Chapter 20 Roman
ROMAN
We land in Seattle at nearly midnight and I haven’t taken my eyes off Marnie for the entire flight home.
She’s been reading. Or pretending to. One of those hockey romances with a shirtless guy on the cover.
She’s barely turned a page in three hours.
Just keeps shifting in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs, arching forward to stretch her back. Small unconscious movements that make it clear the past few days have gotten to her.
Three days of getting her right to the edge and stopping. The most exquisite torture I’ve ever experienced.
Because I’ve been barely surviving it too.
Every night I’d stand under the coldest shower the hotel could provide. It never helped. I’d lie in bed after, hard and aching, replaying every sound she made. The way her thighs shook. How her breathing changed right before I stopped. The frustrated whimper when I pulled away.
And then I’d have to do it all over again the next night. Build her up, work her to the edge, walk away while every instinct screamed at me to finish it.
But watching her now—watching her squirm in that airplane seat, knowing exactly why she can’t sit still, knowing she’s been thinking about my hands for days—that makes every cold shower worth it.
She catches me looking and her face flushes.
Even that response—the way she colors when she knows I’m thinking about what we’ve been doing—makes this harder to wait through.
Seventeen more minutes until we land.
Another fifteen to my place.
I can wait that long.
Barely.
The second we’re through my apartment door, bags dropped wherever they fall, she’s on me.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me down, and the kiss is desperate—all tongue and teeth and days of wanting finally finding an outlet.
I kiss her back just as hard, one hand in her hair, the other on her hip pulling her against me so she can feel exactly what she’s been doing to me.
“Roman—” She gasps against my mouth. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Bedroom. Now.”
“Here’s fine—”
“No.” I break the kiss and she actually whimpers. “I’ve been planning this for four days. You’re getting a bed and enough time to fall apart properly.”
I take her hand and practically drag her down the hallway. I’ve barely been holding it together—every cold shower, every night lying awake hard and aching, feeling her squirm on that bus—I’m hanging on by a thread here.
In my bedroom I flip on the lamp and turn back to find her already pulling her shirt over her head.
“Slow down,” I tell her, even though every instinct is screaming to let her rush. To get her naked and under me as fast as possible.
“I can’t slow down.” Her hands are shaking as she reaches for her bra clasp. “It’s been slow for four days—”
“And it’s going to be slow for another twenty minutes.” I catch her wrists, hold them gently. “Because this is going to be good. Better than good. But only if you let me do this right.”
“Roman, I’m going to die—”
“You’re not going to die.” I release her wrists and reach for her bra myself. “But you are going to beg. And scream. And forget that anyone ever came before me.”
I undo the clasp slowly, draw the straps down her arms, let it fall. Then I step back to look.
She’s breathing hard, chest flushed, nipples already tight. Just from anticipation. From knowing what’s coming.
“Jeans,” I say. “Take them off.”
She does, pushing them down with her underwear in one motion, and stands there trembling. Wanting. Trusting me to make this worth every agonizing minute of the last few days.
I’m still fully dressed and the contrast does something to me—her completely vulnerable while I’m still armored in denim and cotton.
“Get on the bed,” I tell her. “On your back.”
She climbs on, settles against the pillows, and I just look for a moment.
Marnie. In my bed. Finally.
I pull my shirt over my head but leave my jeans on because if I take them off right now this will be over embarrassingly fast.
I kneel on the bed beside her and she reaches for me immediately.
“No.” I catch her hands, pinning them gently above her head. “You don’t touch. Not yet. This is me making you fall apart. You just lie there and take it.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Fair?” I lean down, teeth grazing her earlobe.
“Nothing about the last four days has been fair, Moxie. I’ve been hard for you since Philadelphia.
Waking up at 3 AM thinking about the sounds you make.
Taking cold showers that don’t help. Lying in hotel beds trying not to touch myself because if I do this whole thing falls apart. ”
Her breath catches. “You’ve been—”
“Suffering?” I kiss down her neck. “Yeah. Welcome to the club.”
I work my way down her body slowly, kissing and biting and learning her skin. The hollow of her throat. The curve of her collarbone. That spot just below her ribs that makes her gasp.
My hand slides down her stomach and she tenses immediately.
“Please—”
“Not yet.” I kiss lower. “I told you. You’re going to beg first.”
“I am begging—”
“Not nearly enough.”
