The house felt different after the inspection — quieter, tighter, like someone had cinched a belt around the walls and left it there.
Roman spent the next two days buried in Directorate prep. Julie drifted between library and balcony, trying to breathe around the suffocating countdown, her skin prickling every time she remembered his voice saying wanting.
On the third night, the tension finally tore open.
They sat opposite each other at the long dining table. Between them: the Bond Evaluation binder — thick with questions about arousal thresholds, submission markers, orgasm frequency baselines, projected insemination windows.
Julie pressed her fingertips to her temples, cheeks already faintly pink. "These questions treat me like livestock."
Roman leaned forward. "You're not."
Her eyes flicked up, then dropped again quickly. "The handbook thinks I am."
"The handbook enforces compliance," he said, voice low. "Not truth."
Julie swallowed. "Then what's the truth?"
Roman's gaze traced her mouth, her throat, the way her thin gray top clung to the soft swell of her breasts — nipples already faintly visible, betraying her even though she kept her arms crossed like a shield.
"The truth," he said quietly, "is that they can chart your hormones, your cycles—"
He reached across and closed the binder slowly, his knuckles brushing the inside of her wrist. She flinched — not in fear, but in startled awareness of how warm his skin was.
"—but they can't chart how your breath catches when I look at you."
Julie's lips parted. Heat rushed between her legs so suddenly she pressed her thighs together under the table, mortified by the slick rush that followed. She'd never felt anything like this before — not this sharp, not this wet.
Roman held her gaze. "They can't chart wanting."
The word made her shiver. Her clit pulsed once, aching.
"Roman," she whispered — small, uncertain.
He rose, rounded the table without hurry. Julie stayed seated, fingers twisting in the hem of her top, pulse hammering in her throat and lower.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel his heat, smell cedar and clean skin and the faint, musky edge of his arousal.
"You're not data," he said softly. "Not to me."
Her voice was barely audible. "Then what am I?"
Roman exhaled roughly. His control was visibly fraying — jaw tight, pupils dark, the thick line of his erection pressing against his trousers.
"You're the only thing that's made me this hard in months," he said, voice raw. "Without orders. Without anything but you breathing the same air."
Julie's cheeks flamed. She looked down at the obvious bulge, then away, embarrassed by how much she wanted to stare.
Roman's hand lifted — slow, careful — and cupped her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped. "And I stop."
Julie's eyes fluttered closed for a second. She leaned, just barely, into his palm.
"I… I don't want you to stop," she whispered. "I just… I don't know what to do."
Something tender flickered in Roman's gaze. He didn't ask why. He simply bent and kissed her — slow, gentle at first, lips brushing hers like a question. When she sighed against him, he deepened it, tongue sliding in carefully, coaxing. Julie made a small, surprised sound and kissed back hesitantly, hands rising to rest lightly on his chest.
Roman groaned softly into her mouth and lifted her onto the edge of the table in one smooth motion. Papers scattered. She gasped, instinctively trying to tug her top back down over her stomach.
He caught her wrists gently.
"Let me see you," he murmured. "Please."
Julie bit her lip, trembling, then nodded once — small, shy.
Roman pushed her top up slowly, baring her breasts. No bra. Her nipples were already tight, flushed dark pink. She crossed her arms over herself instinctively; he eased them down with careful thumbs.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
He bent and took one nipple into his mouth — soft at first, tongue circling, then a gentle suck. Julie's head tipped back with a shaky whimper, hands flying to his shoulders, fingers digging in.
"Roman—" Her voice cracked, surprised by how good it felt, how the pull went straight between her legs.
His hand slid to her thigh, stroking upward under her skirt. When his fingers brushed the soaked cotton between her legs she jolted, thighs clamping together reflexively.
He paused, mouth still on her breast.
"Too much?" he asked against her skin.
She shook her head quickly. "No… just… sensitive."
Roman kissed his way down her stomach — slow, reverent — then knelt between her legs. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her underwear.
