Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
ANYA
We ride to Perdition in one of the SUVs because his bike is still in the shop.
Bullet damage. Twisted metal. A reminder neither of us wants to dwell on.
It’s parked near the side entrance, stripped down to its frame like a wounded animal waiting to heal.
I slow when I see it. Roman doesn’t comment.
He walks over and rests his hand along the handlebar like he’s checking on something wounded.
“She’ll be ready soon,” he says.
“She?” I ask quietly.
He glances back at me. “Don’t start.”
Despite everything, I smile.
There’s another bike parked nearby. One of the club’s. Clean. Solid. Functional. He turns toward me then, and something in his expression shifts. Serious. Intent. “I was going to wait,” he says.
“For what?”
He steps closer instead of answering, stopping right in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes. “In the MC world,” he says carefully, “a man doesn’t just put a woman on the back of his bike.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because it means something.” The wind lifts a strand of my hair across my cheek. He brushes it back absently. “When a woman rides behind you,” he continues, “it means she’s your old lady.”
I frown. “I’m not old.”
A low laugh slips out of him, the sound rumbling warm in his chest. He cups my face gently. “No. You are not old.”
“Then why would you call me that?”
“I wouldn’t.” His thumb rests along my jaw, steady.
“I’d call you my woman.” My breath catches.
“My forever,” he adds, quieter now. The parking lot feels smaller somehow.
“It means you’re mine and I’m yours,” he says.
“Not ownership the way people twist it. It means no other man gets you. No one touches you. No one stands where I stand.”
His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “And I don’t stand with anyone else.” My pulse is loud in my ears. “This isn’t about a ride,” he says. “It’s about what that ride says to everyone who sees it.”
I swallow. “And what does it say?”
“That you belong with me.”
The words don’t feel controlling. They feel claimed. Mutual. His thumb brushes lightly beneath my eye. “Is that okay, ptichka?” he asks softly.
I don’t hesitate. “As long as you are only mine, medved.”
Something shifts in him. “Only yours,” he says without pause.
We stand there for a long second, the world quiet around us. Then he drops his hand slowly. “Now,” he says, nodding toward the bike. “If you get on the back, it means you’re choosing that.”
I look at the bike. Then back at him. “I already chose you,” I say.
His jaw tightens slightly at that. He swings a leg over the loaner bike and steadies it with his boots planted firm. Then he looks up at me. “Come here.”
I step closer, heart already picking up speed.
His hands slide to my waist and he lifts me easily, settling me on the back seat.
My thighs press against his hips. My breath catches at the closeness.
I tighten my arms around him, pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades.
His hands slide down to rest briefly over mine where they sit against his chest. “You hold on like that,” he murmurs. “Or around my waist. Your choice.”
I hesitate, then slide my arms around him fully.
He smiles, and I feel it in the way his body relaxes. “Hold on, ptichka.”
The engine roars to life beneath us.
The ride is quiet, but every red light feels like foreplay.
He slows smoothly, engine dropping into a deep, steady rumble.
When he stops, his boots hit the pavement and the vibration settles low between my thighs, constant and deliberate.
His left hand works the clutch, forearm tightening beneath ink and sun-browned skin.
I watch the flex of muscle. My arms are wrapped around his waist, palms splayed over his stomach.
Every time he shifts, I feel it. The subtle roll of his hips.
The controlled power in the way he handles the throttle. It’s precise. Confident. Unhurried.
The engine hums against me. I press closer under the excuse of balance, my chest against his back, my thighs firm against his hips.
The bike vibrates and I swear he knows exactly what that does to me.
My fingers tighten slightly in his shirt.
He tips his helmet just enough to glance back at me at the next light.
Not fully turning. Just enough to check.
The light changes and he twists the throttle slowly, the engine roaring to life beneath us, and the sudden acceleration makes me slide forward, closer, heat pooling low in my stomach. If this is just the ride, I’m not sure I’ll survive the destination.
Inside his place the door locks with that heavy, final click and the air changes. No more games. He doesn't grab me. Just leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching me kick off my boots one at a time. Slow. His eyes trace me like I'm the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"You gonna stand there staring all night?" I ask, voice already softer than I planned.
He pushes off the counter, steps closer without hurry. "Yeah. Because I still can't believe you're here. Choosing this."
