers twist in his hair. He groans against me when I pull.
The sound is so male, so pleased, that I feel myself clench around nothing.
Then his hands slide to my panties. He looks up at me again. The question is in his eyes, not his mouth.
I answer before he can ask it. “Yes.”
Roman peels the lace down my legs and helps me step out of it. The moment I’m bare, he lifts one of my thighs over his shoulder.
I gasp, grabbing the back of the sofa.
He puts his mouth on me.
There is no gentle beginning this time.
His tongue drags through my pussy in one slow, possessive stroke, and my entire body jolts. I cry out before I can stop myself. Roman’s hands tighten on my hips, holding me open for him as he licks me again, deeper, hungrier, like he has been waiting all day for this.
The room tilts.
I brace one hand on the sofa and the other in his hair, trying to stay upright while his mouth destroys me. He finds my clit with terrifying precision, circling it with his tongue, then sucking until my thighs shake around his head.
“Roman,” I choke out.
He does not stop.
He only looks up at me while he does it, and the sight nearly sends me over the edge. Roman Sokolov on his knees, eyes dark, mouth wet from me, holding me like I’m something he intends to devour.
I come with a sound I cannot control.
It tears through me hard and sudden, pleasure breaking over my skin in waves. My knees give out, but Roman is already standing, already catching me, already kissing me with the taste of myself on his mouth.
I should be embarrassed.
I’m not.
I kiss him back desperately, tasting what he has done to me, hands tearing at his shirt now, buttons slipping beneath my fingers.
He helps only when my frustration becomes obvious, yanking the shirt open and shrugging it off.
His chest is warm under my palms, solid muscle and scars I do not have time to ask about.
I want to know every mark on him.
I want to touch them later.
Now, I only want more.
Roman lifts me easily, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His mouth stays on mine as he carries me down the hall, my bare back brushing the wall once when he presses me there because apparently the bedroom is too far and neither of us has any patience left.
“Bedroom,” I whisper against his mouth, though my hips are already moving against him.
“You’re the one distracting me.”
“You’re the one who took my dress off in the living room.”
“I should have done it earlier.”
I laugh, breathless, and he swallows the sound with another kiss.
By the time we reach his room, I’m dizzy with need.
His bedroom is dark, vast, and barely lit by the city outside. I catch only pieces of it. A huge bed. Black sheets. Low lamps. Glass and shadow. Roman lays me down like he intends to be careful, then looks at me spread across his bed and loses the thought.
His belt comes open.
My mouth goes dry.
I sit up, reaching for him, but he catches my wrist.
“Not yet.”
“I want to touch you.”
“You will.”
He climbs over me and kisses his way down my body instead, taking his time now, as if the bed has made him patient again. His mouth returns to my breasts, and he sucks one nipple while his fingers tease the other, rolling it until I arch beneath him.
I’m sensitive everywhere.
His mouth moves lower. Over my ribs. My stomach. My hips.
When he spreads my thighs again, I almost sob.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“You can.”
“I just came.”
“I know.”
His mouth returns to my pussy, slower this time, deeper, filthy and deliberate. I writhe under him, fingers fisting in the sheets, because he does not stop at giving pleasure. He takes my reactions apart. Learns them. Uses them. Finds every place that makes me gasp, shake, beg.
When I try to close my thighs, he pins them open.
When I try to twist away, he follows.
When I say his name, he groans like it feeds him.