It was Valentine's Day, and I was alone in my apartment, the kind of alone that sneaks up on you even when you're scrolling through your phone pretending otherwise. Two years had passed since Nikolai and I called it quits, and somehow, we had become those rare exes who actually stayed friends. Real friends, not the awkward kind who fade into occasional likes on social media. We texted about stupid things, like bad movies or work disasters, and met for coffee every few months without it turning weird. Both of us had dated other people since then, casual flings and hookups that filled the gaps but never quite stuck. I had a few guys who made me laugh, one who was great in bed but terrible at conversation. Nikolai mentioned a architect from work once, and some weekend thing in the city that ended before it began. But neither of us had fallen into anything serious. It was like we were both waiting, though we never said it out loud.
The city outside my window was drenched in pink and red, heart-shaped balloons bobbing from street lamps, couples huddled against the February chill. I poured myself a glass of whiskey, neat, and stared at my phone. Nikolai's last text was from a week ago, something about a book he thought I'd like. Impulsively, I typed out a message, my thumb hovering before I hit send. "Happy V-Day, comrade. Still single? We could do dinner and pretend we're over this. No strings, just to laugh at how pathetic we are." I added a laughing emoji to soften it, but my heart thumped hard. It was a joke, mostly. Or that's what I told myself.
His reply came faster than I expected. "Pathetic suits us. 8 PM. That Italian place on Elm?" No mention of after, no push. Just straightforward, like always. I exhaled, a mix of relief and that old flutter in my chest. Nikolai Volkov, with his quiet Russian intensity, had always been the steady one. I was the American mess, feeling everything too loud, too fast. We broke up not because of cheating or fights, but because we wanted each other so fiercely it scared us. I thought it would burn out; he thought it was unsustainable. We ended it over coffee, polite and gentle, like adults. That was the problem. It felt unfinished.
I dressed carefully, dark jeans that hugged my legs, a fitted shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the chain he gave me years ago. I hadn't worn it in months, but tonight it felt right. The mirror showed a guy in his early thirties who looked put together, but inside I was a tangle of nerves. What if this was a bad idea? What if it wasn't?
The restaurant was cozy, tucked into a corner of downtown, with string lights twinkling outside like stars fallen to earth. Valentine's specials plastered the windows: roses on every table, chocolate desserts shaped like hearts. I arrived early, snagged a booth in the back. When Nikolai walked in, my breath caught. He was fitter than I remembered, or maybe it was the way his black jacket hung on his broad shoulders, his dark hair swept back, a hint of stubble shadowing his jaw. Early thirties suited him, that controlled strength he carried like a secret. He spotted me, and his eyes softened in that way only I ever noticed.
"Ethan Miller," he said, sliding into the booth across from me. His voice, accented just enough to make my name sound like a promise. We hugged awkwardly over the table, his hand lingering on my shoulder a second too long. He smelled manly, the same cologne that used to cling to my pillows.
"You look good," I said, meaning it. He smirked, that half-smile that always undid me.
"You too. Still wearing that chain?"
I touched it instinctively. "Habit."
The server came over, a young woman with a smile, and lit the candle between us without asking. It flickered to life, casting warm shadows on Nikolai's face. We both stared at it, then burst out laughing.
"Subtle," I said.
She winked. "Valentine's special. Enjoy your date, gentlemen."
We didn't correct her. Instead, Nikolai raised his menu like a shield. "A date. Haven't had one of those in... what, two years?"
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse quickened. "Oh, please. You've had dates. That architect, right? The one with the loft?"
He shrugged, eyes locked on mine over the flame. "Dates, sure. Hookups, maybe. Nothing that stuck." His gaze didn't waver, and there it was, that spark of tension, like the air between us hummed.
"Yeah, same here," I admitted, my voice lower than I intended. "The trainer from the gym last summer. Fun, but... forgettable."
Nikolai's eyebrow arched. "Forgettable? That's not like you."
I laughed, but it came out breathy. "What, you think I remember everyone I have sex with?"
