Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
ANYA
It’s been two months since the gala that changed everything. Since then, my life has felt like something I never would have dared to write for myself. Not perfect. Not calm. But solid in a way I didn’t know I was allowed to want.
I came home with Roman that night. And I never left.
There wasn’t some dramatic conversation about it.
I just stayed the next day. And the next.
The first week I kept wearing the same rotation of outfits.
I didn’t say anything. I figured I would eventually fly back and deal with it.
Then one afternoon I mentioned I didn’t have a proper coat for the weather here.
The next morning there were three hanging in the closet.
I told him I needed more comfortable shoes.
Boots appeared. Not flashy. Just solid. Perfectly my size.
I offhandedly complained that I missed my skincare products. A box showed up that evening.
He never makes a big deal out of it. Never announces it. Things just… arrive. Folded. Hung. Placed neatly on the shelf like they’ve always belonged there. The first time I confronted him about it, he shrugged.
“You said you needed it.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to buy it,” I laughed.
“Yes, it does.”
Like it was obvious.
My life in Russia still exists, technically. But it’s starting to feel like storage. Here, I have space in his closet. My hairbrush on his bathroom counter.
He gave me his card at one point and told me to go shopping with the girls.
The girls. The other old ladies. Which is still the strangest title I’ve ever been handed because they are all stunning and very much not old.
Confident. Sharp-tongued. Beautiful without trying.
I still think the term is ridiculous, but apparently tradition wins.
They pulled me into their circle without hesitation.
Brooke dragged me through boutiques and ignored the price tags.
Bella lectured me on why I needed “club staples.” They all insisted that if I was staying, I needed to feel like I was staying.
I’ve never had friends like them before.
These women show up. They text constantly.
They argue loudly and love harder. They made it very clear that if Roman ever so much as made me cry, they would handle it.
Sunlight cuts through the blinds in sharp gold lines, painting stripes across Roman's bare back.
He's already awake, mouth hot and open on my neck, three-day-beard scraping rough enough to make my pulse jump.
His hand is between my thighs, fingers parting me lazily, sliding through the slick that's already there from whatever dream I was having about him.
He circles my clit once, slow pressure, then dips lower, one finger pushing inside easy. My hips roll up without permission. A low sound slips out of my throat, sleepy and needy. "Morning," he rasps against my skin. Voice thick, gravel from sleep and want.
I arch into his palm. "You're already hard." My hand finds him under the sheet, wraps around the thick length, strokes once from base to tip. He twitches in my grip, leaks against my thumb.
"Been hard since you started rubbing that ass against me at four a.m.," he mutters. Teeth graze my pulse point. "Moaning my name in your sleep. Sounded desperate."
Heat floods through me fast. My face burns. My pussy clenches tight around his fingers. I grab his wrist, push him deeper. "Stop talking and fuck me awake already."
He slides a second finger in. The stretch burns just right.
He pumps slow and deep, curling on every upstroke to hit that spot that makes my toes curl under the sheet.
His mouth finds my nipple, tongue flicks once, then he sucks hard.
My back arches off the mattress. Nails drag down his shoulders hard enough to leave red trails he'll feel all day.
He groans against my skin. The sound vibrates straight to my clit. His thumb presses there now, firm circles while his fingers keep working inside me. My thighs start shaking. Breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
"Come on my fingers first," he says low against my breast. "Want to feel you squeeze before I get inside you."
I break hard. Walls pulsing around his fingers, hips jerking off the bed, his name ripping out of me loud and wrecked. He doesn't stop right away, keeps stroking slow through the aftershocks until I'm whimpering, too sensitive, shoving weakly at his wrist.
He pulls his hand free slow. Licks his fingers clean while staring right at me, eyes dark. Then leans down and kisses me deep, tongue sliding against mine so I taste myself on him.
He rolls us so I'm flat on my back, legs falling open around his hips.
He kicks the sheet off, shoves his boxers down just enough.
His cock springs free, heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip.
He notches at my entrance, drags the head through my slick folds, coats himself in the mess he just made.
Teases my clit with it until my hips twitch up.
"Roman." My voice cracks.
"Say it louder when I'm deep."
He pushes in slow. Inch by inch. I feel every ridge, every vein stretching me open. When he's all the way in we both freeze, breathing ragged. His forehead drops to mine. Eyes locked on mine.
"Fuck," he breathes. "So tight. Every time."
He starts moving. Long, slow drags out until just the head's inside, then hard snaps back in. Skin slaps skin. The bed creaks under us. My nails dig into his ass, pulling him deeper. He hits that spot over and over. I lock my legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back.
His hand slips between us again. Fingers find my clit, rubbing fast circles that match his thrusts. Sweat beads on his chest, drips onto my breasts. I arch up so my nipples brush his skin.
"Gonna come again?" His voice is wrecked.
"Yes… fuck… don't stop…"
I shatter around him. Walls fluttering, squeezing tight. He slams deep, groans rough into my neck, cock pulsing, flooding me with heat. His hips jerk with every spurt until he's shaking, empty, collapsed over me.
We stay locked together. Sweaty. Panting. His weight heavy and perfect on top of me. His lips brush my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth soft.
"Shower," he mutters against my skin. "Then food."
We don't make it far. In the bathroom he cranks the water hot.
Steam fills the tiny room quick, fogging the mirror.
He lifts me against the tiles. The cold shock on my back makes me gasp.
My legs wrap his waist on instinct. He slides back inside easy, still half-hard, slick with us from before.
