2. Cassie
CASSIE
I pushed open the door to Roman’s office, my heart hammering so hard I was surprised he couldn’t hear it from across the room.
"Close the door," he said without looking up from the papers on his desk. His voice was low, controlled, giving nothing away. "Sit down."
I obeyed blindly, my body moving on autopilot while my mind spiraled through every reason he’d called me here. The door clicked shut behind me with a finality that made my pulse spike. I walked to one of the leather chairs across from his massive desk, smoothing down my skirt as I sat.
He still hadn’t looked at me.
The silence stretched between us like a live wire, crackling with tension I couldn’t name. Outside, the city hummed with afternoon traffic, but in here, time seemed suspended. All I could hear was my breathing and the soft rustle of papers as Roman set them aside.
Then he stood.
Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator who knew his prey wasn’t going anywhere.
Roman moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one wall of his office, his back to me.
Click .
The first blind twisted shut, blocking out a slice of sunlight.
Click .
Another blind closed.
Click .
Then another.
The room grew dimmer with each sound, shadows creeping across the expensive art and mahogany furniture. My mouth went dry. My thighs pressed together instinctively, and I hated myself for the way my body responded to his presence.
"Mr. Creed?" I asked, my voice catching.
No response.
He finished with the blinds methodically, taking his time with each one. When the last slat clicked into place, the office felt intimate, enclosed. Dangerous.
Roman turned, and those blue eyes finally landed on me. The intensity in his gaze made me want to squirm in my seat, but I forced myself to stay still. Men like Roman Creed fed on weakness, and I refused to give him the satisfaction.
He moved behind my chair with predatory grace, his footsteps silent on the thick Persian rug. I could feel him there—a wall of heat and barely contained power at my back. The air grew thick, charged with something that made my skin prickle with awareness.
"Turn around," he ordered, his voice dropping an octave.
I hesitated, my hands gripping the leather arms of the chair. Everything about this felt like stepping off a cliff.
"Do as you’re told, Ms. James."
The command sent a shiver down my spine that I couldn’t suppress.
Slowly, I turned in the chair to face him.
He was closer than I’d expected—close enough that I could see the faint scar beneath his lower lip, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne mixing with something darker. Something purely him .
Roman leaned in, and my breath caught in my throat. His fingers slid through my hair with deliberate slowness, gentle but possessive, tilting my head back until I had no choice but to meet his eyes. His touch sent electric shocks straight down my spine.
His breath ghosted across my ear, warm and devastating.
Then he spoke, his voice low and lethal, each word a whisper that turned my blood to fire.
"I want you to take me home tonight."
My own words. My wine-fueled confession. The text I thought I was sending to Jeremy.
Oh God. Oh no.
"I want you to strip me out of this dress," he continued, his voice like velvet over steel. "I want you to push me against your kitchen counter and show me exactly why they call you the sex machine."
Heat flooded my cheeks, my chest, every inch of my skin. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn't think. Could only sit there frozen while my boss recited my sexual fantasies back to me in that sinful voice that made my knees weak.
But Roman wasn’t done. Not even close.
"I want your hands on me. Your mouth on me." His thumb traced along my jawline as he spoke, and I bit back a whimper. "I want you to make me beg for it, then give me everything I can’t ask for when I’m sober."
"Stop," I whispered, but the word came out breathless and needy instead of firm.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, studying my face as if he were reading a fascinating book. "Should I stop, Ms. James? You seemed quite... thorough in your message."
I wanted to disappear. I wanted the expensive carpet to open up and swallow me whole. But more than that—God help me—I wanted him to keep going. Wanted to hear him say the rest of it in that dark, commanding voice that made my body forget every rational thought.
"There’s more," he murmured, reading the conflict in my eyes with unsettling accuracy. "Would you like me to continue?"
"I..." My voice failed me completely.
Roman’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but was infinitely more dangerous. "You described in great detail what you wanted me to do with my mouth. My hands." His gaze dropped to my lips. "My tongue."
"Jesus," I breathed, my hands trembling in my lap.
"You also mentioned wanting to feel me for days afterward," he continued conversationally, as if we were discussing quarterly projections instead of my most private fantasies. "Something about being so thoroughly fucked that you’d think of me every time you sat down."
A sound escaped my throat—half whimper, half moan. Roman’s eyes flashed with something predatory and satisfied.
"And then there was the part about handcuffs," he added, his voice dropping even lower. "About wanting to be tied up and completely at my mercy while I?—"
"Please don’t," I managed, though whether I was begging him to stop or continue, I honestly couldn’t say.
"Please don’t what?" His thumb swept across my lower lip, and I nearly lost it completely. "Please don’t remind you how you begged me to fuck you senseless? How you said you wanted to scream my name until your voice gave out?"
My composure cracked. "Roman—Mr. Creed—I didn’t mean?—"
"Didn’t mean what?" His fingers tightened in my hair, just enough pressure to make my pulse race. "Didn’t mean to send it? Or didn’t mean what you wrote?"
I stared up at him, trapped by his gaze, by his proximity, by the way he commanded every inch of space around him. My rational mind screamed at me to apologize, to explain, to salvage whatever was left of my professional dignity.
But the way he was looking at me—like I was something he wanted to devour —made coherent thought impossible.
"I didn’t mean to send it to you," I whispered.
Something dark and dangerous flickered across his features. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"No?" His voice went silky smooth, which somehow made it more terrifying. "Then who was the intended recipient of your... confession?"
"It doesn’t matter."
"It matters to me." His grip on my hair tightened just enough to make my scalp tingle. "Who were you thinking about when you wrote those words, Ms. James?"
The question hung between us like a loaded gun. I could lie. Should lie. Tell him it was meant for Jeremy; maintain the story that this was all just a terrible mistake.
But the way he was staring at me—like he could see straight through to my soul—made the words stick in my throat.
"Tell me," he commanded softly, and there was something in his tone that suggested this wasn’t a request.
I couldn’t. Couldn’t admit that every fantasy I’d typed had been about him.
That Jeremy had been nothing more than a poor substitute for the man I really wanted.
That I’d been harboring inappropriate thoughts about my boss for months, and wine had just loosened my inhibitions enough to put them into words.
Roman seemed to read my silence like an open book. His mouth curved into that dangerous, almost-smile again, the one that made my stomach flip.
"I see," he murmured, and somehow, those two words contained volumes of meaning. "How very interesting."
He straightened slowly, finally putting some distance between us, and I could breathe again. Sort of. My pulse was still racing, my skin still burning from his touch, my body still humming with awareness.
Roman walked around his desk with casual grace, settling into his leather chair like nothing earth-shattering had just happened. Like he hadn’t just shattered my composure and rebuilt it in his image.
But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed once against his thigh before he stilled them. Whatever this was, it was affecting him too.
"I want to hear you say it, Ms. James, but keep in mind that you only have one chance to tell me the truth," he said, leaning back in his chair.
His voice had returned to that smooth, professional tone, but there was an undercurrent of something darker now.
Something that made the air between us crackle with electricity.
The pause stretched between us, loaded with everything unsaid and everything implied. My heart hammered against my ribs as I waited for him to continue, knowing that whatever came next would change everything between us.
His lips curved into the barest hint of a smile—dangerous and knowing and completely devastating.
"Was that message meant for me—or was I just lucky enough to receive it?"