"Only the ones who matter." His words hung there, heavy with subtext. The server returned for orders, breaking the moment. Nikolai ordered for both of us without asking: risotto for me, steak for him, a bottle of Chianti we used to split on lazy nights. It felt too easy, slipping back into those rhythms.
As we waited, he told me about his recent trip to Moscow. "Went back for my cousin's wedding. Snow everywhere, vodka flowing like water. The city hasn't changed much. Still that mix of old and new, churches next to skyscrapers." His eyes lit up when he talked about it, that rare animation breaking through his reserve. I pictured him there, bundled in a coat, navigating streets from his childhood. "Saw the Bolshoi, finally. Ballet. Intense."
"Ballet? You?" I teased, leaning forward. "Mr. Restraint himself, watching all that passion on stage?"
He chuckled, deep and low. "Passion has its place. You should try it sometime."
The wine arrived, and we clinked glasses. "To pathetic exes," I said.
"To us," he countered, his foot brushing mine under the table. Accidental? Maybe. But neither of us moved.
Conversation flowed, laced with jokes that skirted the edge of something more. "So, any Valentine's horror stories from your hookups?" I asked, sipping my wine.
He leaned back, arms crossed, that smirk returning. "One guy brought me chocolates shaped like... well, you can guess."
I nearly choked on my drink. "No way. And?"
"And I ate them. What? Free chocolate." His eyes danced with mischief, but they stayed on me, tracing my reaction.
"You're terrible," I said, but I was grinning, heat creeping up my neck. "Mine was worse. Blind date last year. He spent the whole night talking about his ex. Ironic, right?"
Nikolai's expression shifted, just a flicker. "Ironic." He reached for the bread, his fingers brushing mine as he passed it. This time, it wasn't accidental. His touch lingered, warm and deliberate, sending a jolt straight through me. I remembered those hands, how they knew exactly where to press, how to hold me down without a word.
The food came, and we ate, but my focus was on him. The way his lips moved when he spoke, the subtle flex of his jaw. Sexual tension coiled tighter with every glance, every shared laugh. He caught me staring at his hands once, wrapping around his glass. "What?" he asked softly.
"Nothing. I like this."
He didn't push, but his knee nudged mine again, staying there. We talked about everything and nothing: my latest project at work, his frustration with bureaucracy, the way the city felt smaller without each other in it. By dessert…a shared tiramisu, because why not?...the candle had burned low, and the restaurant hummed with couples whispering sweet nothings. Ours felt more like charged silences, eyes saying what words wouldn't.
When the check came, Nikolai grabbed it first. "My treat. For old times."
I protested, but he waved it off. Outside, the night air was crisp, Valentine's lights reflecting off puddles from an earlier rain. His bike was parked nearby, a sleek black motorcycle he loved riding through the city. As we walked toward it, he shrugged off his jacket against the chill, draping it over the seat. Underneath, his t-shirt stretched tight over his chest, outlining muscles that looked sharper, more defined.
I stared, couldn't help it. "Hitting the gym lately?"
He turned, catching my gaze, and stepped closer. "Well, yeah. And I'm glad you noticed." His voice dropped, laced with something darker, hungrier. We were inches apart now, the parking lot empty around us, the bike a silent witness.
My breath hitched. "Hard not to. You look... incredible."
Nikolai's eyes darkened, that quiet intensity of his flaring like a match in the dim parking lot. He didn't move closer, not yet, but his gaze traced my face, lingering on my lips, then dropping to where my shirt clung to my chest from the evening's warmth inside the restaurant. The Valentine's lights from the street cast a soft red glow on his skin, making him look almost otherworldly, like a memory come to life. I could feel the pull between us, that invisible thread we'd tried to sever two years ago, tightening with every second we stood there.
"Thanks," he said, his voice low, rough around the edges with his accent. He shoved his hands into his pockets, a deliberate move, like he was restraining himself from reaching out. But his body leaned in just a fraction, enough to make the air between us feel charged, electric. "You've been working out too. That shirt... it fits you well."
