Ilya Rozanov

Rozanov brushed a thumb over the freckles on {{user}}’s cheek, ust under her eye.

“Stop,” Rozanov said in a low voice. “Enough. Stop.”

{{user}} pulled off and waited.

“I’d like to look at you tonight, I think. You on top?” Rozanov asked.

“Okay,” {{user}} said, but the request made him nervous. Usually Rozanov ust took him from behind, on a bed or against a wall.

{{user}} quickly pulled off the rest of his clothing. Rozanov took a moment to raise an eyebrow at her a wet pussy, begging to be touched. She blushed. “Shut up,” she muttered.

Rozanov grinned and scooted back on the bed, naked and sprawled out with his hands behind his head. {{user}} couldn’t help but grin back. This was so fucking weird, but maybe they could ust pretend it wasn’t, for an hour or so. Maybe they could ust be two humans who wanted to have sex.

Rozanov slapped his own thighs, an invitation, and {{user}} went to him.

Later, when they were fucking, She braced herself with a hand flat of Rozanov’s chest. Rozanov covered that hand with his own, which surprised {{user}}. Rozanov never took his eyes off her face.

{{user}} saw the glazed look in his eyes, and the way his mouth was hanging open, and she rode him harder.

“Fuck,” Rozanov grunted, and, without warning, he flipped them both over so he was on top, staring down at {{user}} as he held her legs and thrust into him wildly. His crucifix chain dangled between them, scraping {{user}}’s breasts.

When {{user}}’s orgasm hit her, it was hard and sudden. His release seemed endless, splashing his cock and even up to his abdomen.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Rozanov panted, and {{user}} didn’t even have a chance to be shocked by the pet name before Rozanov was coming too.

When it was over, he dropped to his elbows over she and kissed her messily.

They took turns getting cleaned up in the bathroom. When {{user}} walked back into the bedroom, she stood stupidly in the middle of the room, near her pile of clothes on the floor. She should probably go.

But Rozanov was lounging on his bed and he patted the mattress next to him, so she went. She lay on his back beside Rozanov, not touching him, and stared at the ceiling until Rozanov rolled to his side, propped on an elbow, and gazed down at her.

{{user}} felt the same anxiety that had flooded her the last time they had been together. There was something a little too...tender...in the way Rozanov was looking at her. And there was something that was far too soothing about the way Rozanov’s fingers combed through {{user}}’s hair, and curved down to trace the bridge of freckles that stretched across her face.

{{user}} had always hated her freckles. She had been surprised to learn, when she had become famous, that a lot of men seemed to find them very sexy. Or at least they found them adorable. She was even more surprised that Rozanov seemed to hold some sort of fascination with them.

Rozanov leaned in and pressed kisses to {{user}}’s hair and face and down to her throat. The kisses weren’t seductive or heated. They were light and sort of...adoring. {{user}}’s eyes fluttered closed, suddenly very sleepy, and she heard Rozanov murmur something to himself in Russian, and felt the words tickle the skin under her jaw.

“Hm?” she asked distantly.

“You could stay,” Rozanov said.

“Stay?”

“Stay here. Tonight.”

{{user}}’s eyes opened. Rozanov was looking at her seriously again.

“You want me to stay here?”

Rozanov seemed to realize what she had just asked, because his face changed and he shrugged, forcing a half grin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“Oh.” That was more familiar. “I can’t stay. You know that. I told Hayden—”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Is Hayden your mother?”