Touched By An Angel... Drained By A Succubus (Roman Godfrey X Reader)
A/N: This oneshot is an anon request. Alsooo I’ve mentioned before how Katie McGarry’s books influenced me and I think it’s only right we get Roman’s POV for this one! (think S1 when he’s upir but doesn’t know it yet and just has this “ugliness” inside of him.)
Summary: Roman thinks you’re innocent—which, to be fair, isn’t entirely wrong. But once you cash in your V-card, he quickly realizes he seriously underestimated you.
Warnings: 18+, NSFW, fluff, loss of virginity, explicit sexual depictions, oral, light bondage, foul language, alcohol/drug use, maybe some angst? Kinda love bombing imo, back at it with religious/angelic references (sorry to the anon who requested this but you can’t bring up an innocent virgin and expect me not to make it a religious experience), Reader is insatiable and Roman will never know peace again.
Word Count: 15.2k uhhh… so yeahhh it definitely got a little out of hand here.
Part two
Roman
Letha’s been talking about angels again.
Some dream she had. She says it felt real—holy, even. Like a sign. Archangel Gabriel visiting Mary type of shit. She talks about it like it was beautiful. Like it meant something.
I think she’s cracked.
I’ve only ever set foot in a church for funerals, and even then, I waited outside most of the time, smoking instead of wasting my breath on prayers no one’s listening to. God’s never shown up for me. Can’t say I blame him.
She walks next to me through the halls of Hemlock High, still wrapped up in her fantasy, her voice all lit up like something’s watching over her. But the lights above us flicker like they’re about to burn out, and the whole building hums with decay. If angels exist, they’re not here.
It’s the first day back after summer break, and everything already smells like sweat, stale ambition, and whatever cheap cologne’s trending this week. The eyes are back too. Watching. Whispering. Letha gets the saint treatment. I get the devil in designer clothes.
She smiles at people. I don’t.
We pass the trophy case, and some underclassmen part like we’re royalty. Or poison. Same difference.
She keeps talking about the dream. Her voice is light, almost reverent. Like she’s trying to keep something sacred alive in a place that only knows how to kill it.
“Do you think it means something?” Letha asks, glancing up at me like I might actually say yes.
I let out a short laugh, running a hand through my hair. “Means you need to lay off the NyQuil before bed, cuz.”
She doesn’t laugh. She just keeps walking, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder in a way that makes it obvious I’ve hit a nerve.
The halls buzz with that familiar cocktail of hormones and insecurity. Girls pretend not to look at me; their boyfriends pretend it doesn’t bother them. But it does. I see it in the clenched jaws, the stiffened posture, the way their hands clamp just a little tighter around their girlfriends’ waists—like that’ll stop her eyes from wandering.
I can’t help but smirk.
I’d almost feel bad for them—if I didn’t get such a kick out of watching them squirm.
Letha’s voice pulls me back in, still going on about angels and signs like she’s some kind of prophet, but I’m way past giving a damn. The halls are a tired mess of whispers and sideways glances, and I’m just counting down the minutes until my next cigarette.
“You really don’t believe in anything, do you?” she asks, almost pouting.
“Sure I do.” I smirk, deciding to have a little fun with it. “I believe in nicotine, in fucking like I invented it, and the last time I heard angels sing, Brooke Bluebell was begging me not to stop.”
She scrunches her face in a full-on grimace. “Ew, Roman!”
I can’t help it—I burst out laughing and reach for her shoulder, trying to steady myself. The look on her face is too good, like I just personally offended God.
The bell slams through my laughter—a brutal reminder that the day’s begun and summer’s officially over. I let out the last of it with a breath, still grinning as the hallway stirs back to life.
The crowd breaks apart, scattering like crows at the sound of a shotgun. Letha rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me, but there’s the faintest trace of a smile before she turns and disappears into her English class.
I walk a few doors down and slip into History, the grin already fading. Back to reality.
The classroom door feels like a cage snapping shut behind me. I slide into my usual spot—back corner, where nobody bothers me. The teacher drones through roll call, the list of names a litany of wasted potential. I zone out, counting ceiling tiles, running my fingers along the scuffed edge of my desk.
Then the door opens again.
She walks in like she’s not sure she’s allowed to. Cheeks flushed, eyes down, arms folded like she’s trying to hide inside herself. It’s subtle, but the whole room shifts. People notice.
So do I.
Dark hair falling neatly around pale skin. Winged eyeliner sharp as a knife. Oversized sweater swallowing her small hands. And her eyes—icy blue, wide and uncertain. Like someone who still expects the world to be kind, even when it proves otherwise.
She’s beautiful.
Not in the obvious, desperate way most of the girls in Hemlock are—no heavy makeup, no fake-ass smile, no push-up bra screaming for attention.
She’s the kind of beautiful that doesn’t know it yet. The kind that doesn’t try; doesn’t have to. Cute, quiet, shy. Soft around the edges in a way this place will eat alive.
And under that oversized sweater—unbuttoned just enough to tease—is a shirt that hugs every curve. Tight waist, long legs, and yeah… amazing tits. But she’s not putting them on display. It’s like she doesn’t even know they’re a weapon yet.
That just makes it worse. Or better. I haven’t decided.
“Take a seat next to Roman,” Mrs. Rowe says, pointing vaguely in my direction.
I’ll be damned. Maybe God’s finally throwing me a bone—a fragile, porcelain one, in the shape of a teenage girl.
For a split second, I let myself believe it.
But then I remember—god doesn’t give a damn about guys like me.
I huff out a laugh, low and sharp, and shove the thought down before it even has a chance to take hold.
Damn. Letha really got in my head this morning.
She walks slowly, quietly, like she’s afraid even her footsteps are too loud. Her arms wrap the sweater tighter around herself. She doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze, not even mine. And when she sits down beside me, it’s like a ripple goes through the room—except I’m the only one who feels it.
She smells like strawberries.
The real kind, not the fake candy version girls here usually drown themselves in. Something softer. Natural. Sweet.
And fuck, she looks just as sweet as she smells.
I stare straight ahead, trying to pretend I’m not already thinking about her—those lips, that body, the way her fingers might feel if she touched me. Trying not to care. Trying to bury whatever this is. But the ache is there, low and hot, curling in my gut like a secret I don’t want to get out.
I steal a glance—just one.
She’s got her head down, doodling in a notebook like the paper’s safer than people. Her lip is caught between her teeth, her hands still hiding in her sleeves.
Like this, she almost looks breakable.
And all I can think is, I shouldn't be anywhere near her.
Not with the things I think. The things I want.
Not with the way people like me ruin everything we touch.
Still, she’s here.
Looking innocent in a way that makes my chest ache and my pants tighten.
Fuck me.
Maybe Letha’s right. Maybe angels do exist. But if so, this one’s already fallen—and now she’s sitting next to the worst kind of sinner.
Reader
Everyone in this school has a staring problem.
Not the normal, curious “oh, new girl” kind of stares. No. These are different. Lingering. Pinning. Like they’re trying to dissect me without saying a word. Like I walked into their perfect little snow globe world and knocked something off the shelf.
I pull my sweater tighter, wishing it could swallow me whole. Like maybe if I hide deep enough in the folds, I can skip this part. The part with the burning stares, the awkward first lunch, the low-grade humiliation that clings to every second of being new.
Because it’s not just the stares. It’s the silence between them. The whispers that stop just a second too late. The way everyone already seems to know each other, like their roles have been carved in stone since freshman year, and I missed the casting call.
But I made it through three classes.
That’s something.
And, okay—maybe I made a friend.
Letha Godfrey. Ethereal. Effortlessly kind. The kind of girl who makes you want to believe genuine friendship still exists. She sat next to me in chemistry, complimented my eyeliner, smiled like she meant it, and told me I could sit with her at lunch.
Just like that.
And now here I am, walking toward the cafeteria, trying to pretend I don’t feel like I’m about to throw up. I suck in a breath, hold it for a second. I can do this. I’m sweet—charming, even. People like me. I can make friends, no problem. I just have to get past the shyness first.
I spot her almost immediately. Long blonde hair, shining like she stepped straight out of a Pantene commercial. My nerves twist themselves into knots. She’s already at a table near the center of the room, surrounded by people who look like they’ve never had an awkward phase in their lives.
And next to her—
Slouched.
Legs spread.
Looking like he owns the school and might burn it down out of boredom—
Roman Godfrey.
His eyes meet mine before I’m even halfway across the room.
Green. Sharp. Unwavering.
And suddenly I forget how to breathe.
Roman was the first person I noticed staring at me today. First period, History. He sat in the back corner like the class didn’t matter—like nothing really did. I was assigned a seat next to him, and his eyes kept drifting toward me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Not in that gross, obvious way most guys stare. His glances were slower. Measured. Like he was trying to figure something out.
And if I hadn’t been so busy trying not to blush under the weight of it, I might’ve enjoyed it more.
Now, under his gaze, my skin prickles with heat. I want to look away, but my feet keep carrying me closer—to Letha, to their table, to him.
Letha waves me over, smiling like this is the easiest thing in the world. Like we’re already friends and not two people who just shared a lab table and some small talk.
I try to smile back, but it feels shaky at best. I probably look like I’m about to cry, throw up, or spiral completely. Honestly, I’d prefer to do none of the above. Fingers crossed I can hold it together through lunch.