I reach between her thighs and she’s already soaked. Four days of wanting and barely any foreplay and she’s the wettest I’ve ever felt her.
“Fuck, Marnie.” I circle her slowly, feeling her shake under my hand.
“I know—please—I can’t—”
I slide two fingers inside and her back arches completely off the bed, a broken moan tearing from her throat.
“That’s it,” I murmur, working her with steady pressure. “Let me hear you. No one here but us. No hotel walls. No one to be quiet for.”
I use my thumb on her clit while my fingers work inside and she’s climbing so fast it’s almost frightening. Four days of build-up and her body’s ready to snap.
I watch her face—lips parted, eyes squeezed shut, that flush spreading down her neck to her chest. She’s gorgeous like this. Completely undone. Desperate for something only I can give her.
I stop, pulling my hand away completely.
The sound she makes is somewhere between a scream and a sob.
“NO—” She’s staring at me with wild eyes. “Roman, please, I was right there—”
“I know.” I rest my hand on her hip, grounding but not giving her what she wants. “But you’re not ready yet.”
“How am I not ready? I’m going to combust—”
“Your body’s ready. Your mind isn’t. You’re still thinking. Still trying to control it. I need you past thinking.”
“I hate you—” Her voice breaks. “I hate you so much right now—”
“No you don’t.” I kiss her softly, at odds with how desperate we both are. “You trust me. Even when you hate me.”
I watch her breathing slowly settle, watch that desperate edge fade just enough. It’s torture for both of us—I’m so hard my jeans are painful, every nerve ending screaming at me to just give in and take what we both need.
But this isn’t about need. This is about trust. About teaching her body that it can do this. That she can let go completely and it’ll be good.
When her breathing finally evens out, I start moving down her body, and she tenses slightly. “Roman, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Want is an understatement. I’ve been fantasizing about this, about making her fall apart. “Been thinking about this since you made me do those hip flexor stretches.”
She laughs, breathless. “That was months ago.”
“Yeah, well, you were wearing those yoga pants and kneeling between my legs. I’m only human.” I settle between her thighs. “Also, you were very bossy about the stretches. Very professional. Very hot.”
“That’s not—that’s just how PT works—”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hot.” I press a kiss to her inner thigh, feel her shiver. “You telling me what to do? In that voice? While touching me? Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that.”
I put my mouth on her and she gasps, her hands immediately going to my hair.
I work her with my tongue—steady pressure, the rhythm I think she needs based on how she responded on the road trip. She’s shaking already, thighs trembling against my shoulders.
But then something shifts.
Her hands tighten in my hair but not in a good way. More like she’s trying to anchor herself. Her breathing goes from aroused to anxious.
“I don’t think—” Her voice is frustrated.
I pull back slightly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just—” She won’t look at me. “This is taking too long. You’re probably tired. I can just—”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’ve been down there for like five minutes—”
“Four and a half. I’m counting.” I kiss her inner thigh. “And I could stay here all night.”
“But it’s not—I can’t—” Her voice cracks slightly. “It never works like this. I always have to—I mean, I can just do it myself. It’s fine. Faster.”
She’s trying to push me away, trying to sit up, she’s frustrated and holding back tears. “Marnie.”
“I’m sorry, I just—this doesn’t work for me. It’s not you, it’s me, I’m broken or something—”
“You’re not broken.”
“Then why can’t I just—” She stops and drags her fingers through her hair. “Forget it.”
She’s shutting down. Retreating into that defensive space where she pretends it’s fine, she doesn’t need help, she can handle everything alone.
Absolutely not.
“Okay,” I say, sitting up beside her. “New tactic. Show me.”
She lowers her hands, eyebrows raised in a way that means she thinks I’m crazy. “What?”
“Show me how you do it. Teach me.” I settle beside her, propped on one elbow. “You were bossy as hell during my PT sessions. Be bossy now.”
“That’s not—I can’t just—”
“Why not? I’m a visual learner. I watch game tape for hours to figure out what works.” I brush hair back from her forehead. “So show me. Let me memorize exactly what you need. Then I’ll replicate it.”
“This is so embarrassing.”
“Probably. But I’m not letting you shut down and handle it yourself when I’m right here wanting to learn.” I kiss her softly. “Show me, Moxie. Teach me how to make you fall apart.”
She closes her eyes for so long that I think she might actually be giving up, then slowly—almost defiantly—moves her hand between her legs.