13. Roman #2
She clings to me—legs wrapped tight around my waist, nails dragging down my back—as I begin to move in a rhythm that turns reverent fast.
Every stroke is wet, deep, and slow at first—meant to make her feel every inch.
Every thrust is punctuated by her moans, her curses, the way she arches like she wants to take even more.
And I want to give it to her.
All of it.
This is what addiction must feel like—this constant, insatiable need for more. More of her gasps, her moans, the way her nails dig into my back when I hit just the right spot. More of the way she looks at me, eyes heavy-lidded but intense, seeing straight through every defense I've ever built.
"Harder," she urges, meeting each thrust with equal force. "I won't break, Roman."
Something snaps inside me at her words—some final thread of restraint.
I hook one of her legs over my shoulder, changing the angle, driving deeper. Her eyes widen, a new sound escaping her throat—somewhere between a gasp and a scream.
"There," she pants, her hands gripping the sheets now.
"God, right there, don't stop."
I couldn't stop if I wanted to.
The sight of her beneath me, her body flushed and responsive, her eyes never leaving mine—it's more intoxicating than any power I've ever wielded in the boardroom.
I can feel my own release building, the pressure mounting at the base of my spine, but I'm determined to hold off, to watch her come undone one more time.
I slide a hand between us, finding her clit and adding the pressure I know makes her back arch. "Come for me again," I command, my voice rougher than I intended. "I want to feel you come on my cock."
Her body responds instantly, clenching around me as she tips over the edge.
The sight of her in the throes of pleasure—my name on her lips, her eyes locked with mine in a moment of startling intimacy—is enough to send me following her over.
My release hits with an intensity that leaves me gasping, my vision briefly going dark at the edges as pleasure crashes through me in waves.
Afterward, I collapse beside her, both of us breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. She curls against me, her head on my chest, fingers tracing idle patterns across my skin. The weight of her feels right somehow, like a missing piece slotting into place.
Dangerous thought.
"You've gone quiet," she observes, propping herself up to study my face. "Post-sex brooding? Or is there something on your mind?"
I brush a strand of hair from her face, buying time. The truth—that I'm contemplating how thoroughly she's demolished every boundary I thought I'd established—isn't something either of us is ready to hear.
"Just thinking about tomorrow's board meeting," I lie. "Maxwell Grant's surprise attendance has complicated things."
"Ah." She settles back against me. "The mysterious rival makes his appearance."
"There's nothing mysterious about Grant. He's a shark who smells blood in the water." I try to keep the edge from my voice but fail spectacularly.
She tilts her head to look at me again. "Sounds like there's history there."
"You could say that." I stare at the ceiling, debating how much to reveal. "He has a particular talent for identifying what I value and trying to take it."
"Sounds exhausting." Her tone is light, but her eyes are shrewd. "For both of you."
"It is." I run a hand down her spine, enjoying the slight shiver it produces. "Which is why you should steer clear of him tomorrow."
She frowns. "Because he might try to... what? Poach me?"
"Because he'll use you to get to me if he can." The words come out harsher than intended. "It's what he does."
"I'm not easily used, Roman." She sits up fully now, the sheet pooling around her waist. "And I'm not a pawn in whatever chess game you two are playing."
"I didn't say you were." I prop myself up on my elbows, admiring the fierce intelligence in her expression even as I recognize the warning signs of her temper. "I'm trying to protect you."
"From what, exactly?" She raises an eyebrow. "A business meeting? A job offer? My own judgment?"
"From getting caught in the crossfire of a rivalry that has nothing to do with you."
"Then maybe you should stop making me feel like ammunition." She slides from the bed, scooping my discarded shirt from the floor and slipping it on. "I'm going to shower."
I watch her disappear into the bathroom, wondering how a perfectly good evening devolved so quickly. The sound of the water turning on carries through the closed door, along with the unwelcome realization that I've handled that spectacularly badly.
I should let it go. Let her cool off. Address it professionally tomorrow.