Roman doesn’t blink.
His gaze hooks into me like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. And I hate how aware I am of it. The way his lips tug at the corner like he’s got a secret. The way his fingers toy with a silver ring on his hand like he’s bored—but still watching. It only makes the churning in my stomach worse. Whether it’s nausea or butterflies, I honestly can’t tell. All I know is he’s hot. Like, stupidly hot. And it’s making me feel jittery, off balance, and way too flustered to think straight.
I take a breath. Then another. My heart’s punching against my ribs like it’s got somewhere better to be. I remind myself that it’s just lunch. Just a table. Just a girl who’s being nice to me.
Just a boy who makes it hard to think.
No big deal… right?
Letha’s smile brightens as I reach the table. She leans forward and pats the seat across from her. I slide in, setting my binders and books down with a soft thump. My sleeves slip down over my hands again as I fold them in my lap, fingers immediately fidgeting with the fabric—anything to distract myself from Roman’s eyes.
Letha leans in, her voice soft like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Me too,” I say quietly. “You kind of saved me from eating in the bathroom.”
She laughs, bright and warm. “That is the alternative for most new kids, yeah. But now you’ve got me, so you’re safe.”
Roman doesn’t say anything. He just leans back in his seat with that half-lidded, unreadable look, still spinning his ring with slow fingers. I don’t look at him, but I feel him. Every shift. Every glance. Just like in history class.
“So,” Letha starts, turning to me like this is the part she’s been waiting for, “Ashley Valentine’s throwing her annual back-to-school party this Friday. It’s at her lake house—massive bonfire, music, keg, regrettable decisions—standard high school chaos.”
My stomach dips again. I’m not really a party person. Too many people, too much noise, and way too much opportunity to humiliate myself.
“I don’t know...” I start, already wincing at how lame I sound.
“You should come,” Letha says, cutting off my hesitation with a grin. “Seriously. You can stick with me the whole time. No pressure. But it’s kind of a thing here, and it’s a good way to meet people without the awkward ‘what class are you in?’ crap.”
“She doesn’t seem like the type,” Roman cuts in, quiet, like a thought he didn’t mean to say out loud.
I glance at him, caught off guard, and there they are again. Those eyes. Striking, magnetic. God, they're beautiful. No—he's beautiful. And distracting. Effortlessly so. His slicked back hair is just tousled enough to look like he ran his fingers through it, and I can't help but wonder what it would feel like tangled in mine.
The thought barely forms before I rein it in and arch a brow. “And what type is that?”
Letha groans. “Ignore him. He’s allergic to manners.”
Roman shrugs. “I’m just saying. You seem like the ‘stay home with a book’ type. Classic good girl.”
Heat flares in my chest. Good girl. Like that’s a bad thing. Like he’s already put me in a box and closed the lid.
“You don’t know what type I am.” I say, sharper than I intended.
Something shifts in his expression, so quick I almost miss it. But it’s there. Interest sharpening. Like, I surprised him.
“I’m figuring it out,” he says.
And just like that, my mouth goes dry.
Letha glances between us, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a movie and isn’t sure if it’s a rom-com or the setup to a psychological thriller. “Okayyy… weird tension noted,” she says, half-laughing. “Anyway, please come. Seriously. It’ll be fun, I promise!”
I hesitate. My brain’s still stuck on the way he said it—I’m figuring it out. Like I’m a challenge. A Rubik’s Cube he’s just picked up, already twisting pieces into place to see how I work.
And somehow, that makes me want to go more.
“Yeah.” I say, “I’ll come.”
Letha beams. “Yes! Perfect. You can come to my house first. We’ll get ready together, raid my closet, all that girly stuff!”
Roman doesn't say anything. But he doesn’t stop looking at me either.
And when Letha turns to someone else, pulling them into a conversation about the party playlist, I glance at him—just a flick of my eyes.
He’s still watching.
And this time, he smiles. Just barely.
But it’s there.
Roman
The bass is already rattling the floorboards, beer-soaked air thick with sweat, smoke, and teenage hormones. Someone spilled a drink two songs ago, and the floor’s still sticky. The back deck’s full of people making bad decisions in the dark, and inside, at the beer pong table, I’ve been on a winning streak for half an hour.
Lightweight girls teeter on the edge of drunk, squealing every time the ball bounces, like it’s their first party and they’ve never seen a ping pong ball before. I’ve already taken forty bucks off two guys who thought backwards hats and letterman jackets made them legends—like they’re destined for frat greatness and this is step one.
The ball lands in the last cup with a clean plunk.
The guy across from me groans, dragging a hand through his hair like I just ended his career. Technically, I ended his wallet.
I flash a grin around the rim of my Solo cup, tilt it back, and drain the last of the beer. Victory tastes like pouty little douchebags and easy money.
I hear Letha’s laugh, and my eyes flick toward the door.
Backlit by porch lights like some twisted teenage holy vision—raven hair glowing at the edges, bare shoulders catching the light in the most distracting way. Legs for days. The dress is hugging her like it’s afraid to let go. She’s trying to look like she belongs, but the nerves are stitched into every inch of her posture.
She’s ditched the sweater. Good. It was hiding things I’d like very much not to be hidden.
My heart stalls. Just for a second.
Letha and her fucking angels.
That’s what she looks like, anyway—otherworldly, uncertain, too soft for this party, and too pretty not to cause a scene. The room stills when she walks in. I feel it. That breathless pause. Heads turn. Voices lower. Even the music feels like it dips.
She doesn’t notice the whole world stopped just for her—okay, maybe just my world.
She’s too busy clinging to Letha’s arm like it’s a life raft in a sea full of sharks.
And I don’t blame her. Every guy here won’t stop staring, circling like they’ve just caught a whiff of fresh blood.
Too bad for them; I won’t be letting anyone close enough to even breathe in her sweet, strawberry scent, let alone taste her.
I lean back against the table, arms crossed, letting the world slowly start moving around me again. I don’t move. I just watch. Make sure none of these dumbfucks try anything.
I can’t believe she actually showed up. She looked like she was going to be sick when Letha even mentioned this party. I figured she'd come up with some excuse, blow the whole thing off.
But she’s here.
And I can’t take my fucking eyes off her.
The music swells again—some shitty remix with too much bass. I barely notice. Because she’s still looking around the room, still smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress, still holding her breath like she’s waiting to be swallowed whole.
Letha spots me first. Her teal eyes narrow, like she already knows the gears turning in my head. Knows I’ve already made a decision she’s not going to like. She leans in, says something to my angel, and steers her toward the beer pong table.
I wait until they’re within earshot before speaking. Smooth. Confident. A hint of challenge beneath the tease.
“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”
She jumps. Just barely. But I catch it. That flicker of surprise before she straightens, trying to play it cool.
“Guess I’m full of surprises.” Chin up. Shoulders squared. Like she’s daring me to push.
Cute.
Letha shoots me a look as Ashley Valentine starts to pull her away. The kind that says, Behave. The don’t-you-dare-flirt-with-my-new-friend kind.
I ignore it.
“I’d say you look amazing, but that feels like underselling it,” I say, eyes flicking down, then back up. She always looked beautiful in school but now, in that dress, it’s like words don’t even come close.
I watch as her cheeks go pink, and I like it. I like knowing I can make her blush—make her breath catch with just one compliment. Makes me wonder what other reactions I could pull from her… if she let me.
I bite my lip, fighting a smirk, watching as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other, fingers brushing down the front of her dress like she needs something to do with her hands.
“Thanks,” she says, quiet but sincere. Then, after a beat, her gaze lifts to mine again. “You look... good too.”
I raise an eyebrow, teasing. “Just good? Not damn good?”
She ducks her head, laughing softly, and it sounds like something rare, like something she doesn’t give away easily.
“Okay, fine,” she says, blue eyes sparkling. “You look damn good. Happy?”
“Very.” I grin, leaning just slightly closer. “I knew you'd admit it eventually. And lucky I for you, I like being admired.”
Her eyes go wide for half a second, then she rolls them, trying to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she mumbles, smiling despite herself.
“Too late,” I say softly, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.
She opens her mouth, but before she can say a word, someone behind us calls my name, loud and impatient. Time for the next round.
I let my gaze linger. Hold her there a second longer. Let her feel it. Then I push off the table, grabbing the ping pong ball from a red cup and spinning it between my fingers.
I take another drink, letting the beer wash over the wicked thoughts clawing at the back of my mind.
Because if she’s an angel, then damn me—I’m already halfway to hell just for wondering how fast I could clip off her wings.
And maybe how soft they’d feel in my hands.
Reader
The party drags on—louder, sloppier. Music warps into one endless, thumping heartbeat, and the living room starts to feel too full, like the walls are closing in on me. Somewhere between someone throwing up in the sink and a girl crying over a Snapchat story, Letha laces her fingers through mine and tugs me outside.
“Bonfire’s this way,” she says with a knowing smile, like she can tell I’m two seconds from bolting.
The night air hits my skin like a lifeline—cool, pine-scented, and quiet in a way the house isn’t. The yard stretches into a clearing where a crackling bonfire kicks shadows across everyone’s faces. People sprawl out on blankets or sit in collapsible chairs, red Solo cups tipped lazily between their fingers.
