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.
