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Their kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as Ivan’s hands roamed over her body, exploring, claiming. Every touch was deliberate, every movement calculated to draw out her pleasure, to bring her closer to the edge. The room around them faded into the background, the books on the shelves bearing silent witness to their exploration. As they lost themselves in each other, the words they had read and the stories they had shared became the fuel for their desire, driving them to new heights of passion. Ivan’s knowledge of Russian literature had always been his strength, but tonight, it was his knowledge of Anna—of her desires, her fantasies—that guided their journey.
Chapter Eight
Ivan was definitely convincing Anna that Russian literature was romantic, so much so that she asked him to do something different. She wanted to bring some of the characters to life. “You want to roleplay,” Ivan asked, making sure he understood exactly what she was asking for.
“Yes. I want to bring some of these characters to life.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow at her as he slid the eggs he had been cooking for breakfast onto the plate and then handed it to her. “Which characters, dushenka, do you want to bring to life?”
Anna took the plate he handed her and reached for the butter. She smiled a little. “Anna and Count Vronsky.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Anna Karenina,“ he murmured, his voice a deep rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. “A woman torn between duty and desire, living on the edge of a precipice.” He cracked another egg into the pan, watching her as she ate. “All right. I’m game. Do you want to dress in costume?”
“Well, not period costumes, but something.” She shrugged, eating her breakfast. She took a bite of her toast, her eyes challenging him.
Ivan nodded. “Find a dress. And then we will meet here and bring Anna and Count Vronsky alive.”
Anna found a dress that would work at the local thrift store. The master bedroom was thick with anticipation, the kind that hung the space between them, electric and charged. Neither of them needed a copy of the book. Anna Karenina was Anna’s favorite Russian book. She knew it by heart, and if there was only one piece of Russian literature that she would agree was romantic from the start, that was it. The role play inspired by Russian literature’s complex, passionate figures was a new adventure for them both.
In the center of the room, a single, grand mirror reflected the scene back at them. Ivan stood near the window, his dark eyes intent on Anna as she finished adjusting her costume—a delicate, lace-trimmed dress that harkened back to the opulent world of 19th-century Russia. She caught his gaze in the mirror, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
“Anna Karenina,” Ivan murmured, his voice a deep rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. “A woman torn between duty and desire, living on the edge of a precipice.” He was dressed in a simply white button down shirt, his sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms, and dark slacks. He could’ve stepped out of the book easily in his simple dress.
Anna turned to face him, fully stepping into her role. “And you,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “Count Vronsky—the man who would see her fall if only to catch her in his arms.”
Ivan’s lips curved into a smile, but his eyes were dark and intense as he crossed the room to her. “A man willing to risk everything for love,” he said, lifting a hand to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. “To defy society’s rules, to embrace the scandal for the sake of passion.” He paused, gazing at her. “Why are you testing my patience? It has its limits.”
It took Anna a moment to remember the line, to remember Anna’s response. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.
“I must ask what you want of me!”
“What can I want? I can only want you not to abandon me, as you are thinking of doing. But I don’t want that. That is secondary. What I want is love, and it is lacking. “
The tension between them crackled like a live wire, each word they spoke drawing them deeper into the characters they had chosen to inhabit. It wasn’t just play-acting—each gesture, each glance was imbued with the weight of the emotions they had explored together, the boundaries between their roles and their true selves blurring until they were one and the same.
“Anna,” Ivan whispered, “At this moment, there is only us. The world beyond these walls doesn’t matter. What do you choose—your duty or your heart?”
Anna’s breath hitched, the gravity of his question pulling her into the depths of the character. She knew what she was supposed to say, what Anna Karenina would say—but tonight, she was both Anna the character and Anna the woman standing before Ivan, torn between the roles they played and the raw, undeniable connection between them.
“I choose you,” she finally breathed, her voice trembling with the truth of the words. “I choose desire.”
With those words, the last of the walls between them crumbled. Ivan’s hand slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him, the heat of his body searing through the fabric of her dress. His lips found hers in a kiss that was both tender and fierce, filled with the desperate need of a man who knew he was risking everything.
The kiss deepened, their passion fueled by the tragic love story they were reenacting. But as they moved together, the lines between Ivan and Vronsky, between Anna and Anna Karenina, began to blur. It was as if they were no longer merely playing roles but channeling the very essence of these characters—bringing to life the turbulent emotions that had been simmering beneath the surface of their own relationship.
They stumbled toward the bed, their movements driven by the same intensity that had fueled the ill-fated lovers in Tolstoy’s novel. But unlike those tragic figures, Ivan and Anna were not bound by the same constraints. Here, in this room, at this moment, they were free to explore every facet of their desires, unburdened by the expectations of society.
As they collapsed onto the bed, Ivan’s hands roamed over her body with a mix of familiarity and newfound urgency, as if discovering her anew through the lens of their chosen characters. “You’re mine, Anna,” he whispered against her lips, his voice rough with need. “No one else can have you.”
Anna responded in kind, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “And you’re mine, Vronsky,” she whispered back, her voice filled with a possessive passion that surprised even her. “No one else matters.”
The room seemed to pulse with the energy of their connection, the echo of the characters’ desires mingling with their own. Every touch, every kiss, was a step deeper into the world they were creating together—a world where literature and reality intertwined, where they could lose themselves completely in the roles they played. Their clothes were shed, dropping to the floor in a puddle of lace and cotton. Ivan pulled her to him, his mouth devouring every inch of her flesh. His mouth suckled at her breast while his fingers stoked her core until she cried out. He drove deep into her, needing to feel her surround him with her heat. He rolled them on the bed, watching as she sat up, riding him until they both cried out with release. They collapsed in contentment for the moment.
But their play was not done. As the night wore on, the roles began to shift once more. The intensity of Anna Karenina and Vronsky’s doomed love gave way to a darker, more complex narrative. Ivan pulled back from her, leaning on one elbow, his hand lazily tracing circles around her nipple. His gaze locked with her with a sudden, fierce intensity.
“Raskolnikov,” he said, his voice barely more than a growl. “A man driven by his own demons, haunted by the consequences of his actions.”
Anna’s heart raced as she recognized the new role he was adopting, the brooding, tortured protagonist of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. She felt a thrill of fear and excitement as she met his gaze, understanding that their game was taking a darker turn.
