"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 softunder 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.