Letha and I find a spot on a log near the edge, and someone passes us both drinks of spiked cider, syrup-sweet and deceptively strong. I sip it slowly, hoping it’ll smooth the nerves out of my hands.
But my thoughts are stuck.
Stuck on Roman. Stuck on the moment his voice dipped low, smooth like velvet but rough around the edges, saying I looked amazing like it was a fact. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world—something I should already know about myself. Could he really think I’m that beautiful?
I’ve replayed it in my head at least ten times since.
The way his eyes dragged over me, slow and focused. The way his smirk curled just at the corner, like he knew something I didn’t. It was too much. And still… not enough.
And that scares me.
Because he’s the guy girls warn each other about. The first thing I heard about him, before I even knew his name, was he’s a player. A heartbreaker. The kind of beautiful that causes pain. The human version of a rose—gorgeous, but built to bleed you if you get too close.
I should know better.
But still… there was something different in the way he flirted with me. Like I wasn’t just another girl at another party. Like he wasn’t just bored and looking for a distraction. Like, somehow, it meant something. Like I meant something.
God, I want it to mean something.
I’m probably being stupid.
I’m definitely being stupid.
A guy claps his hands by the fire, dragging me back to reality. “Let’s play a game,” he says, grinning.
Groans and cheers ripple around the fire.
“It’s like Never Have I Ever,” he explains. “Five fingers. You hear something you’ve done, put one down. The last person with fingers up wins. Losers drink.”
A few people laugh and raise their hands without question. Letha lifts hers with an easy smile and nudges me until I raise mine too. I do it slowly, still half-trapped in the haze Roman left behind.
The first question comes quickly:
“Put a finger down if you’ve ever smoked weed.”
Letha drops one immediately, no shame in the smirk she tosses me.
I glance at her, wide-eyed. “Really? You told some guy no earlier.”
She shrugs, laughing. “It was one time! Roman convinced me! I didn’t even inhale right.”
A few people laugh, but I keep my finger up. Letha gives me a mock-scandalized look.
Another question:
“Put a finger down if you’ve ever lied to your parents about where you were.”
That one’s easy. I drop a finger and sip my drink.
Next:
“Put a finger down if you’ve ever hooked up with someone at a party.”
More laughter. More fingers fall.
I hesitate, then keep mine up.
The fire pops and shifts. Sparks spiral into the sky like dying stars. And then the guy running the game looks at me and grins.
“Put a finger down if you’ve had sex.”
My stomach does this weird swoop, like I missed a step. Around the circle, fingers fall. Some hesitantly. Some proudly.
I don’t move.
My hand hovers in the air—four fingers raised, standing out like a neon sign.
Still a virgin.
I try not to overthink it. Try not to feel like the world is caving in on itself. But then—glass shatters. Someone threw a bottle into the fire, and the sharp crack jolts through me.
And that’s when I see him.
Roman.
From across the fire, half-shadowed, cigarette dangling from his fingers, his eyes are locked on me. Not mocking. Not smug. Just… focused. Curious in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
His lips are slightly parted. His head tilts—like something about me just got a lot more interesting.
Like the information just told him something he didn’t expect. Or maybe something he hoped for.
The moment stretches—soft, slow, suspended in the smoke between us.
Then someone laughs and throws a marshmallow into the flames. The circle shifts again, attention moving on. But not his.
He’s still watching.
I glance away fast, cheeks warm. I stare down at my drink, pretending to be fascinated by the amber liquid in my cup. But my fingers are still trembling, like they know something I don’t want to admit.
That I want him to look at me like that again.
That I want him to mean it.
Even if I know better.
Roman
This bathroom is too pristine for what I’m about to do.
Marble countertops. Gold fixtures. Probably costs more than my Jaguar. I stare at myself in the mirror for a second—eyes red, jaw tight, every inch of me vibrating with the need to shut everything up. The dull thump of the party hums through the walls; muted bass and bad decisions soaked into every square inch of the house.
I twist the cap off the little vial.
As the powder spills onto the counter, my mind flashes—not to the party, not to the noise outside—but to her.
Four fingers raised.
She hasn’t had sex.
She’s untouched—pure. Holding onto something that half the people at this party threw away the first chance they got. And yet, there she was—chin lifted, cheeks burning, owning it like it meant something.
It does mean something.
It means I should stay the hell away from her.
It means I won’t.
Because I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to be the first.
To be the one she lets take that soft, wide-eyed version of her and unravel it slowly.
To see how far she’d let herself fall before the halo slipped.
God, I’m so fucked up.
I grind the edge of the credit card into the powder and exhale through my nose. My chest’s already tight, pulse already skipping.
I shouldn’t want her like this.
But I do.
I want to see if she’d let me in—not just the physical part, not just the body, but the trust. The surrender.
Would she lean into it? Would she fall for real? Would she look at me like I was worth it?
Fuck, I want that more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.
To be the one she chooses when she’s ready to give that part of herself away. Not because I talked her into it. Not because I played it right. But because it was me.
Because she saw something good in me no one else ever has and said, yes.
I want to be good enough to hold her without making her regret it.
I lean down, inhaling just as the door creaks open behind me.
I hear the gasp before I see who it is.
Shit. Too late to play innocent.
I glance up, still hunched over the counter, wiping at my nose like it makes a difference now.
And there she is.
My porcelain-perfect angel.
Frozen in the doorway like she walked into a crime scene. Her eyes are huge, dark lashes fluttering as they dart from the counter to me, then back again—like she’s trying to make sense of it. Like she initially thought better of me.
Her lips part, but nothing comes out.
Fucking perfect. Just what I needed. The girl I want more than anything to be good enough for, looking at me like she just stumbled into the devil’s den. I straighten up, slow and stupidly casual. Like, if I move too fast, I’ll spook her.
“Well,” I say, smirking through the sudden throb of shame in my chest. “Didn’t expect an audience.”
She blinks, color blooming high on her cheeks. “I—I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“No lock.” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face like I can wipe this moment off me. “Homeowners mistake.”
Her eyes flick to the line still waiting on the counter. She looks like it’s physically painful to stare at it, but she can’t help herself. Like it’s a car crash and she’s stuck in the passenger seat.
“I’ll just—I’ll go,” she says quickly, backing up a step.
She turns to leave, and before I can think better of it, my hand shoots out and catches her wrist.
She stiffens.
Great. Now I’m the asshole who grabs girls in bathrooms after snorting coke.
“You don’t have to.” I say, voice so quiet I barely recognize it as my own.
She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me like I’m some strange insect she’s never seen before, something unsettling, but not worth screaming over just yet.
“…Unless you have to get back to Letha.” I add, trying to sound unaffected. Like the thought of her running from me doesn’t make something crawl under my skin.
But I don’t let go.
Her throat moves as she swallows. “You’re doing coke.”
“Yeah,” I say. Then, with a bitter smile, “You deserve a gold fucking star for that observation.”
Her blue eyes widen, and regret hits me instantly. I didn’t mean to be a dick, the words just slipped out, sharp and defensive. I want to take them back the second they leave my mouth. But I can’t, so I clench my jaw and say nothing.
“You don’t seem like the type,” she says, softer now, like my words actually hurt.
My stomach twists. I look at her for a second too long, then drop my gaze, ashamed. I let out a dry laugh, tongue tracing the inside of my cheek. “Funny,” I mutter. “Looks like we both misread each other this week.”
Her brows knit. “I just thought—” She cuts herself off.
Thought I was better than this.
She doesn’t have to say it.
“You ever tried it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
She shakes her head. Quick. Automatic. Like the question physically unsettles her. “Of course not.”
Of course not.
Because she’s a good girl. Way too good for someone like me.
The kind of girl who smells like fresh strawberries and wears sweaters to hide her body. The kind who blushes when you compliment her, who avoids eye contact and plays with the sleeves of her sweater when she’s nervous. A virgin, for fuck’s sake.
I didn’t want her to see this part of me.
But she’s here, and there’s no hiding it anymore.
“Good,” I say after a second, softer. “Don’t.”
She looks up at me, confused. “Then why do you?”
I almost tell her. Almost say it helps. That it shuts everything up. That sometimes I don’t like the way it feels to be in my own skin, and this is the only thing that makes it tolerable.
But I don’t.
Instead, I give in to the one urge that might drive my angel to run, as if she’s just glimpsed the serpent in the garden. But I can’t stop, not when the forbidden fruit hangs so close, just within reach.
I step in, closing the distance between us until she’s backed against the door and I’m right in front of her. The air shifts—charged and electric, like a storm about to break.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
“Because I already fucked up the parts of me that could’ve been good.” I whisper, finally giving an answer to her question.
Her eyes search mine like she’s looking for something to hold on to. Something redeemable. She won’t find it.
“I don’t believe that for a second, Roman,” she says, soft but certain. “I can see the good in you… even if you can’t.”
And fuck—something in me cracks.
Because she just said the one thing I’ve been dying to hear my entire life.
My hand twitches at my side, aching to reach for her. But I don’t. I shouldn’t. I can barely breathe with how close she is—blue eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising in quick little stutters like maybe she feels it too.
“Don’t say shit like that,” I murmur, gaze flicking down to her mouth. “Not when I’m trying so fucking hard not to want you more than I already do.”