My chest tightens at how quiet he says it. Not cocky. Honest.
I laugh a little to cover it. “That’s bold of you.”
He stops right in front of me, close enough I feel his warmth. Knuckles brush my neck, slide down my collarbone, skim the swell of my breast through my shirt. My nipple hardens under the touch. He sees it. That slow, private smile he only gives me.
"Take it off," he says. Calm. But his voice cracks the tiniest bit on the last word.
I peel the shirt over my head. Bra next. When the lace hits the floor his gaze drops, dark and reverent, like he's seeing me for the first time all over again.
"Your turn," I whisper.
He strips his shirt in one yank. Jeans stay on. Belt buckled. Cock straining so hard against the denim I can see every thick inch. But he doesn't rush. Just steps in, cups my jaw with both hands now, thumbs stroking my cheeks like I'm breakable.
This kiss is different. Slow. Deep. Like he's pouring everything into it. His tongue slides against mine lazy and thorough, and when he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against mine.
"Roman…"
"Shh." He kisses the corner of my mouth. "You walked away from everything tonight. For me. Let me show you what that does to me."
He walks me back to the couch, sits, and pulls me onto his lap so I'm straddling him.
My bare breasts press to his chest and we both exhale shaky.
His hands settle on my hips holding me like he never wants to let go.
He rocks me once, slow, so I feel him through the denim, but it's the way he looks at me while he does it that makes my throat close up. Eyes soft. Hungry. Adoring.
I roll my hips. Slow circles first. Then deeper.
The friction burns. His head tips back for a second, throat working, but he brings his gaze right back to mine.
Doesn't break eye contact. One hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, cradling the back of my head like I'm something sacred.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathes. "So beautiful it hurts."
My rhythm stutters at the words. He notices. Pulls me closer so my chest is flush to his, mouth brushing my ear. "It's not enough, is it?" he asks softly.
"No."
"Say what you need."
"I need you inside me, Roman."
He exhales hard against my neck. "Not yet. I want to feel every second of you first."
He flips us gently this time. My back hits the cushions.
He's over me, jeans still on, mouth moving down my throat, sucking soft marks that feel more like promises than bruises.
His hand slips inside my jeans and under my panties.
Fingers glide through my wetness, circle my clit slow and careful, like he's memorizing every reaction on my face.
"Already so ready for me," he says against my skin. Voice rough with something deeper than lust. "Been waiting for this. For you."
He slides one finger in. Then two. Crooks them just right. I arch, moan loud. He doesn't speed up. Just keeps that steady rhythm, thumb brushing my clit, watching me fall apart like it's the most important thing he'll ever do. "You're shaking," he whispers. "Gonna come for me like this?"
I shake my head. “I want your mouth."
He smiles against my collarbone, soft, almost shy for a second. "Anything you want."
He slides down, yanks my jeans and panties off. Spreads my thighs. Blows a cool breath over me, makes me jerk. Then his tongue. Flat. Slow. From entrance to clit. He groans low, like tasting me is everything.
He kisses and licks me slow and worshipful.
Fingers curling inside. Every time I get close he eases back, kisses my inner thigh, murmurs my name like a prayer.
When I finally tip over I scream his name.
Legs trembling. His forearm pins my hips so I can't escape the aftershocks while he licks me through it, soft and patient.
He climbs back up. Kisses me so deep I taste myself and him mixed together. I fumble with his belt. He helps this time, no teasing, just urgency. Jeans shoved down. Cock thick and leaking.
I stroke him once. Twice. He groans, hips jerking into my hand, but his eyes stay on mine. "I need to be inside you. Need to feel you around me."
He positions his cock at my entrance. Drags the head through my folds. Teases my clit until I'm begging. "Roman, please."
"Say my name when I'm deep," he says, voice wrecked. "I want to hear it."
He pushes in slowly, inch by inch. Eyes locked on mine the whole time. When he's fully seated we both freeze. Breathing hard. He's so deep it feels impossible. "Goddamn," he rasps. "You feel like home."
"Move."
He starts slow. Long, dragging strokes. Every time he bottoms out he grinds gentle circles, pubic bone rubbing my clit. My nails dig into his shoulders. His mouth finds mine again, messy, desperate, full of everything he doesn't say out loud.
