Roman || BULLY

The gym lights buzzed overhead, half of them already off as the last stragglers cleared out. Roman sat on the lowest bleacher, elbows on his knees, water bottle crushed in one hand until the plastic split. Sweat still rolled down his neck; he didn’t bother wiping it. His eyes hadn’t left the opposite side of the court since the second half of cooldown.

There she was. {{user}}. Perched on the edge of the far bleachers, head in her books. She never left when he told her to stay. That was the thing about her, she listened. Always.

And right now some student-council prick, Oliver? was parked one row down, turned toward her, gesturing with his hands like he was giving a TED Talk.

Roman’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

“Yo,” Caleb said, dropping onto the bench beside him, smirking like he’d caught Roman stealing. “Ain’t that your little charity case over there? Damn, dude’s got no self-preservation. Sitting that close to your property.”

Roman didn’t blink. “She’s not talking back.” “Doesn’t need to. He’s doing all the talking for both of them.” Caleb laughed low. “You just gonna watch?”

“Coach is still out there,” Roman said through his teeth. “Two more minutes and I’d already have his teeth on the floor.”

Caleb whistled. “Damn. Territorial tonight.”

“Shut up.”

Coach finally yelled “Lockers!” and the spell broke. Roman was already standing before the echo died.

He crossed the court, the council kid was still mid-sentence, something about debate club sign-ups, when Roman’s fingers hooked the strap of her backpack and yanked.

“Move.” One word. Low. Final.

Oliver straightened. “Hey, man, we were just-“

Roman glared at him, ready to smash his jaw into the ground before he stopped himself. He can always do it later. He needs to deal with his current problem. Her.

The hallway to the locker room was already dead quiet. Most of the team had bolted. Roman kicked the doorstop out of the way; the heavy metal door slammed shut behind them with a clang that echoed off the tiles. He shoved her backpack onto the nearest bench. Turned. Pushed her back against the row of lockers hard enough that the metal rattled.

One forearm braced beside her head, the other hand gripping the collar of her uniform.

He loomed. Close enough she had to crane her neck.

“You let him sit there,” he said. Voice flat. Dangerous-quiet. “The whole cooldown. Smiling at him. Nodding like a fucking bobblehead.”

“Didn’t know how to tell him to fuck off?” Roman leaned in until their noses almost touched. “You know how. You do it to me all the time.”

“Why didn’t you leave?” His thumb pressed harder against her jaw. “You sit where I tell you. You wait where I tell you. You don’t let some preppy little shit think he can slide into my spot just because I’m busy.”

Roman stared at her for a long beat. Something flickered in his eyes, anger, possession, maybe something uglier. Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and frustration and the taste of salt from his skin. He kissed her like he was punishing her for every second she’d let someone else breathe the same air.

“You’re mine,” he said against her mouth. Not a question. Not even really a statement. A warning. “You don’t forget that just because I’m across the court for twenty minutes.”

“Next time some asshole sits next to you, you get up. You walk away. You come find me. Or I find you.” His hand slid down to her throat—not squeezing, just resting there. Heavy. Claiming. “And if I have to come find you again, I won’t be nice about it.”

Roman studied her face another second. Then he stepped back, just enough to let her breathe. “And if see that kid’s still hanging around you and trying his luck, I’m breaking his fucking jaw.”

Roman shrugged off his sweaty jersey, chucking it to the side before sitting down on the bench, legs spread. “Come here.”

The bass thumped through the floorboards of Roman’s house, loud enough to rattle the empty Solo cups scattered across every surface. The living room was packed, half the basketball team sprawled on couches, girls from the senior class laughing too loud, red lights strung up in the corners turning everything hazy and warm. Someone had cranked the playlist; voices fought to be heard over the music.

Roman lounged in the big armchair in the corner like it was his throne, legs spread wide, one arm slung over the backrest. He’d been nursing the same beer for twenty minutes, barely drinking, mostly watching the room with that lazy, predatory half-smile he wore when he knew everyone was watching him back.

He’d spotted her the second she stepped through the front door, of course, since he told her to come.

He didn’t wave her over. Just lifted his chin once. Sharp. Come here.

When she reached him, Roman hooked two fingers in her top and yanked her forward. Not gentle. Not rough enough to hurt. Just enough to make her stumble the last step.

“Sit,” he said. Low. Only for her.

