Chapter 18
Eloise
“You don’t have to come in with me,” I say. Again.
Roman ignores me again and holds the door open, gesturing for me to enter my apartment building. I heave a sigh, like I’m the one put out, when he’s the one who’s carrying my bags after driving home two hours while I slept.
“Thanks,” I mumble, passing him, my shoulder skimming his chest on the way. I don’t apologize, and he doesn’t move.
And the tiny touch is enough to set off a reel of memories from last night.
Of his arms holding me, one hand on my throat, the other making me delirious with pleasure.
Of his mouth on the most sensitive part of my body and his delicious growl when he licked his wet lips after making me come.
Of the almost painful fullness and his pounding hips.
I exhale and blink into reality, forcing myself to step forward and hit the button for the elevator. Which is a terrible idea, because once the two of us are stuck in the metal box, his fresh cotton and spicy cardamom scent envelops me, and I’m lost.
I can’t even remember how to walk when the doors open. I’m stuck staring at him.
This mountain of a man.
The guy who protected me all weekend, who reminded me to keep my head up and fuck anybody who tries to bring me down.
My fake boyfriend.
Our pretend relationship may have started as a ruse, but these few days with Roman felt anything but fake, and I’m not ready for this to be over. I don’t want to lose this connection we’ve found.
He nudges me with my bags, prodding me out, and I lead him to my door, feeling his eyes on me the whole way. Once my door is unlocked, I don’t think twice. Whirling around, I ask, “Do you want to come in for a bit?”
He nods. “I have some time.”
Inside, I’m finally able to take my bags from him so I can toss them on the floor. The door clicks shut behind him, and then he’s on me. His lips find mine but don’t stay there long, trekking down my neck.
“Bedroom’s this way,” I say, curling my fingers into his shirt, pulling him in the direction, and he follows willingly.
“Nice place,” he murmurs against my skin, clearly not having seen a single detail of my apartment. I smile, tilting my head to give him better access, breath hitching when he nips me.
“You haven’t even looked.”
He hums, the vibration sending shivers down my spine. “Show me later.”
My back hits the wall, and my breath hisses at the cool contact. Roman pulls away, dark eyes filled with heat. He’s so tall, so broad, so…everything. I want him even as my body aches from last night’s activities.
As if reading my mind, he cups my face gently, thumbs brushing over my cheeks. “You sore?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
A hot blush creeps up my neck. “A little.”
He slides his hand down, over my chest, stomach, and settles between my legs, squeezing my pussy like he owns it. After last night, I suppose he does.
“I should probably say sorry—”
I interrupt with rushed words. “No, you shouldn’t—”
“But I’m not going to,” he finishes, and I huff out a laugh.
“Good.”
“I’m a bastard,” he says, and I shake my head, but he goes on. “I should kiss you goodbye and leave, but I don’t want to. I’m not going to. That makes me a bastard.”
“Okay.” I twist my fist in the neckline of his T-shirt, dragging him down to me, speaking my words into his mouth. “So fuck me like the bastard you are.”
His grunt is downright sinful, and he bends, clamping his hands around the backs of my thighs, hoisting me up so I can wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me to the bed, where we lie down on my mattress.
With his tongue in my mouth and my hands in his hair, I’m not sure who’s pushing and pulling, but we roll back and forth until his T-shirt is off and I’m down to my bra and underwear.
He raises himself up above me. “Where do you keep your vibrator?”
“That’s presumptuous of you to think I have one.”
“I bet you have more than one,” he says, finally taking a peek around my bedroom that’s ultra girly with fluffy rugs and a bunch of fake plants everywhere because I’d be damned if I could keep a real one alive.
He tips his chin back to me, hitting me with a knowing glint in his eyes.
“I bet they’re all pink, and I bet you use one every night because an orgasm helps you fall asleep. ”
I pout. He’s exactly right. “How do you know that?”
“You couldn’t keep your eyes open last night.”