And even with those words she doesn’t push me away, doesn’t pull back.
So I give in. Just a little.
I lean in, slow, like I’m reaching for something I know could burn me, and stop just before our lips touch. Hovering. Waiting. Giving her time to change her mind. Praying to a god I don’t believe in that she doesn’t.
But still she stays perfectly in place.
And that’s all I need.
I kiss her.
Soft at first, like maybe I don’t deserve it. Like maybe I’m still waiting for her to pull away.
But then she kisses me back.
And it’s not shy.
It’s real. Deep. Hungry.
Her back hits the door with a soft thud as I close the space between us, one hand braced beside her head, the other curling around her waist dragging her in, locking her against me like I need her to stay upright. Like I'll fall apart if I don't feel every inch of her pressed against me.
She's soft against me in all the ways that count, and when our bodies align—it's not just contact. It's collision. It's a threat. A promise. Every inch of her is heat and temptation and I'm barely holding it together. My breath hitches, my heart races, and I can feel the hard evidence of how she affects me pressing insistently against her stomach.
She gasps into my mouth, and I take it—suck it down like oxygen l've been missing too long. I chase it deeper, turn the kiss hotter, rougher. It's not just desire. It's desperation. It's been building all night. Maybe longer. Maybe my whole goddamn life.
Her fingers fist in my shirt like she's trying to keep herself grounded, but all it does is drive me closer to the edge. Her nails drag across my chest, her body arches into mine, and when her hips roll—slow, deliberate—I lose track of everything but the feel of her. The pressure. The fire.
My brain goes blank. My body takes over.
There's only her.
Only this.
The heat of her breath. The shape of her lips, soft and swollen. The way her chest rises and falls against mine. And the ache—fuck, the ache—of her grinding into me like she knows exactly what she's doing.
Is this girl sure she’s a virgin?
I pull back just enough to see her face—flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide like she's on the edge of something dangerous and divine. And hell, maybe she is. Maybe we both are.
My hand slides lower, settling on the curve of her hip, my thumb moving in slow circles over the fabric. She shifts again—barely—and that single movement sends a shock straight through my spine. My grip tightens. And fuck, if she isn’t the most sacred thing I’ve ever touched.
Because in this moment—her, me, the drugs on the counter, and the taste of her on my mouth—I’m not sure if I feel more like the devil she walked in on…
…or a boy who just got saved.
Reader
His mouth is on mine again, and I can’t think—I can barely breathe.
It’s like something inside me snapped the second he kissed me. That quiet, careful, disciplined part of myself—the part that would normally tell me to stop, to slow down, to breathe, and to think this through—no longer exists within me. She’s gone. Silenced. Drowned beneath the weight of his mouth on mine and the way his hands know exactly where to touch without even trying.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me.
I’ve kissed before. I’ve dated before. I’ve had boyfriends, been alone in bedrooms, and felt the brush of wandering hands under my shirt. But it never went further than that. I never let it. I never wanted it to.
Until now.
Until him.
And now here I am, pressed up against a bathroom door with Roman’s mouth on mine, his hands burning paths across the fabric of my dress, my body rolling into his like it’s something I was made to do.
And maybe that's what's throwing me the most.
Because I barely know him.
It's only been five days. Five days since I even learned his name. Since we sat next to each other in class, and he looked at me like I was something worth noticing. Since everything shifted.
That should matter. It should be the thing shouting at me right now: This is reckless, this is fast, you don't do this.
But that voice is silent now.
Completely, blissfully silent.
Because he's not like anyone I've ever met. I've heard the stories. I know what people say about him. He's dangerous. He parties too much. He’s been with more girls than I could probably count on two hands.
He’s everything I’ve always been told to stay away from.
And yet…
The way he looks at me—like I matter. Like I’m something holy, something worth worshipping. Like, I mean more to him than he wants me to know.
God, I've never felt anything like this.
It’s both terrifying and intoxicating.
Because deep down, something about him feels familiar. Like I’ve seen him in my dreams before I ever knew his name. Like I’ve been waiting for this moment—for him—without realizing it until now.
His hands slide over the curve of my hip, skimming under the hem of my dress, and I gasp into his mouth without meaning to. My whole body feels hot, like my skin is too small for everything inside me. My hands grip the front of his shirt, holding tight, trying to ground myself, but it's hopeless.
I'm already gone.
He groans into the kiss, low and rough, like he's barely holding on. His lips move from my mouth to my jaw to my throat, trailing heat that makes my knees go weak. I tilt my head instinctively, giving him more, craving the way it feels to be seen, touched, and wanted like this.
I don’t even recognize myself right now.
But I don’t care.
Because I want him. I want this.
And maybe it's insane. Maybe it's too fast. But it doesn't feel wrong.
It feels right. So, so right.
Roman's hands are everywhere. My breasts, my waist, squeezing my ass before trailing down to the backs of my thighs, and before I can even think, he’s lifting me—effortless, like I weigh nothing—and setting me on the marble counter. My dress rides high, my legs falling open just enough for him to step between them. He fits there like he belongs.
Like he was always meant to be there.
I feel him—all of him—hard against me.
Needy.
His mouth crashes back to mine, rougher now, and I meet it with everything I have. My fingers tangle in his hair. My hips roll into him. My body stops caring about rules or time or how little sense any of this makes.
Because I’ve never felt like this with anyone before. I’ve never wanted to be touched like this. I never wanted to give up control, to let someone see me so fully, so close.
But with Roman, I want all of it.
And more.
I want to give him more.
His tongue slides into my mouth again, slow at first, then deeper—hungrier—like he's tasting something he doesn't ever want to give up. I moan softly into him, and it seems to ignite something in both of us. The kiss turns urgent, messy, and full of heat and tension that's been building since the second our lips touched. The way his tongue moves against mine sends a hot rush straight through me, dizzy and sharp, until I can't think of anything but him. Just the taste of him. The feel of him.
His hands trail down, rough and warm, then slip under the hem of my dress like he has every right to be there. His fingers skate along my thighs until the fabric gathers high around my hips. My skin burns where he touches, and when his palms finally land on the bare curve of my waist, I can't help it—I arch into him, a moan escaping me.
I'm trembling, desperate, melting into every inch of his body pressing against mine. My hands fist in his shirt like I'm holding on for dear life, but the truth is I'm already falling. My body has completely surrendered—no more logic, no more caution, no more control. Just need. Just him.
His fingers trace along my waist, pressing just enough to spread the fire already burning beneath my skin. Slowly, they drift higher, my dress lifting further as they glide over my ribs, each light brush sending a delicious shiver through me. Then, with a deliberate slowness that makes my breath catch, his fingers curl around the band of my bra—firm, teasing, and full of promise—setting my pulse racing and leaving me breathless.
And then—
He stops.
Like someone hit pause on the moment.
The sudden stillness of his hands—his mouth—feels like a cruel twist, leaving me burning, breathless, and aching for more. He presses his forehead against mine, his chest heaving like he’s just run a mile, every breath rough and ragged between us.
I blink, dazed and breathless, the spell half-broken. “Roman…?”
He exhales slow, like it physically hurts to pull back. His thumb drags across my hip in one last, lingering touch, gentle and almost reverent, before his hands fall away completely.
“I don’t want this to be how your first time goes,” he says, voice rough and low. “You shouldn’t lose it in a bathroom at a party.”
His words land softly, but they cut deeper than I expect. Coming from the boy who tried to tell me there was nothing good in him—no redeeming qualities—only proves I was right to trust him anyway. Because he cares. He cares enough not to rush me, not to let this be a moment I’d regret. He’s offering me a choice, an out. Most guys would have seen the green light and kept going without a second thought.
But Roman’s not most guys. He’s different, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I’m starting to wonder if he’s even the same person all those rumors and warnings were about.
I stare at him—this beautiful, complicated boy with the cocaine still sitting on the counter beside us and guilt swimming behind his eyes—and something rises up inside me that I didn’t expect.
“I don’t care…” I whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek, my fingers trembling a little as I turn his green eyes back to me. “I just want you.”
I don’t say it to be reckless. I don’t say it because I’m drunk or trying to prove something. I say it because it’s true.
In this moment, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want him.
Roman runs a hand through his hair, fingers dragging slow and shaky through the dark mess of it, like he’s trying to get a grip on himself. His hand lingers there for a beat too long, his jaw clenched, his eyes now fixed somewhere over my shoulder like if he looks at me again he won’t be able to stop himself from touching me again.
Then, under his breath, almost like it slips out without permission, “Fuck.”
He drops his hand. Green eyes on me again.
There’s a war in his eyes—hunger and restraint battling it out in real time—and I don’t breathe until he moves. His hands return to my hips, gentle now, careful. He tugs my dress back down slowly, smoothing it into place like an apology. His fingers brush the outside of my thigh as he steps back, not far, but just enough to see me fully.
“You make it really hard to be the good guy,” he says quietly. His voice is still rough, but there's a softness in it now.
He doesn’t see it, but he is good. So much better than he thinks.
My last boyfriend never would’ve stopped like this. He barely knew how. Half the time, I had to push him off and pretend like I wasn’t shaken after. Roman, though? Roman stopped. Not because I asked. Because he chose to.
