187. “I know I kissed you before, but I didn’t do it right. Can I try again?”
Babies. Absolute babies. This was supposed to be pure but I accidentally knocked some spice in so 👀👀👀👀 Let’s get it!
The grand duchess Anastasia Romanov should know how to kiss by now. It’s just one of those things you know, like how to ride a bicycle or how to match your clothes. Unfortunately, her high and mighty status has robbed her of the opportunities to learn how to kiss the right way. To be clear, she’s been kissed before. A few rushed moments with a couple dukes, sloppy and stunned, overeager because of just who they were kissing. For them, it was a highlight. For her, it was yet another moment that she didn’t gain anything from an opportunity she took, save for maybe some hilarious yet embarrassing commentary from Maria when she returned to the assembly with her face flushed and lips slightly swollen.
The point is, she doesn’t know how to kiss, which is why it’s almost a relief when she sneaks out to the city and finds a club to drop into, because people are kissing everywhere. Literally everywhere. And to be honest, it’s a little much. Okay, a lot much. But it’s better than being holed up in the expansive Romanov palace. Her clothing is tight, absolutely not fit for a princess (or her family’s ideas of a princess). Instead, it speaks to her wilder side. The side that longs for freedom, for a life outside the one that’s chosen for her. Everybody thinks being a princess is a dream come true. And in some ways it is, but in other’s... it’s a nightmare. Trapped in the old ways with no choice but to adhere... that’s not the life for Anya. So she rebels from it, casts it off. It isn’t part of her when she leaves the palace walls.
She slips in nearly unnoticed, save for one stranger who’s gaze seems glued to hers. To her credit, she holds it (although she’s not really sure she can look away even if she wants to). Anya’s never been pinned by just a look before, but this is something else. Someone jostles her and the moment shatters as she ducks around the rest of them, shaking her head at herself. She’s here to have fun, and it’s about damn time that she did.
She ends up on the dance floor, right where she belongs. At balls, she always whirled around, going from suitor to suitor before leaving them all to dance with her father. He certainly wouldn’t approve of the moves she’s pulling right now, but a few likely prospects for the night seem to. None of them catch her eye, although one is brave enough to paw at her waist.
“Hey,” he says, wearing a sleazy grin and she moves away immediately, tensing up. A terse, “Hi,” leaves her lips, but apparently the guy is bad at reading signs because he moves closer.
“Where you goin’? Come dance with me.”
Anya can already see this unfolding and she doesn’t like the outcome, so she thinks up the quickest lie that comes to her tongue.
“I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”
Nice going, Anya. Might as well tell him you’re the Grand Duchess while you’re at it.
“Hey, is this guy bothering you?”
The new voice in the mix is the stranger from earlier. Up close, she understands why she was so mesmerized. He’s gorgeous. The harsh lighting of the club dulls his features a bit, but they’re strong. Dark hair swooped back, a broader build, quite taller than her.
“Nah, we’re just talking,” the other guy responds, and Anya wants to roll her eyes.
“Yes, babe, he is,” she pouts, leaning against him and putting her head on his chest. His eyes widen in minor confusion but her tell him to just go with it. Thankfully he does, wrapping a protective arm around her waist and glaring daggers that look a little too pointed to be entirely fake at the skeeze in front of them.
She can’t explain what comes over her in the moment, but she tells herself it’s for the act. “Babe,” Anya murmurs (mostly because she doesn’t even know his name, which she would use to make this look more real but it’s all she’s got), “thank you for coming back so quickly.” Anya doesn’t give herself time to think, merely leans up and kisses him. It catches them both off guard, but it’s quick so he doesn’t have a chance to kiss her back. And she feels a little bad about it (she’s not the type to go around kissing strangers! Unless they’re super hot, she’s super drunk, and both of them are cool with it), but it’s the lesser of two evils here. His grip on her waist had tightened in that tiny window of time, and he doesn’t relinquish it as he mumbles, “No problem,” to her with a smile that makes her heart beat in a few places she’d rather think about later in her bed. The stranger returns his attention to the guy who is still watching them and growls, “Leave her alone.”
Anya feels a strange flutter in her stomach intensify.
“Oh come on,” the other guy says, reaching out and grabbing her wrist tightly, “We were just talking.” Her instincts kick in, a few years of training for self defense with the guards. She’s done with the audacity, and after the couple of drinks she’s had, she’s a little looser than normal. So Anya cocks her arm back, hand curling into a fist, and punches the sleazy guy across from them right in the nose.