I swallowed, my throat dry. Heat bloomed in my chest, spreading downward. We were flirting with the line we'd drawn, the one that said friends only, no revisiting the past. But standing there, with the faint hum of traffic and the scent of rain-damp asphalt mixing with his cologne, it was hard to remember why we'd drawn it. "Yeah, well, gym helps with the stress. You know how it is."
He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. I watched the muscle flex, remembered how it felt under my fingers when I'd trace it during quieter moments. His restraint was palpable, a coiled energy that made my pulse race. Nikolai had always been like this, controlled to the point where his stillness became its own kind of foreplay. He didn't grab or push; he waited, watching, until you cracked first. And I was cracking.
The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things. His eyes met mine again, holding, searching. "Ethan," he started, then stopped, exhaling sharply. His hand came out of his pocket, fingers flexing as if debating whether to touch. "This dinner... it wasn't just about catching up, was it?"
I bit my lip, the admission bubbling up. "No. I don't think it was." My voice came out softer than I intended, vulnerable. I stepped half a pace closer, our shoes nearly touching. The heat from his body radiated toward me, tempting. I could see the rise and fall of his chest, quicker now, matching mine. Restraint mirrored restraint; neither of us bridged the gap, but the want was there, thrumming like a live wire.
He tilted his head, his breath ghosting over my skin as he leaned in without touching. "Tell me what you want, then." It wasn't a demand, more like an invitation, his words laced with that deep timbre that always sent shivers down my spine.
I hesitated, my hands itching to grab his sweater, to pull him in. But I held back, savoring the tension, the way it built like a storm. "I want... this not to be complicated." Lies, half-truths. What I wanted was him, all of him, the way it used to be.
Nikolai's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "It's always been complicated with us." His hand finally moved, brushing my arm lightly, just fingertips grazing my sleeve. It was barely a touch, but it ignited something, a spark that raced through me. He didn't pull away, letting his fingers trail down to my wrist, thumb pressing gently against my pulse point. He must have felt it racing, because his eyes flicked there, then back to mine, darkening further.
The restraint was killing me, deliciously so. I could feel my body responding, arousal stirring low in my belly. "Niko," I murmured, using the nickname I hadn't in two years. It slipped out, intimate, and his grip on my wrist tightened just enough to make me gasp softly.
That was the break. He stepped forward, closing the inches between us, his free hand cupping my jaw with exquisite care. His thumb stroked my cheekbone, rough pad against smooth skin. Our breaths mingled, warm in the cool night air. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered, his mouth hovering over mine, so close I could almost taste him.
I didn't. Instead, I tilted my head, bridging the final gap. Our lips met softly at first, a tentative press that exploded into memory. His mouth was warm, familiar, tasting of wine and the faint bitterness of coffee from dessert. The kiss deepened slowly, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips, asking permission. I granted it, opening for him, and the world tilted. His hand slid to the back of my neck, holding me steady as the kiss turned hungry, but still controlled, each movement deliberate. I fisted his t-shirt, pulling him closer, our bodies aligning in that perfect way they always had.
When we broke apart, breaths ragged, foreheads pressed together, the Valentine's spirit felt alive around us…romantic, inevitable. But doubt crept in. "We promised this was just friends hanging out," I said, my voice unsteady, hands still clutching him.
Nikolai pulled back slightly, his eyes searching mine in the low light. "Did we? Or did we tell ourselves that to make it easier?" His thumb traced my lower lip, swollen from the kiss. "Ethan, we've been orbiting each other for two years. Dates, hookups…they don't compare. Not to this."
I wanted to argue, to cling to the safety of friendship, but his words hit home. The restraint in his voice, the way he held himself back even now, waiting for me to decide…it undid me. "What if we mess it up again?"
"Then we mess it up." He kissed my forehead, soft and reassuring. "But what if we don't? Come home with me. One night. Let's see what this is."