He licks his lips, hesitating. Then he says, “If you’re really sure… we can go back to my place. My mom’s not home. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”
The words make my chest flutter. I feel the smile rise before I can stop it, soft, but the excitement’s there. I nod a little too quickly, take his hand and let him help me off of the counter.
His fingers stay wrapped around mine as he leads me out of the bathroom, through the haze and hum of the party, past bodies pressed too close and music too loud. No one even notices us. The moment feels small and private, like we’re moving through a world where we don’t exist to anyone.
Outside, the air hits me fast and cool, like a splash of water across overheated skin. The porch light catches on the sleek curves of Roman’s car—the cherry-red Jaguar parked at an angle on the driveway. It fits him perfectly. Expensive. Bold. Too beautiful to be safe.
He opens the passenger door for me and I slide inside, the leather cool and smooth beneath my thighs.
While he walks around to the driver’s side, I pull my phone out. One unread text from Letha:
You good?
I hesitate. My thumbs hover. And then I type:
Hey, I wasn’t feeling great so I left. I’ll text you later <3
I stare at the screen for a second before hitting send, guilt blooming quietly in my chest.
She’s the first real friend I’ve made since moving to Hemlock Grove, and now I’m lying to her. But what could I possibly say?
Hey Letha, I’m leaving to go lose my virginity to your cousin. Hope that’s cool xoxo
Yeah. Definitely not.
I lock the phone and drop it into my lap just as Roman starts the engine. The car hums to life, low almost like a purr. He eases the Jaguar out of the driveway, the convertible top sliding back smoothly. A rush of cool night air washes over us, and I shiver, partly from the chill, partly from the fluttering nerves that won’t settle. It feels good, though, like something waking up inside me.
Then, a song starts playing from the speakers, Sugar for the Pill. I recognize it immediately and reach over to turn the volume up. “I love this song,” I say, smiling.
Roman glances over at me, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s one of my favorites too.”
“What else do you listen to?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light, hoping to distract myself from overthinking what I’m about to do.
He shrugs, eyes locked on the road. “Depends. Sometimes I go for something dark and heavy—usually alternative. Other times, softer and ambient. I like the mix.”
I nod, curious. “Any favorites?”
“Deftones. Ethel Cain. Whirr. And if I’m in a rap mood, usually Mac Miller or 6lack”
My jaw drops when he says Ethel Cain. “Oh my god, I love Ethel! Have you listened to Chelsea Wolfe?”
Roman’s eyes flick to me, a slow smile playing on his lips. “Oh, I’m all about my goth girls. What’s your favorite song of theirs?”
Without hesitation, I say, “Definitely Dust Bowl by Ethel and Feral Love by Chelsea. You?”
He smirks. “Both solid picks. I’m torn between Inbred and Punish for Ethel, and 16 psyche for Chelsea.”
If I wasn’t already into him, that just sealed the deal.
We fall into an easy rhythm, trading bands and songs as the street lights blur past. The music pulls us closer, the words bridging the gap between us.
After a few minutes, Roman turns into a long driveway, and I blink, caught off guard. He never mentioned he lived here.
The house ahead is massive. Three stories of brick, tall windows framed by ivy crawling up the walls. It’s beautiful and a little intimidating.
“This is your house?” I ask softly, almost in awe.
Roman nods, killing the engine. “Yeah. Wait here.”
He climbs out and walks around to open my door, his hand steady as he helps me out. We move toward the front door together. Inside, the marble floors gleam under the soft light of crystal chandeliers. Polished wood lines the walls, and everything feels pristine—elegant, but cold.
He takes my hand leading me towards the spiral staircase just on the other side of the entryway. As we climb, my eyes drift to the old family portraits lining the walls. One catches my attention—a woman with long dark hair (she’s absolutely stunning), with a small boy on her lap. I know immediately it’s Roman.
“Oh my god, you were so cute!” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop myself.
Roman freezes mid-step, glancing at me, then following my gaze to the painting. His eyes widen a little.
“God, I hate that picture. Hated sitting for it even more,” he mutters, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “Come on. We’ll have a lot more fun in my room than wasting time with these stupid ass portraits.”
I bite back a laugh as he takes my hand again. For someone who acts so cocky, he’s surprisingly cute when he’s embarrassed.
At the top of the stairs, he opens a door, and the room feels like a different world—messy, warm, personal. Posters cover the walls, books and records are scattered on shelves, and there’s a bar at the corner of his room.
This room, this space, it’s Roman. Not the polished mansion on the other side of the door, but the messy, complicated boy I’m falling for.
The door clicks shut behind us, and my heart beats so hard it feels like it might break free. I want this. I really do. But I’ve never done anything like this before.
Roman’s experience dwarfs mine in comparison, and the questions start tumbling through my mind. What if I’m not what he’s expecting me to be? What if I’m not sexy enough? What if I do something wrong and ruin this?
Almost as if he can sense how nervous I am, Roman reaches out, grabbing my hand and turns me around to face him. He smiles softly, his upper lip curling into it, “You can change your mind.” He says, voice low, almost a whisper. “I need you to know that.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and smile back, small but certain. “I don’t want to change my mind.”
He leans down, his breath warm against my cheek. “We’ll take it slow, okay? And if anything hurts, just tell me. I’ll stop.”
My voice is barely steady. “okay… it’s just—I’m sorry if I’m bad at this.”
He chuckles softly, lips brushing mine teasingly. “That’s not possible.”
I don't have time to respond before he closes the space between us, lips fully pressed to mine now. He kisses me slowly at first, careful, like he's still not entirely convinced I could actually want him. There's this hesitation in him, like he's afraid to take too much, too fast. But I don't want careful.
So I kiss him back, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him down closer to me, like I need him to feel how badly I want this. How badly I want him. The second I lean into it, something shifts. His hand tightens on my waist. His mouth parts against mine, and suddenly the kiss is no longer tentative. It's hot. Messy. Starved. It's like something we've both been holding back for too long, and now there's no going back.
He steps forward, guiding me backward with gentle insistence. I move easily, letting him lead, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of his bed. He doesn’t move me onto it right away; instead, we stand there kissing a moment longer, his hands sliding beneath the hem of my dress, teasingly skimming over my clothed sex, turning my legs to jelly almost instantly. I gasp into his mouth, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging just slightly and he responds with another soft groan, like he's barely holding himself back.
He eases me down onto the bed, his body following mine, bracing himself on his forearms to keep most of his weight off me. But I don't want distance; I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him flush against me, and the heat that flares between us is enough to make my whole body tremble.
“Fuck,” he whispers against my throat, kissing down along my jawline, then lower, to the soft curve of my neck. “You have no idea what you're doing to me.”
“I think I might,” I whisper back, sliding my hand down to feel just how badly he wants me. He lets out a soft moan again at my neck, and my breath hitches as he finds that one sensitive spot just beneath my ear and sucks gently.
His hands roam with more confidence now, pushing my dress higher, fingers tracing the lace edge of my underwear. He doesn't move past it yet, but the promise is there. My skin burns under his touch, my whole body aching for more, and it's all I can do not to beg for it.
He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine. “You're still sure this is what you want?”
I nod, but that's not enough. I want him to know that I won’t change my mind. “I want you,” I whisper, steady, certain. “So fucking bad.”
That does it.
Roman doesn't hesitate. He leans back down without a word, pressing another kiss to my lips. It's immediate and insistent, and our mouths fall into perfect rhythm, like muscle memory. I feel the soft scrape of his teeth as he catches my bottom lip between them, a teasing bite that sends a shiver down my spine. A moan slips out—raw, involuntary—half pleasure, half relief, like I've been holding my breath without realizing.
I feel him smile into the kiss, that subtle curve of his lips giving away just how much he’s enjoying every little sound he’s able to pull from me. It makes me wonder—do other people make these kinds of sounds too, or are they something only virgins make? Because with every touch, every kiss, he draws out something new from me, like he’s unlocking parts of me I didn’t even know were there.
He breaks the kiss only to pull the dress over my head. He’s gentle taking it off, and I giggle when he tosses it aside. I like how excited he is, how badly he wants this. Wants me. It only makes the wetness between my legs grow. I watch as his shirt comes off next, his eyes dragging down my body like he's starving, and I swear he says my name like a prayer before lowering his head again.
He kisses down my neck to my chest, fingers sliding beneath my back, and I feel the clasp to my bra pop open. Roman doesn’t waste any time pulling that off of me as well. His mouth moves to my breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling, teasing, while his hand works the other. I arch into him, gasping, my body already trembling with how badly I want him.
“God,” he says, breath hot against my skin, voice thick. “You’re so beautiful.”
I can't speak. I can only smile, hips rolling up against him, chasing any friction I can get. He keeps moving lower, leaving a trail of warm kisses down my stomach, past my hips. When he reaches the spot where I need him most, he lightly grazes over my panties.
His mouth finds the inside of my thigh, and I gasp, the first brush of his tongue sending a jolt straight through me. The warmth of him, the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue so close but not quite there—it's maddening.
He chuckles softly at my reaction, and the sound is pure sin, vibrating against my skin. His breath is hot and teasing, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough. “This will help to warm you up.” His lips graze the sensitive skin just beside where I need him most. “Make it feel better for you later.”
