Chapter 17

Ariana's POV

The name wouldn't leave my head.

Clara.

It repeated itself like a cruel echo, following me from Roman’s room back to mine, into my bed, under my skin. I didn’t sleep much. Just lay there, replaying every touch, every kiss, every whispered word Roman had ever said to me… wondering if they had been hers first.

Was she the reason for the shadows in his eyes?

Was I just a replacement?

By morning, the air between us felt… different.

He didn’t say anything as we passed each other in the hall. Just that slow, measured stare he always gave me. It used to make me melt. Now, it made my stomach twist.

I knew I was being quiet. Cold, even. But I didn’t know how to fake it. Not with him. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to.

Roman walked into the kitchen shirtless, his gray sweats hanging low on his hips, and paused when he saw me at the counter, clutching a mug I hadn’t touched.

“You good?” he asked, tone careful.

I nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been quiet.”

I tried to smile. “Just tired.”

His jaw flexed. “Bullshit.”

I looked away. His steps were soft as he crossed the kitchen, stopping right in front of me. “Talk to me.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said bullshit.”

I swallowed.

His hand came up, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. “What happened?”

I stared at his chest. The scars I’d once kissed. The one over his rib that made me ache for him.

I couldn’t say it. I didn’t want to sound jealous. I didn’t even know what Clara was to him friend? lover?.

He cupped my jaw, gently, tilting my face toward his. “Ariana.”

I hated how soft my name sounded in his mouth.

I stepped back.

His hand dropped. His eyes darkened.

“You’re pulling away,” he said flatly.

I nodded.

“Why?”

I stared down into my untouched coffee. My voice came out small. “Clara.”

Silence.

I felt it the instant his body went still.

Then came the wall. The one he built between us in seconds.

“You went through my shit?” he asked quietly.

I looked up. “It was an accident.”

“Accidents don’t open drawers, Ariana.”

My chest tightened. “You didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t even know you had a.."

“She’s not anything.”

His voice cracked through the space between us, sharp and low.

I flinched. “Then why is her name in your room? Why is it carved into your goddamn drawer like a scar?”

His nostrils flared. “You don’t get to ask about scars you didn’t bleed for.”

Tears stung my eyes. “You don’t get to touch me like I’m yours if you still belong to her.”

That broke something.

Roman moved.

One second I was standing by the counter, and the next, my back was against it, and he was in front of me, caging me in with nothing but heat and fury and the most desperate, wounded look I’d ever seen on his face.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” he breathed, voice shaking. “But if I did…”

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

His fingers slid into my hair.

“It wouldn’t be Clara.”

His mouth crashed onto mine, and I shattered.

Every ounce of distance I tried to keep melted under the weight of his kiss. His hand gripped my hip, the other fisting my shirt as he backed me against the counter and took.

Not in a way that demanded.

In a way that begged.

He kissed me like he was drowning. Like I was the only thing keeping him from going under.

His hands roamed my body like he needed to memorize me — fingertips skating under my shirt, tracing the bare skin of my back.

I gasped against his mouth. “Roman…”

He pulled back just enough to speak.

“She meant something. Once. But she’s gone. You… you’re fucking here, Ariana. In my room. In my head. Under my skin.”

He kissed me again.

I whimpered.

He lifted me onto the counter in one motion and stepped between my legs, kissing down my neck, sucking just beneath my jaw — marking me, like always.

One hand slid up my thigh, pushing my shorts aside. His fingers traced along the edge of my panties, teasing.

“Still think I want someone else?” he rasped against my skin.

I couldn’t even answer.

His fingers slipped beneath the lace and found me hot, wet, ready.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice trembling now. “All fucking mine.”

And he proved it with slow, punishing strokes of his fingers, with kisses that tasted like pain and need and promises we’d never say out loud.

I came with his name in my mouth.

And when he held me after, forehead pressed to mine, his lips trembling against my cheek…

…I realized he wasn’t just scared of losing me.

He was scared of being seen.

And now that I’d seen him really seen him…

There was no turning back.

The house was too quiet.

I padded down the hallway, barefoot, still in my sleep shorts and oversized tee. Sunday mornings were usually quiet—Roman would either be studying, brooding somewhere with his headphones in, or locked away in his room pretending I didn’t exist.

But something felt different today.

The door to his room was cracked open, just barely. A soft flicker of blue light spilled into the hallway. I hesitated. Roman never left his door open, not even an inch.

My curiosity got the better of me.

I nudged the door open slowly.

That’s when I saw him.

Roman was sitting on the edge of his bed, shirtless, his lean muscles flexed under the dim glow of his computer screen. His head was tilted slightly back, mouth parted. His hand gripped his thigh tight. On the screen in front of him, a woman moaned breathlessly as a man moved between her legs, fucking her hard.

I froze.

Every nerve in my body lit up.

His eyes were locked on the screen, but somehow, I felt like he knew I was there. Like he wanted me to see.

I should’ve backed out. I didn’t.

Instead, I took a step in.

The floor creaked beneath my foot. His eyes flicked toward me instantly. The moment stretched, breathless.

I opened my mouth to apologize to run but his voice stopped me.

"Come here, Ari."

It wasn’t a question.

My heart thundered in my chest. My feet moved on their own.

He didn’t speak again as I approached. His laptop was still playing the video flesh meeting flesh, soft gasps echoing in the room. My cheeks burned. My thighs pressed together involuntarily.

Roman reached out and grabbed my wrist, gently pulling me between his knees. I was standing right in front of him, and he looked up at me with eyes that burned.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

I swallowed.

He tugged me closer until I was standing between his legs. "You saw Clara’s name and started acting like I don’t fuckin’ breathe for you."