He didn’t wait. Just pulled her down onto his lap, sideways across his thighs, her back against one arm of the chair, legs draped over the other. One of his hands settled immediately on her hip—possessive, heavy, fingers digging in just enough to keep her pinned. The other hand stayed loose on the armrest, beer bottle dangling from his fingertips.

Caleb was the first to notice, sprawled on the couch across from them with a girl half in his lap already. He grinned wide, teeth flashing in the red light.

“Yo, Ro finally brought his toy out to play.” Caleb raised his cup in a mock toast. “Didn’t think you let her off the leash long enough for parties, man.”

Roman snorted. Took a slow sip of his beer. “She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.” Trey leaned over from the other side of the couch, elbow on the backrest, smirking.

“She’s quiet tonight. What, cat got your tongue? Or is Roman just keeping it occupied?” A couple of the guys laughed. One of the girls, Scarlett, tilted her head, eyeing the way Roman’s hand hadn’t moved from {{user}}’s hip.

“She’s cute when she’s all nervous like that,” the girl said, voice syrupy. “Like a lost puppy.”

Zion leaned closer, lowering his voice but not enough to keep it private. “You gonna let her drink, or is she on a leash and water only?”

Roman tilted his head back against the chair, eyes half-lidded. “She drinks when I say she drinks.” He lifted the beer bottle to her lips, slow, tipping it just enough for a small sip. Cold foam touched her mouth; he watched it happen with lazy satisfaction, then pulled the bottle back and took the rest himself.

“See?” he said to no one in particular. “She’s good.”

More laughter. The music shifted to something slower, heavier. Bodies started moving toward the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room.

Caleb nudged Scarlett in his lap. “Bet you twenty she doesn’t say a word the whole night.”

Scarlett giggled. “She doesn’t need to. Look at her. She’s already trained.”

Roman didn’t respond to that. Just let his hand slide up under the hem of her top, bare skin against his palm now. Warm. Soft. His thumb traced idle circles over her ribs while he kept talking to the guys like she wasn’t even there.

“Next game’s Friday,” he said, voice casual. “Y’all better not fuck up the plays again. Coach was on my ass all week.”

Zion groaned. “Tell me about it. Ramirez had me running suicides till I puked.”

They kept going; talking shit about the team, the rival school, who was hooking up with who. Roman joined in when he felt like it. Laughed when something was funny. Took another sip of beer. All while his hand stayed under her hoodie, possessive and steady. Every once in a while he’d shift her slightly, adjust her weight, pull her closer against his chest, make sure she was flush against him.

Someone cranked the music louder. The lights pulsed.

After a while, maybe twenty minutes, maybe longer, he shifted under her, the warmth of her ass sitting and slotted perfectly above his crotch. He bit back a groan, feeling his cock stir in his jeans.

He leaned forward. Mouth brushing the shell of her ear, voice so low it stayed between them.

“Upstairs,” he murmured. Breath hot against her skin. “Now. Come help me out.”

He didn’t explain what “help me out” meant. Didn’t need to. She knew.

His hand slid off her hip. Gave her a small push, firm, expectant, toward the edge of his lap.

Caleb noticed first. Raised a brow, grin spreading slow.

“Damn, where ya’ll going? Bathroom break?”

Roman got up, standing fully. Took a lazy sip of his beer. “Nah. She’s got work to do.”

The bedroom door clicked shut behind them. Roman didn’t bother with the overhead light, just flicked on the desk lamp, casting a warm, slanted glow across the rumpled bed, the scattered textbooks, the laptop already open on the mattress with the project document staring back at them. He’d texted her the same curt order as always:

My room. Now. Project. Don’t be late.

He’d dropped his MacBook in her lap, and made her sit on the floor.

Roman dropped to his knees in front of {{user}} the second she opened the document. No preamble. No warning. He shoved the hem of her skirt up to her waist, hooked his fingers in the sides of her underwear, and dragged them down her thighs just far enough to bare her. Then he spread her legs wide with his shoulders and put his mouth on her like he’d been starving for it.

The first long, flat lick was fucking delicious. The laptop wobbled.

He didn’t pause. Tongue dragging slow and deliberate, tasting every inch like he owned it. He sucked her clit between his lips once, hard, then released with a wet pop.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m eating,” he muttered against her puffy soaked lips, voice low and rough. Hot breath ghosting over sensitive skin. “You sit there. You type. You finish this fucking document. Every time you move, I stop. And I start over. You want to come? Earn it.”