I add another. Pump slow at first, then faster. Curl them. She bucks back against my hand, chasing it.
I lean over her, mouth at her ear. "You want my cock instead?"
"Yes." She breathes out. "God yes."
I pull my fingers out. Undo my belt one-handed. Pants shoved down just enough so that my cock springs free, hard and leaking. I notch at her entrance, rub the head through her pussy lips once, twice. Then I thrust in deep in one brutal slide.
She screams…muffled against her own arm. Whole body locking around me. I don't give her time to adjust. I fuck her hard. Fast. Hand wrapped around her hip, the other sliding up to cover her mouth because the sounds she's making are obscene.
She pushes back to meet every thrust. Her thick ass slapping against my hips. The mirror fogs more with every breath. "Harder," she gasps when I let her mouth go. "Make it hurt."
I oblige. Grip her hair, yank her head back so she has to watch us in the reflection. Her eyes meet mine in the glass. Wild. Desperate. Lip caught between her teeth. I slam in deeper. Once. Twice. She comes apart on the third…shaking, clenching so tight I almost lose it. Her cry echoes in the small space. I follow right after. Bury deep, groan low against her neck as I spill inside her.
We stay like that. Panting. Sweaty. My arms locked around her waist so she doesn't collapse. I pull out slow. Fix her dress. Tug my pants up. Scoop her back into my arms bridal style like nothing happened. She buries her face in my neck. Still trembling. But calmer now. Eventually the elevator dings again… someone must have overridden the stop. Doors slide open on our floor.
I step out into the empty hallway.
"Bedroom," she mumbles against my skin. "Now."
I don't argue.
FOURTEEN
ANYA
I wake slowly,with Roman’s arm wrapped around my waist, his chest warm and solid against my back, his breath slow and even at the nape of my neck. The curtains are half-drawn, soft light filtering into the room in pale gold streaks that cut across the sheets. For a moment, I don’t move. I just lie there and let myself feel it.
Last night was not delicate or cautious or quiet. It was heat and hands and mouths and relief, fury transformed into something that didn’t consume me. It was him pressing me into the mattress like he was anchoring me to something solid and real, and then holding me afterward as if he understood exactly how close I had been to unraveling and had no intention of letting that happen.
We made love like we were trying to rewrite the night. Hard and urgent when I needed to feel alive. Slow and sweet when I needed to feel safe. He gave without hesitation. He took only what I offered. Every touch asked without words. Every kiss answered something I hadn’t been able to say. He gaveme everything I needed. I shift slightly, and his arm tightens instinctively, even in sleep.
A faint ache lingers in my hips, in my thighs, in places that remind me of the way he held me, the way he whispered my name against my skin like it meant something sacred. I close my eyes briefly, remembering the way his forehead rested against mine when the urgency burned out of us, the way his thumb traced slow patterns over my shoulder as if memorizing me.
Carefully, I turn in his arms so I can see him. He’s on his back now, one arm still curved around me, dark hair mussed, jaw shadowed with stubble that scratches pleasantly against my cheek when I lean closer. He looks younger when he sleeps. Less guarded. Less lethal. I study his face for a moment, the strong line of his nose, the faint crease between his brows that never fully disappears, even at rest. He gave up control last night in ways that matter. Not dominance. Not strength. Vulnerability. He let me see the man beneath the armor.
His eyes open slowly, adjusting to the light. For a second, there’s confusion. Then recognition and something softer. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I prop myself up slightly on his chest. “Morning.”
His hand slides along my back lazily, fingertips warm against bare skin beneath the sheet. Not possessive. Just there. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
The question isn’t about last night. It’s about everything.
I consider it honestly. “Yes,” I say and mean it.
His gaze searches my face like he’s verifying that, the same way he did across the ballroom. I brush my fingers lightly alonghis collarbone, grounding both of us in something simple and human.
“We’re not done with him,” I say softly.
“No,” he agrees.
But his hand remains steady on my back. I stay there for a long moment after we wake, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, feeling the warmth of him against my skin. But reality does not wait long. The day presses at the edges of the room, heavy and inevitable. “We should get up,” I murmur.
Roman exhales slowly, like he would rather keep the world outside the door a few more minutes. “Yeah.”
We don’t rush. We slide out of bed together, the sheets falling away, the air cool against skin that still remembers last night. In the bathroom, the marble floors are cold beneath my feet, the mirror reflecting two people who look less armored than they did twelve hours ago.
The shower fills with steam quickly. He steps in behind me, hands sliding to my hips, not urgent this time. Just steady. We wash each other in silence at first, the intimacy softer now, fingers tracing water down skin, lips brushing shoulders without hunger. It isn’t about escape anymore. It’s about grounding.
