Illusions

28. clingy

Amira's POV

Roman knows how to turn me into a shy teenager.

If it were anyone else I would've stuck around to make a lewd comment but with him I just... froze.

I find the remote in a tray on the meticulously organized coffee table and turn the TV on.

The second thing I'm turning on today.

Roman makes everything so complicated but also so easy.

He could've had me in his bathroom but instead, he wanted everything to be perfect for us. Anything I could have with him would be perfect but he's a perfectionist.

It's one of the things I love about him.

Reverting my attention to the TV, I find Anastasia and patiently await his arrival.

His soft footsteps hurry down the stairs and I turn to see Roman. He has no shirt on and gray sweatpants hang low on his waist. I could write essays about his abs and his arms, oh, and his hands.

"Like what you see?"

Yes.

"Hmm," I pretend to think, "Yeah, I do."

He smiles and sits beside me, pulling my legs onto his lap.

"Did you find your movie, darling?"

I nod and point to the screen.

He reaches forward and gets his glasses from the coffee table.

I watch multiple muscles flex as he does so and my mouth goes dry.

I'm fucking feral.

"I can feel you watching me," he chuckles while stroking my leg, "I feel objectified."

I roll my eyes.

"Objectify me then," I shrug, "I'm still naked under this."

I feel him tense.

"Amira, you don't get to do this," he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes, "I'm trying so hard here."

I reach out and pat his arm.

"It's okay, Romey," I smile, "I'm here for you with open legs, wait I meant arms."

"Jesus Christ."

I watch Roman get up and walk to the kitchen, not missing his subtle adjusting.

Smirking, I pick up my phone, intending to respond to emails.

Instead, I'm greeted with texts and missed calls from my mother.

I'll humor her.

Before I can call her, she calls me again.

"Hi, Mom."

"Amira, where are you?"

"Uh... home."

"Are you with your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, why?"

She sighs.

"Why did I get a letter from him," she says, obviously annoyed, "why did you tell him what happened that night? You know what stays between family and what outsiders can know, what have you done?"

My stomach drops and so does my mood.

"He's family too," I respond quickly, "and I love him, so please, don't call him an outsider. He's my family now, more than you and more than your other daughter have ever been."