Warm me up? How many virgins has Roman been with?
My thoughts start to spiral again, and then my breath stalls when I realize what he means. I try to breathe again, but it’s still shaky, not from doubt—but anticipation laced with a hint of fear. The stories, the warnings—it'll hurt at first, you'll bleed, just get through it—echo in my mind.
He feels it in my body, the tiny way I tense beneath him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, looking up at me, his emerald eyes soft but serious. “We don't have to. Not unless you're ready.”
“I want to,” I whisper, and I mean it. “I just... I'm a little nervous. Everyone says it hurts the first time.”
His expression shifts—something protective in it, but still gentle. “It might. But it doesn't have to be awful.” He kisses my inner thigh again, slower this time. “Let me take my time with you. Make it feel good.”
I nod, and he doesn't move right away. He watches me, waiting, checking. When I slide my fingers into his hair and push gently, guiding him back down, then he moves.
He presses one more soft kiss against my inner thigh before his fingers clasp around my panties, pulling them down with slow, careful ease. The fabric slides from my hips, then down my legs, and the air kisses my skin as he peels them away. He drops them beside the bed without looking, his focus entirely on me.
For a moment, he just takes me in, eyes dark and reverent, his breath shallow. His fingers trace along my thigh, featherlight, before returning to rest against my hips, grounding us both.
“You look exactly as I imagined,” he says quietly, almost in awe.
Oh? He’s imagined me naked?
The heat rushes back to my cheeks, fierce and sudden. I want to be embarrassed—I feel like I should be—but instead, I’m even more turned on than I was before.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I feel exposed in the best way, vulnerable and completely safe. My fingers flutter up to his cheek, and he turns his face into my palm, pressing a kiss there before lowering himself again.
He starts slow, pressing his lips gently against the inside of my thighs. Each kiss is soft and careful, never rushing, as if he's memorizing every inch of my skin. The heat from his mouth spreads quickly, making my muscles tense and my breath catch.
When he finally flicks his tongue across my clit, I gasp sharply at the sudden, intense contact. My fingers find his hair, pulling him closer without hesitation as he moves his tongue in slow, measured circles. His eyes meet mine, dark and steady, full of quiet hunger.
“God, Roman, that feels so… ahhh…”
Roman lets out a low, satisfied sound, the vibrations only increasing my pleasure as he continues to move his tongue against my clit. The rhythm is patient but firm, coaxing my breath to quicken and my hips to press against him.
His hands slide from my thighs to my hips, holding me steady as he continues. Every touch, every movement, is focused on making me feel good, making me feel safe.
He doesn't rush. Every flick, every stroke is deliberate, like he's learning exactly how to undo me. And God, he is. I can feel it building, fast and hot, my body straining toward the edge.
He sucks lightly, his tongue pressing harder, faster and I fall apart. My vision blurs, back arching, fingers tangling in his hair as he slips a finger inside me, curling it just right. I let out a rather loud moan as he adds another, the sting of it barely registering in the pleasure I’m feeling.
God, if his fingers feel this good, I can’t wait to feel him inside me. The nervousness I felt earlier is almost completely gone as my pleasure builds, bringing me closer to the edge. My body clamps around him, tight and aching, and I can't hold back the noises spilling from my throat—soft, broken, desperate.
“That's it, baby,” he murmurs against me. “Come for me.”
And I do.
The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave—sudden and overwhelming. Tears of pleasure brim my eyes, my breath shatters, and I cry out his name as everything inside me clenches and pulses. He keeps going, licking me through it, drawing every last tremor from my body until I'm limp and trembling.
When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is slick, his green eyes dark with heat, and the faintest, satisfied smile plays on his lips. He looks wrecked in the most beautiful way—flushed, breathless, proud.
And he should be.
My body's still trembling, heart racing, but the only thing I can think about is getting him closer. I reach down, fingers clasping his chin, and pull him toward me.
He comes willingly, his weight pressing into me as his mouth meets mine in a kiss that's nothing like the first. This one is deeper than before—more desperate on my end. I taste myself on his tongue, and instead of hesitation, there's only hunger between us now. My legs part for him instinctively, wrapping loosely around his waist, keeping him close.
He groans softly into the kiss, one hand bracing beside my head, the other trailing up my ribcage, fingertips brushing the underside of my breast before resting over my heart, like he needs to feel it pounding beneath his palm.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and rough, lips brushing mine.
“I want you,” I whisper against his mouth, pulling him closer, pressing my body into his. “All of you.”
I kiss him again, slower now, savoring the feeling of skin against skin. My hands move down his back, then to the waistband of his pants. I quickly move my fingers to the front, fumbling with his belt. Fuck me, why is this shit so hard to undo?
I bite my lip, frustrated but trying not to break the moment with laughter. The leather is stubborn, and my fingers feel clumsy, slick with sweat.
He catches my struggle with a quiet chuckle, his warm breath brushing against my ear. “Here,” he says softly, sliding his hands over mine as he moves to his knees, now straddling me. His touch is steadying and patient, and when he takes over, the buckle clicks free in an instant.
I let my head fall back down against the pillow, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “I swear it's not nerves,” I whisper. “It's your ridiculous belt.”
His grin is slow, teasing. “Sure. We'll blame the belt.”
He slides off of me, standing now. His hands move to push down his pants, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound between us. My eyes follow the motion—slow, careful—drinking in the sight of his sculpted pecs, the defined lines of his abs, and the veins pulsing along his arms. Then my gaze lingers on the way his briefs cling to him, outlining every hard inch of him and leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
I bite my lip. I'd felt him through his jeans—hard and insistent—but seeing it now? It's more than I expected. He's more than I expected. And for a beat, the nerves creep back in, curling low in my stomach.
God, I hope I don’t bleed. That would be—embarrassing. No, humiliating. Honestly, devastating to my ego. Totally not sexy—tragic to say the least.
I watch, lifting myself to my elbows as he moves to his nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out a condom. He pauses for a second before turning back to me, holding it in one hand.
“Last time asking, I promise,” he says, voice low but sincere. “Are you still sure it’s me you want to do this with?”
I can’t help but smile. Like there was ever a chance I’d change my mind. Like he hasn’t already had more of me than I ever gave to anyone else. He’s so good for me, and he doesn’t even know it. “Positive.”
My eyes follow Roman as he sets the condom on the nightstand—close enough to grab easily. Honestly, I was a little nervous he might be one of those guys who say, “Oh, but condoms kill the feeling,” thank god he’s not.
He moves back onto the bed carefully, his eyes never leaving mine. His hand rests gently on the pillow beneath me, steadying himself as he leans in slowly. His lips meet mine again with the softest pressure, and any worry of pain or bleeding disappears.
My fingers curl into his hair again, pulling him down onto me. The heat of his skin against mine only makes me want him more—closer, impossibly close, like even skin to skin isn’t enough. His tongue moves gently against mine, teasing and tasting, and when I deepen the kiss, I feel his cock press between my legs.
His mouth trails to my ear, teeth grazing my earlobe before he nibbles gently. “Can you feel how badly I want you?” he whispers, voice low and rough. “This… us?”
“I want you too,” I breathed, my body shuddering against him, and fuck, his words lit something inside me—something raw and ravenous I didn’t know was there until now, starving for affection, for touch, for him—every throbbing inch. “So fucking much.”
My hand instinctively went down to the band of Roman’s briefs, dipping beneath them, wrapping my fingers around his cock, and stroking gently, silently praying I’m able to make him feel as good as he’s made me feel.
As his lips trace a slow path down my neck, sucking gently on the sensitive spot just below my ear, my prayers are answered when I feel his hips shift against my hand, every hard, pulsing inch of him pressing insistently beneath my touch. His skin is warm, taut with need, and the subtle throb of him matches the rapid beat of my heart. A low, ragged groan escapes him, thick with want and surprise, as he whispers against my skin, “Fuck, you do that so well.”
I bite my lip, smiling as I continue stroking him, but Roman doesn’t melt under my touch. His lips are back on my neck, his teeth grazing the hickey I’m sure he’s just made. The sharp, teasing pressure made my breath hitch. His fingers slide down my stomach, light as a feather, sending tiny shivers across my skin, making me squirm in response. But that reaction was nothing compared to the way my hips bucked up as his fingers began rubbing circles against my already sensitive clit once more.
I couldn’t help it—the pressure was overwhelming. My hands flew up to Roman’s back on their own, nails digging in as he continued working those maddening, slow circles with his fingers. Every motion sent sparks through me, and I was powerless to stop the tremble that shook my body.
“P-please, Roman—” I stammer, breath hitching as another flick of his fingers sparks a sudden rush through me. “I—ah—ahh…”
My voice breaks, but this time he slows, his touch more deliberate, more teasing.
“Can’t wait any longer?” His voice is low, full of lust—want.
I try to speak, but his fingers moving against me blur my thoughts, making words impossible to find. Instead, I shake my head, a whimper escaping my lips. The desperation in my eyes is raw and unspoken, practically begging him to give in—to finally take me.
“Good.” His voice is thick with need, husky and urgent, making my pulse race. His hand moves from me to the waistband of his briefs, sliding them down with a quickness I’ve never seen before. “Neither can I.”
