Lika Star: I am Russian Anal babe!

Willing in white, Lika’s not as innocent as she looks. You’ll want to watch her every move, but be careful she doesn’t give you vertigo.

The wedding wasn’t hers, which was probably why she was having such a good time. Someone else’s ceremony meant someone else’s stress, someone else’s family drama, someone else’s expectations to meet. Lika just had to show up, look beautiful, and maybe catch the bouquet if the opportunity presented itself.

She’d chosen the dress carefully—white, because that was the assignment, but not bridal white. More like cream, off-white, the color of old lace and new beginnings. It flowed when she moved, clung when she stood still, and made everyone who saw her do a double-take that she pretended not to notice.

The ceremony was beautiful in that generic wedding way. Lika sat in the third row, dabbing her eyes at the appropriate moments, smiling at the appropriate people, playing her role perfectly. But her mind was elsewhere, wandering through possibilities and memories and the particular restlessness that always struck her at events like this.

Afterward, at the reception, she found herself at the bar ordering something complicated that the bartender had to look up.

“Bold choice,” a voice said beside her. “Most people stick to wine at weddings.”

Lika turned to find a man about her age, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, watching her with an expression that wasn’t quite admiration and wasn’t quite amusement.

“I’m not most people.” She accepted her drink, took a sip, raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Definitely not.” He extended his hand. “Marcus.”

“Lika.” She shook, his grip warm and confident. “Are you here for the bride or the groom?”

“The groom. College roommate.” He nodded toward the dance floor. “You?”

“Bride. Old friend from work.” She sipped her drink. “We’re on opposite sides. This could be complicated.”

Marcus grinned. “I like complicated.”

They talked through the first few songs, leaning against the bar while the dance floor filled around them. Marcus was an architect, she learned, which explained the way he looked at spaces like he was constantly rebuilding them. He’d grown up in the city, moved away for school, come back because nowhere else felt like home.

“And you?” he asked. “What do you do when you’re not stealing focus at other people’s weddings?”

Lika laughed. “I’m a dancer. Contemporary. I perform with a small company downtown.”

“A dancer. That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“The way you move. Like you’re always aware of the space around you, always ready to transition into something else.” He gestured vaguely. “Most people are solid. You’re fluid.”

Lika felt her cheeks warm. “That’s very observant.”

“I’m an architect. Observing is the job.” He set down his empty glass. “Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question. Lika considered saying no, considered playing hard to get, considered any of the usual games people played at weddings. Instead, she took his hand and let him lead her to the floor.

The song was slow, romantic, the kind that made couples hold each other closer. Marcus’s hand settled on her waist, light and respectful, while hers found his shoulder. They moved together like they’d been doing it for years, anticipating each other’s shifts, matching each other’s rhythms.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured.

“I’m following your lead. You make it easy.” He pulled back slightly, meeting her eyes. “Most people, when they dance, they’re performing. Showing off. You’re just… moving. Being present. It’s beautiful.”

Lika felt something shift in her chest. No one had ever described her dancing that way. They talked about technique, about grace, about the athleticism required. No one ever mentioned presence.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For seeing that.”

The song ended, but they didn’t step apart. Another started, faster this time, and Marcus raised an eyebrow in question. Lika nodded, and they moved into something more playful, more energetic, more fun.

Hours passed like minutes. They danced through every song, took breaks for water and conversation, returned to the floor each time like it was where they belonged. By the time the band played their last song, Lika’s feet ached and her heart was full.

“Walk with me,” Marcus said, not a question.

Outside, the night air was cool and clean, a relief after the crowded reception. They wandered away from the venue, toward a small park Lika hadn’t noticed before. A bench overlooked a pond, moonlight dancing on the water.

“I don’t usually do this,” Lika admitted, sitting. “Meet someone at a wedding, spend the whole night with them, disappear afterward.”

“Neither do I.” Marcus sat beside her, close enough to feel but not close enough to crowd. “But you’re not most people.”

“No. I’m not.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the water, feeling the weight of the night settle around them. Lika was aware of every detail—the way the moonlight caught Marcus’s profile, the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his presence inches away.

“Can I ask you something?” he said finally.

“Sure.”

“That dress. You chose it deliberately, didn’t you? Not just because it’s beautiful, but because of what it says.”

Lika smiled. “And what does it say?”

“That you’re not as innocent as you look. That the white is a choice, not a statement. That underneath all that softness is someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.” He turned to look at her. “Am I close?”

“Very close.”

“Then here’s my question: what are you doing here? With me? Tonight?”

Lika considered the question carefully. She could give the easy answer—chemistry, attraction, the magic of the night. But something about Marcus, about the way he saw her, demanded honesty.

“I’m tired,” she said quietly. “Of performing. Of being watched. Of having people want things from me without ever seeing who I actually am.” She met his eyes. “You looked at me tonight like I was a person, not a spectacle. That’s rare.”

Marcus reached out, slowly enough that she could pull away, and took her hand. “You are a person. A fascinating one. The way you move, the way you talk, the way you look at the world—it’s all connected. It’s all you.” He squeezed her fingers. “I see you, Lika. Not the dress, not the performance, not whatever story people tell themselves about who you are. You.”

Her eyes burned. She blinked rapidly, looking away. “No one’s ever said that.”

“Then no one’s ever really looked.”

She kissed him then, right there on the bench by the pond, and it was nothing like the careful, calculated kisses she’d given a hundred other men. It was real. Vulnerable. Terrifying and beautiful and absolutely true.

Later, walking back toward the venue, hand in hand, Marcus stopped suddenly.

“What?” Lika asked.

“I just realized something.” He turned to face her. “I don’t want this to be a wedding thing. A one-night thing. I want to see you again. Actually see you, in the real world, without the dress and the moonlight and the magic.”

Lika smiled slowly. “Good. Because I was going to suggest the same thing.”

He pulled her close, kissing her forehead. “Then it’s settled. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”

They walked on, two people who’d found each other in the most unexpected way. Willing in white, Lika had caught more than a bouquet tonight. She’d caught someone who saw her clearly, who loved what he found, who wanted more than just a beautiful memory.

And when he looked at her like that, she didn’t feel vertigo. She felt grounded. Seen. Whole.

The girl in white wasn’t as innocent as she looked. But the man beside her didn’t want innocent. He wanted real. And Lika was ready to give him exactly that.