I hook my legs higher. He goes deeper. Harder. Couch creaking. But even when the pace picks up, his hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek like I'm the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Gonna come again?" he asks, voice breaking.
"Yes…don't stop…”
"Come on me. Let me feel you. Let me keep you."
I shatter. Walls pulsing around him. He fucks me through it, thrusts turning sloppy, but he never looks away. "Gonna fill you," he warns, forehead pressed to mine. "Gonna stay inside you so you never forget this."
"Do it. Please."
He slams deep one last time. Groans long and low. Cock throbbing, pulsing, flooding me. His whole body shakes. When the last pulse fades he doesn't pull out. Just stays buried, breathing against my neck, arms wrapped around me like he'll never let go.
We stay like that. Panting. His hand strokes my hair back from my face, gentle.
"You're not going anywhere," he says quietly.
Not an order, a plea. He kisses my temple, soft and lingering.
"Time for a shower. Then bed." His voice is low, wrecked from everything we've done, but there's this steady certainty in it that makes my chest ache in the best way.
I clench around him on purpose one last time.
He hisses through his teeth, arms tightening like he's anchoring himself to me.
He doesn't rush to pull out. Just stays buried a minute longer, breathing against my hair, one hand sliding slow up and down my back.
Then he eases out careful, like he hates the separation even for a second.
Scoops me up without asking, my legs wrap his waist on instinct, his cock still half-hard brushing my ass as he carries me to the bathroom.
Under the spray the water runs hot. He sets me on my feet, turns me so my back's to his chest, and starts washing my hair.
Fingers working the shampoo in slow circles, massaging my scalp like it's the only thing that matters right now.
I lean back into him. His other arm bands across my stomach, holding me close while the suds slide down my skin.
No words for a while. Just the water, his steady breathing, the way his chin rests on my shoulder sometimes like he can't stand not touching every inch.
When we're both rinsed he shuts the water off, grabs a towel, dries me off gentle but thorough, every curve, every mark he left earlier. Then he dries himself quick, tosses the towel, and carries me to the bedroom again.
Drops me on the sheets. Climbs in behind me. Pulls me back against his chest, one arm under my head like a pillow, the other wrapped around my waist. His cock nestles against my ass, warm and heavy, but he doesn't push. Just kisses the back of my neck once, soft.
I lace my fingers through his where they rest on my stomach. Feel his heartbeat steady against my back.
The night quiets, us tangled up, breathing in sync, his thumb stroking lazy circles over my knuckles until my eyes get heavy. I'm half over him now, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow to something calm and sure.
"You okay?" he asks his fingers dragging up and down the middle of my back. Voice rough from everything.
"Yeah." I tilt my head to see him. "You?"
He exhales slow. "Never better."
We’re lying in bed, and he shifts so we're face to face. Hand cups my cheek. "No regrets?” he asks. Soft. Vulnerable.
"None." I cover his hand with mine. "I'd know if there was. This feels steady. Safe. Like I finally landed somewhere real."
His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "Steady after blowing up your whole world and ending up in my bed?"
"Yeah. Because it's your bed. Because you didn't push me here. You waited. You let me choose."
He swallows. "I was scared you'd walk out the second the adrenaline wore off."
I lean in, kiss him slow. "I'm not going anywhere." His eyes search mine. "Because you see me. All of me. And you don't flinch. You don't try to shrink me or own me. You just… want me here. Next to you."
He goes still. Breath catches. "You have no idea what that does to me," he says quietly.
"Then show me."
He rolls us so he's partly over me, forearm braced, other hand still cradling my face.
"You're building something with me," he says. "You know that?"
"So are you."
"I don't do half-measures. Not with you."
"Neither do I."
"Then say it."
His voice is barely above a whisper. "I want you, Roman. Because you're the one who makes me feel like I can finally breathe. Like I'm enough. Exactly like this."
His eyes go liquid. He kisses me again slow, deep, like he's sealing something. "You're staying," he murmurs against my lips.
"Yes."
"With me."
"Yes."
He pulls me closer, tucks my head under his chin, arms wrapped tight. "Love you," he says so quiet I almost miss it. First time he's said the words out loud.
My heart slams. I press my lips to his collarbone. "Love you too."
He exhales like he's been holding it for years. Kisses the top of my head. "Sleep. I've got you."