"May I?"
Julie's breath hitched. She nodded, cheeks burning, unable to look at him.
He drew the fabric down her thighs slowly, exposing her. She was glistening, folds swollen and slick, clit peeking out, visibly throbbing. Roman exhaled roughly, eyes darkening.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Look at you."
Julie tried to close her legs; he caught her knees gently, spreading them wider.
"Don't hide," he said softly. "Not from me."
He leaned in and licked a slow, careful stripe from her entrance to her clit. Julie cried out — high, startled — hips jerking. He groaned at her taste, then licked again, slower, savoring.
She was loud in her surprise — soft gasps, whimpers, little "oh—oh—" sounds every time his tongue flicked her clit. Her hands fluttered, unsure where to go, finally settling in his hair, not pulling, just holding on.
Roman sucked gently on her clit, tongue circling, while one finger traced her entrance — not pushing in yet, just teasing the slick opening. Julie's thighs trembled violently.
"Roman… I—I feel—" Her voice broke. "It's too much—"
He pulled back just enough to murmur against her wet flesh: "You're doing so good. Just breathe. Let it build."
He slid one finger inside her — slow, careful, feeling how tight she was, how her walls fluttered around him like they didn't know what to do with the intrusion. Julie whimpered, hips rocking instinctively.
He added a second finger, pumping gently, curling to find that spot while his tongue returned to her clit — soft, steady licks.
Julie was shaking now, breath coming in short pants, fingers tightening in his hair.
"I can't—I'm going to—" Her voice cracked into a sob.
"Come for me," Roman murmured against her. "Let me taste it."
She shattered with a broken cry — thighs clamping around his head, cunt pulsing hard around his fingers, fresh slick coating his tongue. Roman licked her through every tremor, slow and gentle, until she was whimpering from overstimulation, tugging weakly at his hair.
He rose, mouth glistening, eyes feral but tender. He kissed her deeply — letting her taste herself — and she moaned softly, shyly, into it.
Her hands fumbled toward his belt, trembling.
Roman caught her wrists again, gentle but firm.
"Not tonight," he whispered against her lips. "Not yet."
Julie made a small, frustrated sound, hips shifting restlessly on the table.
Roman pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard, cock still straining painfully against his trousers, a dark wet spot visible at the tip.
"I want to be inside you so badly," he said, voice rough with restraint. "Want to feel how tight you are, how you'll flutter around me when you come again. But I want you to want it just as much. I want you begging."
Julie's breath hitched. She nodded against him, still trembling, still flushed and dazed.
Roman brushed a thumb over her swollen lower lip.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
She nodded, hiding her face against his chest. "I'm scared."
"Of me?"
"No," she whispered. "Of… how much I want this."
He exhaled in quiet relief, holding her close, still hard against her hip.
"Good," he said softly. "Because I don't want to hurt you."
Julie swallowed. "What do you want?"
Roman pulled back just enough to meet her eyes — dark, unguarded.
"You," he said. "Every shy, trembling inch of you."
A beat.
"And that," he added quietly, "is going to be a problem."
From the landing above, unseen, Dean had heard enough — her soft gasps, the surprised whimpers, the broken cry when she came.
He'd seen Roman kneel.
Seen Julie's hands in his hair.
Seen the way she trembled afterward, clinging to him.
Dean's knuckles were white around the banister, cock aching in his jeans despite the grief and jealousy clawing his chest.
He backed away silently, retreated to his room, slammed the door.
Fifteen minutes later he was in the unregistered sedan, speeding toward Mara.
He found her outside, cigarette trembling.
She saw him. "You."
"We need to talk."
"Unless you're giving me Julie—"
"I can't."
"Then leave."
Dean's voice cracked. "He just went down on her. On the dining table. She came crying his name."
Mara's cigarette fell. Burned out between them.
She stared at him, face crumpling.
"So that's it," she whispered. "She's his."
Dean didn't answer.
He couldn't.