His conviction, that quiet certainty, convinced me. I nodded, the decision settling like relief. "Okay.."
The ride on his bike was torture and bliss, my arms wrapped around his waist, chest pressed to his back, feeling every shift of muscle as he navigated the streets. Wind whipped past, carrying the scent of the city…rain, exhaust, and faint flowers from Valentine's displays. By the time we reached his apartment, my body was humming with anticipation.
We stumbled inside, the door shutting with a click that echoed in the quiet space. Familiarity washed over me: the loft's open layout, the leather couch where we'd spent lazy Sundays, the bed in the corner with its crisp sheets. Nikolai flipped on a lamp, casting a warm glow, and turned to me, his expression a mix of hunger and tenderness.
"What the fuck are we doing?" I echoed my earlier words, but this time with a laugh, nervous energy bubbling up.
He crossed to me in two strides, hands framing my face. "What we should have done a long time ago." His kiss this time was deeper, unrestrained, tongues dancing as he walked me backward toward the bedroom. Clothes shed along the way…my shirt unbuttoned with deft fingers, his t-shirt tugged over his head, revealing the chiseled torso I'd admired earlier. His skin was hot under my palms, muscles flexing as I traced the lines of his abs, down to the V of his hips.
We hit the bed, and I pushed him down, straddling his thighs. Restraint gone, the erotic charge took over. I kissed my way down his chest, nipping at his nipples, eliciting a low groan from him. "Miller," he breathed, his hand in my hair, guiding but not forcing.
I slid lower, unbuckling his belt, zipper rasping in the quiet room. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, easily eight inches, curving slightly upward, the head already glistening. I wrapped my hand around it, stroking slowly, feeling it twitch in my grip. "Fuck, I missed this cock," I murmured, looking up at him through my lashes.
Nikolai's eyes were hooded, dark with desire. "Show me how much." His voice was gravelly, commanding in that subtle way of his.
I leaned down, tongue flicking out to taste the tip, salty and musky. He hissed, hips bucking slightly. I took him in, lips stretching around his girth, sucking slowly at first, savoring the weight on my tongue. His hand tightened in my hair as I bobbed, taking more each time, hollowing my cheeks. "Fuck, I missed those soft lips on my cock," he growled, his accent thickening with arousal. "So perfect, moya lyubov. Suck me deeper."
The words sent a thrill through me, my own cock straining against my jeans. I obeyed, relaxing my throat to take him fully, nose brushing his trimmed pubes. He moaned, deep and raw, thrusting gently into my mouth. Saliva dripped, the sounds wet and obscene, heightening everything. I worked him with hand and mouth, twisting at the base, tongue swirling around the head on each upstroke.
"Enough," he said after minutes that felt like eternity, pulling me up. His kiss was frantic now, tasting himself on my tongue. He flipped us effortlessly, his strength pinning me to the mattress. "My turn."
He stripped me bare, clothes tossed aside, his mouth everywhere…neck, chest, inner thighs. When he took my cock in his mouth, I arched, moaning out loud. He sucked with expertise, fingers teasing my hole. One finger, then two, stretching me open.
"Please, Niko," I begged, writhing under him.
He rose, positioning himself, his eight-inch length pressing against my ass. "Look at me," he demanded softly. Our eyes locked as he pushed in, inch by inch, the burn giving way to fullness, pleasure. "So tight, baby. Like you were made for this."
I gasped, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. He bottomed out, pausing to let me adjust, then started moving with slow thrusts at first, building to a frantic rhythm. The bed creaked, skin slapping skin, our moans filling the room. He pounded into me, hand on my cock, stroking in time. "Come for me, Ethan. Let me feel you."
The orgasm hit like a wave, crashing over me, spilling between us. He followed seconds later, burying deep with a guttural groan, filling me. We collapsed, tangled and sweaty, breaths syncing.
In the afterglow, he held me close, whispering confessions. "I love you. Always have."
"I love you too," I replied, the words finally free. This Valentine's wasn't an end…it was our beginning, raw and real.
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