“Ow! Crazy bitch!” He yells, staggering back and Anya jumps into gear, grabbing the hot stranger’s hand and running through the club. Oddly enough, he runs with her, and they escape, spilling out onto the street. They don’t stop running until they reach a park about a mile away, laughing at nothing and completely out of breath. Anya’s hands go to her knees as she tries to inhale and exhale, and the stranger leans against a lamppost as he recovers.
“Where did you learn to punch like that?” He’s impressed, maybe even a little turned on. (At least, she that’s how she hopes he feels). She shrugs.
“You don’t grow up like I do and not know how to defend yourself.”
It sounds sadder and more serious than it is, and concern flickers in his eyes but she physically waves it off in hopes of avoiding further probing or suspicion. She winces, curling her fingers gently. Now that the adrenaline of the chase has worn off, her hand stings.
“Only if you tell me your name,” she answers, and he laughs.
“Dmitry.” Russian. She ignores the little part of her brain that’s happy to have found someone who shares a heritage with her, and the part that figures her family would enjoy that particular fact.
“Anya.” His hands probe around gently, brushing along her skin. They’re cold, but every place he touches erupts in flame, as though she’s thrust certain points into a fire. The constellation pattern of his movements leads to the conclusion that, “It’s not broken,” which makes her sag a little in relief. Explaining how she broke her hand to her family would cause even more trouble than explaining why she was out.
“Thank you,” she says, soft as the light above them. She can see him clearer now, haloed in the glow from the street lamp.
He hasn’t let go of her hand. He realizes he hasn’t let go of her hand at the same time she does and they both drop away at the same time, awkwardly avoiding each other’s gazes.
After some time, he says, “Well... it was nice meeting you, Anya. Don’t expect too much of your future fake boyfriends, though; it’ll be a hard comparison.”
The cheekiness of his grin lights her up, so she rolls her eyes to hide it. Still, decorum goes out the window when he turns to leave and she says, “Wait!” Her hand shoots out, capturing his wrist. Unlike the man who grabbed her earlier, she’s careful. He can pull away anytime he wants.
She clears her throat, steeling herself, and says, “I know I kissed you before, but I didn’t do it right. Can I try again?”
His face is slightly incredulous but he grins, nodding. She grins in return, placing a hand against his cheek and pulling him down to meet her lips.
This is it, she thinks as his hands fit themselves to her hips, gripping lightly, this is what a kiss is supposed to feel like.
Anya’s a quick study, and she picks up on his tricks fast. She may not do extremely well with memorizing dates or words on paper, but when it comes to actions, she can mimic and absorb insanely fast. She lets him in when his tongue slips, giggling slightly into the kiss. His chest rumbles against hers with laughter, but it’s serious business again when she leans into him a little more and bites his lip.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” She asks, breathless, barely able to speak over the wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, her brain keeps repeating.
“A little eager there, Anya,” Dmitry teases, and she pulls away, crossing her arms and arching her eyebrows up at him.
“Let me rephrase then. Take me out of here.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. She’s used to getting what she wants and all she wants is him. She tends to demand things when they’re really important to her, because she doesn’t want to risk the chance of losing them. Of course, if this isn’t what he wants, she’ll be on her merry way. But thankfully for them both, he’s all in.
“Dmitry,” Anya says, laid back in his bed, holding onto his hair because his lips are short circuiting her brain again due to their placement on her neck, “I haven’t done this before.”
She expects another cheeky comment, but all he does is stop, moving his head so he can see her.
“Do you want to?” He asks, and it’s the best thing he could’ve said. She can tell he’s genuine, and she winds her fingers with his.
“Yes,” she whispers, and she means it. He checks on her the entire time, discovering what she likes and what she doesn’t. She, in return, picks up on what he likes as well. And it is so much better than what she thought this would be. Not because it’s him, but because it’s her. She revels in the feelings as they hit her, in every single imprint of his hand on her body.
His head is on her shoulder when they’re done, butterfly kisses ghosting across her skin. She smiles in secret, holding onto one of his hands underneath the covers. When she goes home, she will have to face the music of being out all night. Her parents’ disappointment, her siblings’ worries. She puts it out of her mind to lay there with him instead, worryless.
One night stands are not supposed to feel like that. She’s not supposed to want to stay. But she does. She does.
The grand duchess Anastasia Romanov does not know how to kiss. But Anya does. She can’t forget the feeling, the taste, every single sensation. Dmitry’s light snoring draws a quiet laugh from her, and she burrows down deeper against his side. Tomorrow she can work everything out. But tonight, she sleeps beside a man she’s just met, and yet knows without a doubt that she wants to see again.
She falls asleep beaming.
That’s all for this ask! Thanks for asking!