My lip trembled. "Then tell me who she is."

"No."

"Why?"

His hand slid up my thigh, under the hem of my shirt. His fingers brushed my bare skin. My breath caught.

"Because tonight isn’t about her. It’s about you. About us."

I shivered.

He stood slowly, towering over me now. One hand wrapped around my waist. The other moved to cup my cheek.

"Do you want me to stop?"

I shook my head.

He lowered his mouth to mine. Soft. Testing. Then deeper. His tongue slid past my lips, and I melted into him.

His hands explored my back, my thighs, the swell of my ass. I gasped as he lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. He carried me to the bed and laid me down gently, like I was something precious.

His mouth never left mine.

We were a tangle of limbs and quiet whimpers. I could feel the hard press of him against me through his boxers. My body was trembling, craving more.

He pulled back and looked into my eyes.

"You’ve never done this before."

It wasn’t a question.

I nodded, breathless. "I want to. With you."

Something changed in his expression like the air shifted.

He undressed me slowly.

My shirt came off first. Then my panties. He touched every inch of me, whispering things against my skin.

"You're so fucking beautiful ari" he said.

His fingers slid between my thighs, gently parting me. Exploring.

I moaned, soft and desperate.

He kissed his way down my body. Took his time. Worshipped me.

By the time he slid a finger inside me, I was panting, writhing, aching.

"It’s gonna hurt, baby. Just a little. I’ll go slow."

I nodded.

He undressed fully, and my breath caught.

His cock was thick. Long. Beautiful. I bit my lip, nerves returning in waves.

He positioned himself between my thighs, kissed my forehead, and whispered, "Breathe."

Then he pushed in.

The stretch burned. My nails dug into his arms.

He paused. Kissed me. Whispered again. "Just a little more. You’re doing so good, baby."

When he was fully inside, I felt full. His. Claimed in a way I couldn’t undo.

He rocked into me, slow and careful at first. His name left my lips like a prayer. The pain faded, replaced with something blinding and addictive.

Our bodies moved in rhythm. He kissed me hard, touched me like he was afraid I’d disappear. We went on for about fifteen minutes and Then he flipped me over.

Doggy. He pounded into me deeper now. Harder.

"Ohh fuck roman" i moan out

My moans were shameless. I didn’t care. I needed all of him. Every inch.

"You feel so fucking good," he growled.

He flipped me again. Missionary. My legs wrapped around him. Our foreheads pressed together. He kissed me as he drove into me, deep and slow, until I was shaking.

"Come for me, Ari."

"Roman I'm so close" i whispered as i could feel my cream building up.

I did.

Hard. Loud. My body seized and shattered under his.

He followed, coming inside me with a loud grunt, his hips jerking as he emptied himself.

We lay there, sweaty, tangled, breathless.

I was no longer just his stepsister.

I was his.

Roman’s POV

It was Sunday morning, and she was still in my bed tangled in my sheets, hair messy, body soft from sleep.

And I couldn’t stop staring at her.

Last night… I’d taken everything she offered. Her first time. Her trust. Her body. And she gave it all to me with her heart in her eyes like she didn’t know I was the worst kind of man to love.

I had no right to her softness. But I wasn’t giving it back.

Ever.

I slipped out of bed quietly, pressing one last kiss to her bare shoulder before heading to the kitchen. The floor was cool against my feet. The apartment was still. Still carrying the scent of her. Sex, warmth, and that vanilla perfume she always wore that clung to my skin like a promise.

I cracked eggs into a pan, grabbed bread for toast, and turned the coffee maker on. I didn’t know what I was doing—trying to play the part of a boyfriend when I’d never been one. But for her, I wanted to try.

She deserved breakfast in bed.

She deserved everything.

The eggs were nearly done when I felt her behind me—her bare feet padding softly into the kitchen. She was wearing my shirt, hanging loosely over her thighs. And nothing else.

Fuck.

She rubbed her eyes sleepily, blinking at the sound of sizzling butter. “You cook?”

I turned, spatula still in my hand. “I do when you’re here.”

A smile tugged at her lips, slow and sweet. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” My voice was rougher than I meant. “Sit.”

She hopped up onto the counter like she owned the place, legs swinging as she watched me finish cooking. I placed a plate in front of her — eggs, toast, strawberries. Simple. But she looked at it like I gave her the moon.

She picked up a strawberry, biting into it slowly. Her eyes flicked to me. “This feels… normal.”

I leaned back against the opposite counter, arms crossed. “It’s not?”

She shrugged, chewing. “I don’t know. I didn’t think this was going to be normal. Us.”

I nodded. Because she was right. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t safe or predictable or easy. But it was real.

And it scared the hell out of me.

She finished her food quietly while I drank my coffee and pretended not to notice how fucking perfect she looked in my shirt. Then she hopped down and walked over to me, her fingers brushing my wrist before she slid her arms around my waist.

“I liked waking up with you,” she whispered.

My arms locked around her instantly.

“I liked watching you wake up,” I muttered back into her hair.

We stood like that for a long minute. Just breathing. Her pressed into my chest. My hands smoothing down her back. Her heartbeat slow and steady against mine.

She pulled back slightly to look up at me. “Are you okay?”

That question again.

Why did she keep asking?

Was she waiting for me to break?

I nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. Her hand slid to my chest, her fingers brushing over the place where my heart beat too fast.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

I leaned down and kissed her.

Slow. Deep. Sweet.

It wasn’t about sex — not yet.

It was about staying. Choosing. Holding on.

When I pulled back, her lips were kiss-bruised and flushed, and she looked at me like I was worth loving.

And fuck, I wanted to believe it.

Maybe I could.

At least for today.