13. Roman
ROMAN
" P ass the wine," Cassie demands, stretched across my couch like she owns it, her bare feet propped on my ridiculously expensive coffee table.
My shirt—the one she's commandeered—rides up her thighs with the movement.
Five weeks into our "arrangement," and somehow she's transformed from the carefully composed Creative Director who nervously entered my penthouse that first night into this creature of casual confidence who raids my fridge and criticizes my movie choices.
I find it disturbingly appealing.
"What's the magic word?" I ask, holding the bottle just out of reach.
"Now?" She arches an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth quirking up in that way that makes something twist pleasantly in my chest.
"Close enough." I refill her glass, enjoying the soft sigh she makes as she takes the first sip.
We're halfway through some art film she insisted I needed to see—something French with too many existential crises and not enough plot—but I stopped watching twenty minutes ago.
Cassie's far more captivating, especially when she's like this: relaxed, uninhibited, laughing at scenes she finds particularly pretentious.
"You're not watching," she accuses, catching my gaze.
"I'm watching something better."
She rolls her eyes but can't quite hide her smile. "That line is beneath you, Roman Kade."
"And yet it worked." I pull her closer, the warmth of her body against mine now as familiar as it is intoxicating. "Your cheeks are pink."
"It's the wine," she lies, setting her glass down.
"It's definitely not the wine." I trace the flush spreading down her neck with my finger, watching her pupils dilate. "Just like it wasn't the wine yesterday. Or the day before."
"You're extremely sure of yourself, has anyone ever told you that?" She shifts to straddle me in one fluid movement that sends my brain temporarily offline.
"Several people. Usually right before they fire me." I settle my hands on her hips, enjoying the weight of her above me. "But you say it with much more interesting context."
She laughs, the sound dissolving into something sexier as I pull her forward for a kiss. The movie drones on forgotten as her fingers thread through my hair, her body pressed deliciously against mine.
This is what addiction must feel like, I think hazily as her mouth moves to my neck—this constant, insatiable need for more. More of her laugh, her scent, her mind, her body. Even now, with her warm and willing in my arms, I want more than I should.
"I can hear you thinking," she murmurs against my skin. "Stop it."
"Make me," I challenge, earning a nip at my collarbone that makes my dick swell.
She sits back, eyes glittering with mischief. "Is that how we're playing tonight?"
"I'm open to negotiations," I say, my hands sliding under the borrowed shirt to find bare skin. "The terms are flexible."
"Are they?" She rocks against me deliberately, drawing a groan from deep in my chest. "Because some things feel very... inflexible at the moment."
Christ, she's going to be the death of me.
I stand in one fluid motion, lifting her with me. Her legs wrap around my waist automatically, her surprised laugh vibrating against my mouth as I carry her toward the bedroom.
"The movie—" she protests half-heartedly.
"Will be just as pretentious tomorrow." I kick the bedroom door shut behind us, laying her on the bed with more care than I'll ever admit to. "Right now, I have more pressing matters to attend to."
"More pressing, hmm?" She pulls me down to her, the teasing glint in her eyes softening to something warmer. "Show me."
I capture her mouth with mine, no longer playful but hungry, demanding.
She responds instantly, her body arching up to meet mine, her hands already working to rid me of my shirt.
I help her, yanking it over my head before returning to the kiss, deeper now, our tongues tangling in a familiar dance that still somehow feels new every time.
"Off," I command, tugging at the shirt she's wearing—my shirt—suddenly desperate to feel her skin against mine.
She sits up just enough to let me pull it over her head, then lies back, gloriously naked and completely unselfconscious. The sight of her like this—trusting, wanting, her eyes dark with desire—sends a surge of heat through me so intense it's almost painful.
"You're staring again," she murmurs, a flush spreading from her cheeks down her neck to her chest.
"I like looking at you." I trail my fingers down her throat, between her breasts, watching her pupils dilate further.
"I like how your skin flushes when I do this.
" I brush my thumb across her nipple, feeling it harden instantly.
"And this." I replace my thumb with my mouth, drawing a sharp gasp from her. "And especially this."
My hand slides lower, crossing the flat plane of her stomach to the heat between her legs. She's already wet for me, her body responding to my touch with an honesty that's more arousing than any words.
"Roman," she whispers, her legs falling open in invitation. "Please."