His next moves were quicker now, knees settling between my legs as he leaned over. With a swift motion, he grabbed the condom from the nightstand, tearing the wrapper open without hesitation. With a practiced hand, he slid it on, then looked back down at me—his green eyes filled with nothing but adoration.
Roman leaned back down, his mouth finding mine in another slow, heated kiss. His plush lips moving against mine with perfect rhythm. As he lowers himself between my thighs, his body presses into mine, all heat and weight and tension.
His cock drags against my slick folds, pressing right against my clit—thick, hard, deliberate—and the contact sends a sharp jolt of pleasure through me. I gasp into his mouth, hips arching, chasing more of that friction.
He smiles against my lips, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me, and he's not in any rush to stop. His hips begin to move, smooth and steady, his cock sliding between my folds, dragging over my clit with precision—each thrust sending a pulse through me that leaves my body aching for more.
My hands clutch at his back, fingernails digging into skin, desperate for something to anchor me as the friction builds—slow, torturous, perfect. With every roll of his hips, I grow wetter, aching more with the need to feel him inside of me.
“Roman...” I whisper, barely a breath, more plea than name.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. “Think you’re ready?” he asks, eyes sparkling with excitement.
I nod, breath shaky but sure. His hands trail down my sides, steady and grounding, before one wraps around his length. He guides himself to my entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing into me with the slowest of strokes.
My breath hitched at the stretch, a subtle burn blooming as he pushed deeper. My hand shot up, fingers gripping his hair, needing something to hold onto. I winced, just slightly, but masked it with a moan as his thick length gently worked me open, slow and careful.
Roman hovered above me, muscles tense, like he was holding back. His eyes flicked down to where our bodies met, then back to mine. He moved carefully, each thrust controlled, watching for even the smallest sign of pain.
“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes closing briefly in pleasure. “You feel like heaven.”
My head tipped back against the pillow, breath coming in shallow, trembling heaves against Roman’s shoulder. “Roman,” I whimpered, barely able to say his name. “You feel so—“ I couldn’t finish the sentence. I hadn’t expected the way it would feel—hadn’t expected the way my whole body lit up like a live wire. Every nerve felt raw, awake, and desperate.
Being filled up by Roman wasn’t just overwhelming—it was consuming.
My first time was nothing like I’d imagined.
But also everything I’d hoped for.
It felt good—so, so good. It felt right, in a way that made my chest tighten and my breath catch.
A soft moan escaped me as his cock slowly pushed deeper, filling me inch by inch. My body clenched around him, reacting instinctively, overwhelmed by the fullness and the warmth. There was a tenderness in the way he moved, a kind of reverence, like he knew exactly how much I could take and wasn't willing to give me anything more than I could handle.
Roman let out a shaky breath, maintaining a steady, gentle rhythm—one I could tell took effort. He was holding back, resisting the urge to move rougher, faster, like he probably would with girls who weren’t virgins.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, eyes searching mine even as his hips moved in careful strokes.
“No… ah—no, not at all.” I smiled, enjoying the feeling of him inside of me.
“Good.” He breathed, continuing to fill me at a sweet pace. “Ready for the rest?”
The rest? There’s more?!
“You—you mean that’s not all of it?”
Roman’s eyes met mine again, and he bit his lip—clearly trying not to laugh at the panic in my voice. “I hate to break it to you,” he started, voice thick with restraint, “but I’m only halfway in.”
My eyes widened before I could stop them, a flicker of panic rising in my chest—then I reminded myself that panicking definitely wasn’t sexy. Besides, I did say I wanted all of him.
So I swallowed hard, forced a breath, and nodded. “Yeah, okay,” I said, my voice a little shaky. “I’m ready.”
I braced for the sting, the sharp stretch—I thought it would hurt worse than before. But as he pushed deeper, the pain never came.
Just the kind of pleasure that made my back arch and my breath catch.
Every inch of him filled me perfectly, sliding in and out with a rhythm that had me clenching around him, needing more. It wasn't gentle anymore—it was all-encompassing, and God, it felt so good I could barely think.
My legs wrapped tighter around his waist, needing him closer, deeper—all of him. I was losing myself in it, in him, every thrust unraveling something inside me I didn't even know was wound that tight.
Roman groaned low in his throat, his rhythm faltering just slightly as I clenched around him again. “God,” he let out a satisfied sigh, pressing his forehead to mine. “You feel… fuck, you feel unreal…”
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. My nails dragged down his back, needing something to hold on to as pleasure coiled low in my belly, sharp and fast, building with every snap of his hips.
I finally understood why people did drugs.
Because this—sex with Roman—was addictive in a way that felt dangerous. The way his cock moved inside me, deep and deliberate, like he was trying to brand me from the inside out—it was the kind of pleasure that blurred everything else. My thoughts, my breath, even my name.
Each thrust sent sparks through me, my body tightening around him, hungry for every second, every inch. The friction, the pressure, the stretch—it was pure bliss, and I never wanted it to stop.
My breath hitched, ragged and raw, spilling into frantic moans that filled the room as the heat inside twisted tighter and tighter, winding me up until I was trembling on the edge, barely holding on.
“Roman,” I gasped, my voice breaking, the sound trembling with need, my fingers clawing at his back as waves of pleasure began to crash.
And then—everything shattered.
My body shook as I came, thighs trembling, every muscle tensing and releasing around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. I clung to him, nails digging into his back, breath stuttering as the climax ripped through me in hard, relentless waves. My chest rose and fell fast, lungs struggling to keep up with the pleasure still rolling through my body.
Roman gripped my hips tighter, fingers digging into my skin as his pace faltered. His breath was ragged in my ear, hot and uneven, and I could feel the way his control was slipping. His thrusts grew rougher, deeper, and more desperate, and the way he groaned told me he was right on the edge.
“Fuck” his voice came out low and strained, like he was barely holding himself together. His body tensed above mine, the pressure building between us thick and electric. He was close—so close I could feel it in every thrust, every sound he made, and every way his hands tightened around me like he wasn't ready to let go.
And all I could think, through the haze of heat and friction and bliss, was, God, don't stop.
Because I'd never felt anything like this. And now that I had, I didn't think I could stop.
Roman
Okay, I was wrong.
She’s no angel.
A succubus, maybe.
Or the girl from The Exorcist, right before she starts levitating and screaming about my mother sucking cock in hell.
Hasn’t happened yet.
But with the way she’s moving, the way she’s looking at me like she’s already planning round six? It’s only a matter of time.
I’m flat on my back, chest heaving, lungs wrecked, heart stuttering like it’s thinking of tapping out. Sweat’s slick down my spine, muscles pulled tight and trembling like I just survived a car crash. I can’t even feel my legs. Honestly? I’m pretty sure she dislocated something I didn’t even know could move.
Yeah. Definitely not an angel.
Whether or not she was actually a virgin beforehand is also up for debate.
Because no virgin drags a guy through this many rounds in one night and still looks like she’s barely broken a sweat. No virgin bites and scratches like she’s marking territory, like she’s been waiting her whole life to leave someone completely wrecked.
And let’s get one thing straight—I’m no stranger to going rounds. Girls don’t walk away from me—they stagger. You don’t get a reputation like mine by being gentle and forgettable. I leave them wrecked. Legs shaking, voices hoarse, minds blown.
Most girls don’t even make it to round three by the time I’m through with them.
But her? She’s something else. She’s relentless, insatiable, like every touch only winds her up tighter instead of wearing her down.
She's propped up on one elbow, sheets tangled around her legs, skin still glistening from the last round. There's a softness to her face now—almost innocent, like the last two hours never happened. Like she's just some sweet girl catching her breath after her first time.
But her fingers tells a different story.
She’s dragging slow, lazy circles across my chest, over the sweat-slick skin and fading nail marks she put there. Innocent motion. Devilish intent.
I’m still half-dead, lungs burning as I struggle to pull in steady breaths; each inhale shallow and ragged, every exhale a slow surrender. My nerves feel raw and frayed, twitching beneath my skin like exposed wires.
And she just hums. Light, content, like this is a lazy Sunday morning and not the aftermath of an exorcism I somehow volunteered for.
Then, softly—barely above a whisper—she says, “You okay?”
I give her a look that says, What the hell do you think? And let my eyes linger on her for a moment. Goddamn—how could someone look so innocent and still have me flat on my back like this?
There's still that sweetness in her eyes. Concern, even. The kind that almost makes me think she means it.
Almost.
“Yeah,” I rasp, voice ruined. “Eventually.”
She bites her lip like she's trying not to laugh. “I'm still...” Her eyes flick down, then back up through her lashes. “Kind of aching.”
I blink. “You're aching?”
She nods, slow and shy. “In a good way." But still...”
Her fingers drift lower. I flinch. She smiles.
“I could maybe go again.”
I let out something between a cough and a laugh. “You're joking.”
She leans in and presses a kiss to my jaw, soft and sweet.
“Come on,” she murmurs. “I'll even get on top this time. Do all the work...”
Her lips ghost over mine as she whispers the rest, syrupy and sweet, “You can just lie back. Be my pretty little pillow princess. Doesn't that sound nice?”
Excuse me?
Pillow princess?
She's teasing me now?
A few hours ago, this girl was stammering through kisses like she'd only ever read about sex in books with flowery covers. All wide eyes and trembling hands. Now she's hovering over me like a goddamn apex predator, talking to me like I'm the plaything.
