Page 87 of Beautifully Damned
“Look at me, Ayla. Tell me this isn’t a dream.”
“It’s real, Roman,” I say with my eyes on his.
His body slams into mine in one deep, delicious thrust. The sudden fullness makes me cry out, nails raking down his back. This is only the second time I’ve had sex in my life, and I’m still adjusting.
“Fuck—so tight,” he grits. His pace is hard, relentless, every thrust driving me higher. I cling to him until the coil inside me snaps, and I’m unraveling. Roman curses, his thrusts faltering as he follows me over the edge, spilling into me.
“You’re the only one I’ve ever loved, Ayla. The only one I will ever love. I’ll spend my whole fucking life proving it.” He groans.
?Chapter LVI?
AYLA
My hand stretches across the bed, searching for Roman, but finds nothing but cold sheets. Panic strikes me, and my eyes snap open. Then the scent of something warm and savory drifts in from the kitchen, and a tremor of relief slides down my spine.
He didn’t leave me this time. I swing my legs over the bed and pad to the bathroom. Steam rises around me as the warm water hits my skin, carrying away the tension and soreness left from the night.
The shower door opens, and Roman stands there with his arms crossed.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he grumbles. “Breakfast in bed.”
I step out, wrapping my towel tightly around me, squeezing water from my hair.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s the thought that counts.”
He presses his lips to my shoulder in a kiss before scooping me up, carrying me back to the bed. I can’t help the laugh that bursts from me as I land, and the towel slips. I clutch it, eyes wide and cheeks warm.
“Don’t move,” he warns, heading to the kitchen. “I’ll get your breakfast.”
He returns with a tray stacked with eggs, pancakes, and French toast, syrup glistening. He sets the tray on my lap and sits beside me.
“I had no idea you could cook this well,” I say around the bite.
He eats from the same fork. “I couldn’t have not learned,” he says quietly. “Food always mattered. I couldn’t afford not to know.”
I swallow, feeling the omelet stick slightly in my throat. He has endured so much, carried so much.
“You’re really good at it,” I say. He grins, shoving more bites into my mouth, and I let him.
“Do you know what’s more delicious than this?” he asks, raising a brow.
“What?” I mimic the gesture, raising one brow.
“You,” he says simply. He pushes the tray aside and leans into me, mouth attacking my neck and jawline. I feel the heat of him press through the towel. My pulse hammers as my body stiffens in anticipation. Then my phone rings from somewhere in the house, breaking the spell.
“I need to see who’s calling,” I murmur, pushing him away reluctantly. As I walk to answer the phone, I feel the echo of him behind me.
When I see Elena’s name on the screen, a little of the dread in my stomach loosens. I sink into the couch, Roman settling beside me.
“Mrs. Volkov,” Elena’s voice sighs through the line.
“You’re not on speaker, Elena,” I murmur, fingers tangling in my damp hair.
“Ayla,” she shifts immediately. “Pakhan with you,da?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine,” I assure her. Even with all his darkness, his brutal control over the Bratva, they still care about him deeply.
“Thank God. He eat? Still get fever?” Elena’s words tumble.