This time it's slower. Deep rolls of his hips.
Mouth on my neck, sucking marks that'll bruise dark tomorrow.
My fingers tangle in his wet hair, tug hard. Water pounds over us, hot and steady.
He fucks me against the wall until my thighs burn. My second orgasm builds quiet, then crashes over me. I shudder, clench around him, bite his shoulder to muffle the cry. He follows right after, groans low into my neck, spilling deep again.
After, we wash each other. Soap suds slide over skin.
His hands gentle on my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples until they pebble again.
I wash his back, trace the long scar across his shoulder blade with my fingertips.
He shivers once. Doesn't say anything. Just leans into my touch like it's the only thing grounding him.
Later we're on the porch. Coffee steaming in our mugs. My legs draped over his lap. His hand rests high on my thigh, thumb stroking slow circles over the denim. The swing creaks soft under us. Birds call in the trees. Wind moves the leaves, cool on my face.
My phone buzzes on the table between us. I pick it up before it can stop ringing. “Papa,” I answer.
There’s a brief pause on the other end, then his voice comes through, steady and familiar. “Anastasiya.”
Just hearing him softens something in my chest. “Hi,” I say, shifting slightly on the swing so I’m sitting more upright. Roman’s hand stays on my thigh, grounding but unobtrusive.
“How are you?” Papa asks.
“I’m good,” I tell him honestly. “How are you? You’re back in Moscow?”
“Yes. I arrived this morning.” I can picture him in his office already, jacket off, sleeves rolled, coffee untouched at his desk. “Everything here is calm.”
My heart eases another notch. “And my brothers?”
A faint huff of amusement. “Alive. Irritating. Busy.”
I smile. “That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Mikhail is in meetings all week. Dmitri has taken it upon himself to supervise security as if I am incapable.”
“That sounds accurate.”
Roman’s thumb traces a slow circle against my leg, listening without intruding.
“There have been no issues,” Papa continues, his tone turning slightly more deliberate. “No movement from Orlovsky. No provocation. Nothing.”
I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding my breath until I let it go.
“Are you sure?” I ask quietly.
“I would not tell you otherwise.”
And he wouldn’t.
“Good,” I murmur.
There’s a small pause.
“You sound happy,” he says.
I glance at Roman. He’s watching the trees beyond the porch like he’s not listening at all, but his fingers still stroke the inside of my thigh in that slow, absent rhythm that tells me he hears everything.
“I am,” I admit.
Another pause. Softer this time.
“Good,” Papa repeats.
“Are you eating?” I ask suddenly.
He scoffs lightly. “Yes.”
“Properly?”
“Yes, Anastasiya.”
“Sleeping?”
“Adequately.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I am fine,” he says, and I can hear the faint smile in his voice now. “You worry too much.”
“I learned from the best.”
Roman’s hand tightens briefly at my thigh when Papa chuckles.
“I wanted you to hear it from me,” Papa says. “Everything is stable. Your brothers are fine. The situation remains contained.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“And you?” he asks. “Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
Roman’s thumb pauses at that word. “I am,” I repeat, firmer this time.
There’s no interrogation in his silence. Just assessment. “Good,” he says finally. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
We say goodbye, and I lower the phone slowly. Roman doesn’t ask what was said. He just looks at me. “They’re fine,” I tell him. “All of them. No issues. No Orlovsky.”
He nods once. “Good.”
I lean back into him, resting my head on his shoulder again. His arm comes around me automatically, hand settling warm and steady on my hip.
Jenny's text pings the group chat. Chili night Friday. Clubhouse. Bring your man and your appetite. Carlie already sent the recipe.
I smile. Type back quick. We'll be there.
Roman reads over my shoulder. "You're cooking?"
"Learning."
He chuckles low. The sound vibrates through his chest into mine. "Savannah's gonna love that."
"Carlie sent step-by-step instructions. Like I'm five."
"Of course she did."
I set the phone down. Turn into him. Straddle his lap on the swing. His hands slide to my hips, grip firm through my leggings. Thumbs press into the crease where thigh meets hip.
"Again?" he asks, voice dropping rough.
I rock once. Slow. Feel him thicken under me through the thin fabric. "Always."
He groans. Pulls me down for a kiss. Tongue sliding against mine.
Hands shoving under my hoodie, palms hot and rough on my bare back.
Fingers dig in, pull me tighter against his growing hard-on.
We don't make it inside. Leggings shoved down my thighs just enough.
His sweats pushed low. He lifts me and sinks in slow.
The stretch is perfect ache. I sink my teeth into his shoulder to muffle the moan.
He rocks up into me. Deep. Steady. Swing creaking louder with every thrust. My arms around his neck, fingers in his hair.
His hands bruising my hips, guiding me down harder.
I ride him faster. Breasts bouncing under the hoodie.
He yanks the fabric up, mouth finding a nipple, sucking hard.
Teeth graze. I cry out. His hand slides between us.
Fingers find my clit, rubbing fast circles.
Sweat beads on his forehead, drips down his temple.
"Come on my cock," he growls against my skin. "Let me feel you milk me."
I do. Clenching hard. Shuddering. His name a broken whisper against his neck. He slams up once, twice, three times. Groans long and rough, cock pulsing, spilling deep again. Hips jerk with every spurt until he's shaking, empty.
We stay like that. My forehead on his. Breathing synced. Swing slowing to a gentle rock. Wind cools the sweat on our skin.