I should be insulted.
Instead, I'm getting hard.
Her eyes catch the twitch under the sheets. Her smile widens, just a fraction. No gloating yet, but it's there. Lurking. Like she knows.
“You really are easy,” she whispers, voice sweet, dragging her nails lightly down my chest again, right over a fresh scratch. I flinch, not from pain—no, from the way my body reacts, heat pooling fast, dizzying.
“Not easy,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Just trying not to look like a bitch—even if it kills me.”
Her hand finds me under the covers, fingers wrapping around me with a slow, possessive grip that makes my breath catch in my throat. She strokes once, deliberately, watching my face the whole time.
“Still alive,” she says softly. “Still hard. I'd say you're doing fine.”
Her thumb teases the head, smearing pre-come like she's playing with her favorite toy. I bite down on a groan, hands clenching at my sides.
She continues to stroke me as her mouth moves down, over my throat, and across my collarbone. She bites this time, just enough to sting, then soothes it with her tongue. My hands twitch, wanting to grab her, flip her, and remind her who she's dealing with.
But I don't.
I can’t.
Because she's moving lower, slow and dangerous, kissing every inch like it's hers to claim. She continues stroking me, pressing a kiss against my hip before her other hand pulls the blanket down, exposing me completely.
Then she smiles. Slow. Confident. Mischievous.
Her tongue flicks out, teasing the head first, a light flick that makes my hips twitch. Then she licks a long, deliberate stripe from base to tip, like she's savoring me.
A soft moan escapes before I can lock it down. It rolls out of me, unguarded, and I swear she glows at the sound of it.
She hums, the vibration sending another jolt straight through me. “There it is,” she whispers against my skin, her voice like honey, her tone triumphant. “Knew you had more in you.”
Then she wraps her lips around the tip, slow and sure, her hand still working the base. Her mouth is warm—so warm—and wet, and she takes her time, easing down with a patience that feels like torture.
I grip the sheets. Hard. My thighs tense, muscles locking up like I'm about to snap.
She pulls back, just slightly, letting her tongue swirl before sinking down again—deeper this time. Her hand slides to my thigh, holding me down, like she knows I'm seconds away from losing it and she's not ready to let me go just yet.
I can't even speak. Can't breathe right. My head's tipped back, mouth half-open, and I'm making sounds I don't even recognize as my own.
And all the while, she takes her time. Tongue twirling around every inch of me like she’s sucking on her favorite hard candy.
She pulls off with one last flick of her tongue that nearly makes my vision white out, then draws back completely, letting the cool air hit me where her mouth had just been. I groan—half frustration, half disbelief.
She glances up at me, all innocent eyes and flushed cheeks, and then, without a word, she slips off the bed.
I lift my head slightly, chest still heaving, watching her move—still naked, unhurried, like she's got all the time in the world and every ounce of control.
My eyes are locked on her as she bends down and picks up my pants from the floor. What the fuck is she doing? Her fingers curl around the waistband, then slip my belt free from the loops, and for a second, I just stare.
Wait.
Is she…?
No. No way. She wouldn’t—
My thoughts are cut short when she climbs back onto the bed with that same quiet, dangerous confidence. Straddles my hips, belt in hand, and gives me a look that's somehow both soft and merciless.
“Hands up,” she says, casual as anything.
I blink, trying to process what the hell I’m witnessing. “Seriously? You can’t possibly—”
“Mmhm,” she hums, cutting me off as her fingers wrap around my wrists, guiding them above my head with a softness that doesn’t match her intent. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”
Freak.
Absolute freak.
The good kind. The kind that ruins you and smiles sweetly while doing it.
The leather bites gently into my wrists as she threads the belt through and cinches it tight against the headboard. I pull against it—just to see—and yeah, it holds. Too well.
Which is weird, because earlier tonight, she couldn't even get the damn thing off me. I had to help her—her fingers were all over the place, fumbling with the buckle like she was afraid it might bite. She laughed, blushed, and stammered through it. And now? She ties me down like she's done it a hundred times.
Where the hell did that girl go?
She smiles as she works the belt, a little breathless but glowing, flushed with power. There’s something different in her eyes now—something bold. Like she just found a part of herself she didn’t know existed, and it likes having me beneath her.
“I thought you said tonight was your first time,” I mutter, voice filled with disbelief and something dangerously close to admiration.
She leans down, her lips brushing my ear as her breath ghosts warm across my skin.
“It was,” she whispers. “But from the way girls at school talk... you’re not exactly known for giving up control.”
Her hands slide back up the belt, tightening it a little more—just because she can.
“This way,” she murmurs, “it’ll be a night of firsts for both of us.”
Then her hand slips between us, trailing down my stomach, moving with that same unshakable calm. Her fingers wrap around my cock again, and I flinch beneath her, hips twitching instinctively at the contact.
She grins, just a little.
Still watching me, she lifts her hips, lining us up with a slow, practiced precision that shouldn't be possible for someone with as little experience as she claims to have. And then—smooth, steady—she sinks down onto me.
It's not rushed. It's deliberate. Controlled. Like she's taking her time on purpose, letting me feel every second of her sliding onto me, and fuck, she’s tight.
My breath catches—hard. I let out something between a groan and a curse, my spine arching against the restraints. The belt holds.
She gasps too, a quiet sound that tightens around my ribs. But she doesn't stop. Doesn't falter. She just keeps going until she's fully seated, until I'm completely inside her, and she's got her palms flat against my chest like she's staking a claim.
And fuck me—she fits like she was made for this.
For me.
She rocks her hips once, slow and deliberate, and I can't help the way my body reacts, jerking up toward her, needing more. But before I can get even half the motion, her hands press harder against my chest, pinning me down with more force than I expect from someone so soft and sweet-looking.
“Ah-ah,” she says, soft but sharp. “Pillow princess, remember?”
There's a flicker in her eyes—something wicked and bright. She's enjoying this. Enjoying me like this. Bound, straining, aching, helpless beneath her while she takes exactly what she wants, how she wants it.
She rolls her hips again, slower this time, grinding down in a long, measured arc that makes my eyes roll back in my skull. She's tight, wet, and perfect—and she knows it. She's not rushing, not even close. She's savoring the way I come apart beneath her, her lips parting slightly as she watches my mouth fall open in a raw, unfiltered moan.
“That's better,” she whispers, circling her hips once more, deeper now. “Just stay there and let me—ah, do the work.”
She leans forward, palms sliding up my chest, fingers tracing every twitch of my muscles, every breath I can barely catch. Her thighs tighten around me as she picks up a rhythm—slow, rolling, steady—like she's riding a wave and dragging me under with her.
And I'm gone. Totally hers.
Every stroke pulls a sound out of me, low and wrecked, and she drinks in every one like a woman dying of thirst.
Her hands move again—one braced on my chest, the other sliding down between us. I watch her shudder as her fingers find her clit, and her hips falter just slightly before she picks the pace back up, riding harder, more urgent, grinding down like she's chasing something just out of reach.
She leans over me, dark hair falling around her face, lips parted. Her breaths come faster now, matching the rise in mine, and the heat between us is almost unbearable. Every movement hits deeper. Harder. She's losing control but not giving it up.
And when she finally breaks—body trembling, soft gasp catching in her throat—it undoes me.
I curse, loud and broken, as the heat crashes over me all at once. My hips jerk despite the restraint, lost to instinct as I spill into her, muscles locking, chest arching, the whole world narrowing to just her—tight, wet, shaking around me, dragging every last drop out of me.
She collapses onto me, breath ragged, forehead resting against mine. Neither of us moves for a moment. Can't.
Her skin is flushed, slick against mine, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts. I feel her heartbeat thudding where we're pressed together, fast and wild, but controlled. Like the rest of her.
Her hands slide up to my face, slow and tender, a contrast to what she just put me through. Her thumb brushes across my cheekbone, featherlight, like she's grounding me after everything she took.
And then, with a grin curling at the edges of her mouth, she murmurs:
“Round seven?”
Her voice is silk, soft, and smooth, but sharpened at the edge like a blade you don't see coming until it's already under your skin.
I let out something between a breathless laugh and a groan, eyes closing for a second as I try to remember how to breathe.
I shake my head, barely. “You're insane.”
But my hips twitch beneath her—a weak, broken jolt I don’t have the strength to stop. My body’s already giving in, moving on instinct, on hunger, while the rest of me is unraveling. Every muscle is trembling, overworked and useless, my chest rising in ragged, uneven gasps like I’ve been drowning for hours. My lungs are screaming, my head’s spinning, and somewhere in the back of my mind, what’s left of me is still begging—no fucking way.
But the truth is, I'd let her ride me straight into oblivion if she asked nicely enough.
Hell, even if she didn’t ask at all.
Because whatever the hell she is—angel or succubus—she’s got me pinned, breathless and wrecked, right where she wants me.
A/N: I’m actually foaming at the mouth—I had no idea how badly I needed sex from Romans POV. Anon, you are a saint🙌🏻
Part two
Sweetest lil taglist:
@vadersangel @muchwita @malenoradgn @fish-eyes-png @ch404 @voidpixies @peachesinto @a-differentbrandof-beans