“That’s because you made me come, like, eighteen times.”
He squints at me. “Like I’m eighteen feet tall?”
“It’s a good number for you, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he deadpans before sitting on the edge of the mattress to rummage through my bedside table drawer. When he finds my stash, he inspects the three before deciding on the dark pink rose.
“Lie back, sunshine,” he orders softly, climbing onto the bed next to me. I comply, my heart pounding with anticipation, skin rippling with goose bumps, all because he’s staring at me. That’s all it takes for my nipples to pebble and my stomach to flip.
“Please, daddy,” I beg, earning a growl of approval, and I cup my breasts with my hands, searching for relief.
“I’ll take care of my good girl,” he says and draws a line with his tongue from my lips to my breastbone before lifting his head, taking in my pose—the cups of my bra pushed down, my thumbs and index fingers pinching my nipples, knees bent and parted, totally wanton.
“You’re so pretty like this. Like a painting.
” He leans away another few inches, palming my stomach.
“You should be memorialized like that. Hung in a museum so everyone can see your beauty.”
“Roman,” I whine, desperate for his hands on me but also because I don’t feel like I deserve his words.
He bends, scratching my lower belly with his beard, raking his blunt nails over my hips when he drags my underwear down my legs.
Then he’s there, mouth and nose buried, inhaling deeply, like I’m some lavish meal.
I arch my back when he licks along my aching flesh, and he slips his fingers inside, stroking me gently, carefully.
I want more, digging my fingers into his hair, fighting for control, which he refuses to give up.
I’m already wet, ready for him, but he takes his time, building me up slowly, dropping kisses on my thighs and hips and stomach.
“This isn’t fucking me like a bastard,” I grit out, and hot air wafts over my sensitive skin when he huffs.
“You’re right. This is me fucking you as much as you can handle right now.”
“Bastard.”
He murmurs his agreement then turns on the vibrator, the low hum filling the room. I jolt at the sudden intensity when he presses it against my clit, and he keeps his hand on my stomach, holding me down, as I mindlessly squirm beneath him.
Pleasure courses through me, and I have trouble keeping my eyes open, but when I can, I see him nodding as if to himself, lips moving in quiet praise. “Good girl. Let go.”
He eases his fingers back inside me, and that’s all it takes.
I’m all light and sensation, crying out, shuddering with my release, and I need a few deep breaths before I can pry my eyelids open.
The shades on my windows are up, afternoon light filling the room, highlighting Roman’s large form like some religious tableau.
He does make me speak in tongues like the Holy Spirit, so it’s not far off.
He sets the vibrator aside, his eyes never leaving mine, then shifts to his knees, running his hands up and down my thighs, in no rush to move.
Though the bulge behind his jeans is evidence of his arousal.
He’s right in that I really don’t think I could take his cock inside me, but I want to help him, offer him the same mind-bending orgasm he’s blessed me with.
When I reach for him, he catches my hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses my fingers. My palm. My inner wrist.
“This is about you,” he says, his voice rough, like he hasn’t used it in ten years. Or used it too much in the last day.
Maybe he has. He said so himself on our date at Tabby Cat; he’s given me more words than he’s given anyone else this whole year.
I aim for his zipper again, but he knocks my hand out of the way. “Just lie there. Let me look at you.”
I rid myself of my bra and relax against my pillows, which I think Roman likes if his audible exhale or the way he licks his lips is any indication.
He unbuttons his jeans, pushing them down enough to free his erection from his boxer briefs, the elastic fitting beneath his heavy sac, his thick length aimed straight at me.
Last time, I didn’t have enough light to really admire him, but now I can study every detail.
The slight flush of his golden skin with those deep, even lines of his abs that a person could float a boat on.
He has birds tattooed above each of his indented hip bones that seem almost too romantic to be on this masculine of a man with veins on his flat, lower stomach pointing to that monster cock of his.
