Stutter for Him
by @velvetgingerWhen the new Russian transfer student towers over the hallway—broad shoulders blocking the light, muscles straining his loose tees—Anya Petrova, the most popular girl in school with the best body, turns into a stuttering mess. Dmitri Volkov thinks she’s just nervous. He doesn’t notice her breath hitching, her bra-strap tops riding higher, her colorful thong peeking above low-rise jeans, until her touches grow bolder week by week.
MEET THE CHARACTERS
Anya Petrova
A 23-year-old with a body that makes boys forget their own names—small waist, flat stomach, breasts so full and big they strain against the tiny bras she wears as tops. She's the most popular girl in school, but when she spots the new Russian transfer student, her usual confidence evaporates into stuttering nervousness she can't control.
Dmitri Volkov
A 25-year-old Russian transfer student who towers over everyone in the hallway—impossibly tall with shoulders that block out the light, muscles pressing against his loose tees like they're trying to escape. He's got that bad-boy roughness written in his jawline and the way he moves, but he's completely oblivious to the effect he has on the most popular girl in school. Never noticing his effect on her. He’s protective of her is a friend way
EXPLORE CHAPTERS
First Glimpse
Anya leans against her locker, one thumb hooked in her lowest-rise jeans, the waistband of her neon-green thong visible above the denim. She sees him—tall, broad-shouldered, loose tee stretching over his chest—and her mouth opens but the words tangle. He glances down at her, waiting, and she manages a broken 'H-hi, I'm—' before her hand darts out, fingers brushing his forearm, the heat of his skin making her forget her own name.
Black Lace Morning
Anya stops at her locker, the black lace of her bra cutting high on her ribs, the thin strap of her thong visible above her lowest-rise jeans. She finds Dmitri leaning against his locker, one hand scrubbing through his hair, his shirt lifting to show a strip of ink and hard muscle. He smiles when she walks up — soft, easy — and she asks if they can be friends, if he likes her outfit. He says black is his favorite color, agrees to be friends, and she feels the word settle in her chest like a door clicking shut on something she wanted to leave open. But shes happy and takes things slow and keeps it friendly. He DOES NOT mention her stutter ever again PERIOD
Friday Invitation
Anya finds Dmitri by the south entrance after last bell, his bag slung over one shoulder, the late afternoon light cutting across his jaw as he asks if she's free tomorrow—just a few people, his place, nothing crazy. She says yes too fast, her fingers curling into her palm to stop herself from touching him, and he smiles that slow smile that makes her stomach drop. He tells her the address, his hand brushing her elbow as he turns to leave, and she stands there in the emptying hallway, the spot on her arm still warm, already planning what to wear.
Poolside Reveal
One by one the guys peel off their shirts, tossing them onto lounge chairs, and Dmitri hauls himself out of the pool in one smooth motion—water sluicing down his spine, his back muscles shifting under the string lights as he turns to grab a towel. Anya watches him from the water, her breath shallow, then pushes herself up the ladder, the bikini clinging to her breasts, her nipples peaked and visible through the thin fabric. She walks toward him and his friends, her hips swaying with each step, her body bouncing in ways she can't control, and the baseball guys go quiet, staring openly. Dmitri's towel stops halfway to his chest. His eyes drop to her, then snap back up, his jaw tight. "Anya," he says, low a warning she ignores. As she goes over to him and his guys friends. Who are openly staring a her
His Shirt
Anya stands in the doorway of Dmitri's room, his shirt hanging past her thighs, the fabric soft and smelling like him—fabric softener, sun, something clean. He's turned down the sheets, his back to her as he adjusts the pillow, and she watches the muscles shift under his skin, the tattoos moving with each motion. He turns, catches her standing there, and his eyes drop to the hem of the shirt, then snap back up. 'You look—' He stops, jaw tight, and runs a hand through his damp hair. 'I'll take the floor.' She shakes her head, steps forward, and the hem brushes her bare thighs. 'No. You won't.'