I trace lazy circles, teasing, watching her face as her breathing quickens and her hips rise to meet my touch. "Please what, Cassie? Tell me what you want."
Her eyes flash—annoyance mixing with desire. "You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it." I increase the pressure slightly, pushing one finger inside, drawing a moan from her that sends blood rushing south. "Be specific."
"Your mouth," she finally says, her voice husky with need. "I want your mouth on me."
I smile against her skin, pressing kisses down her body, taking my time despite her increasingly urgent movements. "Here?" I ask, lips brushing her inner thigh.
"Higher," she demands, fingers threading through my hair.
"Here?" I move incrementally closer to where she wants me most, enjoying her frustration.
"Roman, I swear to god?—"
The rest of her sentence breaks on a gasp the second my tongue slides over her—slow, wet, unrelenting. I part her with both thumbs, exposing her completely, and flatten my tongue to her swollen center until she cries out.
She tastes like heat and hunger, slick and already pulsing for me. I groan as I drag my tongue up through her folds, again and again, until she’s shaking.
When I close my lips around her clit and suck, her hips lift hard off the bed.
“Roman—oh my god?—”
I grip her tighter, anchoring her to the mattress, my mouth claiming her with slow, filthy devotion.
Every flick of my tongue draws a sharper moan.
Every stroke builds that tension I can feel vibrating through her thighs.
She tries to twist away, too much, too fast—but I growl and hold her down, licking deeper.
She whimpers, then gasps again when I slide one finger inside her—tight, hot, clenching around me like she’s already close.
I curl it, find that perfect spot, and suck her clit again.
Harder. Deeper.
Her body arches.
Her fingers claw at my hair.
There is a rare kind of power in this—in reducing composed, articulate Cassie to incoherent pleas and breathless demands.
I've negotiated billion-dollar deals that didn't feel half as satisfying as making her come apart beneath my mouth.
"Don't stop," she gasps, her body tensing as she approaches the edge. "Right there, just like that, please don’t?—"
I don’t stop.
I increase the pressure, the pace, knowing exactly what she needs now after weeks of learning her body.
I lick her until she’s gasping broken things, until she’s grinding shamelessly against my face, until she comes with a cry so raw it hits me in the gut. Her back bows, her thighs clamp around my head as she cries out my name.
I hold her there, trembling, panting, unraveling around my mouth.
And when she finally goes still, I press one last kiss against her—slow and reverent.
Before she can fully recover, I rise up over her, dragging my mouth along the inside of her thigh—slow and possessive—then up the curve of her waist. I shed the rest of my clothes with a sharp breath, my skin flushed and tight with need.
Her eyes are still glazed, pupils blown wide, chest rising in short, shallow bursts. But even dazed, she reaches for me—both hands in my hair, pulling me down with surprising force.
The second our mouths meet, she groans—deep and needy—tasting herself on my tongue.
Her lips part wider. She doesn’t pull back. She kisses me harder.
I feel her shudder when my slick jaw brushes her cheek, when my still-wet chin drags along the corner of her mouth. She kisses me like she’s starving—like she’s claiming every part of what I just took from her and giving it back in the dirtiest way possible.
When I finally pull back, her lips are glossy, flushed, and parted.
“You like that?” I murmur, voice thick.
She nods once. Breathless.
“Yeah,” she whispers.
Inside," she commands against my mouth. "Now."
"So demanding," I tease, though I'm just as desperate, positioning myself between her legs. "What happened to negotiations?"
"Fuck negotiations," she says, wrapping her legs around my waist. "I need you inside me."
I position myself between her thighs, thick and aching and desperate. She lifts her hips to meet me, and I push in with one slow, relentless thrust.
Her slick heat wraps around me inch by inch, tight and pulsing—drawing a guttural groan from my chest.
She gasps—head tipping back, fingers digging into my shoulders—as I bottom out inside her, fully seated, her body gripping me like it never wants to let go.
We both freeze, breathless.
The stretch.
The pressure.
The way she trembles beneath me like her body’s trying to memorize mine from the inside out.
“God,” I bite out, forehead dropping to hers. “You feel like a fucking dream.”
She doesn’t answer with words—just a desperate roll of her hips, trying to pull me deeper. I hiss through my teeth and give her what she’s asking for.
I draw back and thrust again, harder this time, her gasp breaking against my mouth.