“Touch yourself,” he orders as he takes himself in hand, stroking slowly, his eyes locked on mine, and I don’t hesitate. I slip my fingers down my slit, circling my already oversensitized clit, and I let loose a sigh that’s one-part needy sex machine and one-part overused sex doll.
His chest rises and falls, mouth pulling as if in pain, but I can tell he’s already close to coming and I stroke myself faster, matching the rhythm of his fist, tugging hard on his cock, a pearl of moisture pooling on the thick head.
The sight of him, the sound of his harsh breaths, the knowledge that he’s doing this for me, because of me, pushes me over the edge.
“Roman,” I moan, muscles tensing as another orgasm rips through me. He groans, hunching over as his release hits my stomach in warm lines. He shudders and places his left hand on the bed next to my hip, his right hand pulling whatever is left out of him, a few drops landing on my thigh.
A tattoo of a different kind.
He collapses next to me, and we both lie together for a minute, soaking in the aftereffects of this intimacy that is as hot as it is a fantasy.
It’s never felt like this before. I’ve never had this immediate connection and desire for someone, and I don’t know what to do now that our weekend of faking it is over.
But I don’t have too much time to think about it because my cell phone buzzes with a message, and I roll over to find my jeans, retrieving it from the pocket. Behind me, I feel and hear slight shuffling as Roman dresses, knowing he’ll be leaving. And I won’t have his protection anymore.
I’ll have to fend for myself against my mother’s text message.
Mom
You and I need to have a conversation about this weekend. I am disgusted at your disrespect. To say nothing of how your “boyfriend” treated me.
My jaw tenses, my shoulders up by my ears, and it’s a few seconds until I remember to tell myself to relax. I set my phone down and wipe a tissue over my stomach and legs before finding one of my sleep T-shirts to throw on. It just about covers my ass.
“You okay?” Roman asks, rounding the bed to take my face in his hands. When I merely nod, he narrows his brows. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t lie to the man. I’m physically incapable of not telling him the truth. He should probably work for the CIA.
“My mom. She texted me.”
“What did she say?”
“She’s mad.”
His nostrils flare slightly, and he’s got that angry bull thing going on, but he’s not my real boyfriend and he can’t continue to fight my battles for me.
“It’s fine.” I tap his forearms, signaling him to let me go. Which he does. Eventually.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, stepping back. “But I have to get home to Mazie.”
“Of course.” I paste on a smile. Not convincing enough, I guess, because he frowns.
Though I don’t give him another chance to show me how he knows me better than almost everyone else in my life after only a few weeks, as I pull him to the front door. And I do mean pull. This motherfucker is a tank, and he doesn’t travel easily.
“I don’t like leaving you to deal with this alone,” he says as I try to shove him out the door.
“It’s okay,” I pant. He doesn’t budge. “I’m used to handling my mom.”
He’s rock solid, unmoving. “You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”
“Maybe not, but I am.” I wrap my arms around him and drive. Finally, he shifts, too easily. Not because of my tremendous tackling form but because he stepped back, taking me with him. I tilt my head up. “Anyway, I’ll be fine. I promise.”
He smooths his hands down my back, still unconvinced and evidently unimpressed by my athleticism.
“Text me later,” he says, and I acquiesce with a nod. Then he dips his head to press a kiss to my lips. “Take care of yourself, Eloise.”
“You too.”
After another few moments, during which I consider begging him to stay or take me with him, Roman finally pivots and heads down the hall to the elevator. I watch until he disappears inside, then close my door.
Leaning against it, I take a deep breath. I already miss him, miss the safety and comfort I felt all weekend. But I meant what I said—I’m used to handling my mom. As unpleasant as it is, this is nothing new.
Squaring my shoulders, I march back to the bedroom. Time to call her and get this over with. The sooner I let her vent, the sooner we can move on.
At least, I hope so. Knowing my mom, she’ll probably drag this out as long as possible.
But I have my memories of my weekend with Roman to keep me warm. No matter what she says, she can’t take those away.