Instead, I find myself knocking on the bathroom door, then entering without waiting for a response. The steam has already fogged the glass shower enclosure, but I can see her silhouette through it—head tilted back under the spray, shoulders tense.
"I'm sorry." The words feel foreign on my tongue. CEOs rarely apologize, and Roman Kade does so even less frequently. "That came out wrong."
The shower door slides open a few inches, revealing her face, wary but receptive. "Which part?"
"The part where I implied you couldn't handle yourself." I lean against the sink, hands in my pajama pockets to resist reaching for her. "You're right—you're not a pawn or ammunition or whatever the hell else I made you feel like."
She studies me for a moment, water streaming down her face. "But you're still worried about Grant."
"Yes." No point denying it. "He's made destroying me his personal mission for the better part of a decade. And he's exceptionally good at finding leverage."
"And you think I might be leverage." It's not a question.
"I think..." I choose my words carefully. "I think he'd use anyone or anything to get what he wants. And the idea of you being collateral damage in our war troubles me more than it probably should."
Something in her expression softens. "Well, that was almost vulnerable. Should I mark the calendar?"
"Don't push it." But I'm smiling despite myself. "So, are we good?"
She opens the shower door wider. "That depends. Are you coming in, or are you just going to stand there looking pretty?"
I don't need to be asked twice.
The morning arrives with cruel efficiency, dragging me from sleep to the incessant buzzing of my alarm. Cassie grumbles beside me, burrowing deeper into the pillows, one arm flung possessively across my chest.
"Make it stop," she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep.
"Some of us have a company to run," I remind her, silencing the alarm before pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
"Some of us need coffee before basic motor functions kick in." She cracks one eye open, squinting at the early morning light. "What time is it?"
"Five thirty."
She groans, pulling the pillow over her head. "That's not a time. That's a cruel joke."
"Welcome to the executive lifestyle." I slide out of bed, heading for the shower. "The car will be ready at seven if you want a ride to the office."
Her head emerges from the pillow nest, hair adorably mussed. "Separate arrivals, remember? Professional boundaries."
"Right." I'd almost forgotten our carefully constructed rules in the comfortable domesticity of the morning. "I'll have Henri drop you a block away.”
"Very cloak and dagger. No worries, I’ll just call an Uber.
” She stretches like a cat, the sheet slipping to reveal the curves I spent hours exploring last night.
"Though I'm not sure it matters at this point.
Your executive assistant gives me the distinct impression she knows exactly what we're doing. "
"Zara suspects everyone of something," I say, though the observation unsettles me. "It's why she's good at her job."
By six thirty, we've managed to navigate the morning routine with surprising efficiency—showers, coffee, a quick breakfast I insisted on despite Cassie's protests that she "never eats before noon."
"You look like a Creative Director today," I observe as she emerges from the bedroom in a sleek black dress that somehow manages to be both professional and subtly provocative.
"As opposed to?" She raises an eyebrow while gathering her portfolio.
"As opposed to the woman who fell asleep on my chest wearing nothing but my shirt and a smile." I hand her a travel mug of coffee. "Though I personally prefer that version."
"I bet you do." She accepts the coffee with a grateful smile. "This version comes with actual work capability, though."
"A useful feature." I check my watch. "The car will be here in ten minutes."
She nods, suddenly turning more serious. "About Grant... I'll be careful. I promise."
"I know you will." I brush a stray hair from her face, allowing myself this small intimacy before we revert to our professional personas. "Just remember, he doesn't make offers without expecting something in return."
"Unlike you, who expects nothing in return for all this great sex and gourmet coffee?" Her teasing smile is back, lightening the mood.
"Oh, I expect plenty in return," I counter, pulling her against me for one last kiss. "But my motives are far more transparent."
"Are they?" She studies me with an intensity that feels like she's seeing too much. "Sometimes I'm not sure either of us knows what we're really doing here, Roman."
Before I can respond—before I can examine too closely what she means—my phone buzzes with Henri's text announcing his arrival.
"Saved by the bell," I murmur, releasing her. "We'll continue this conversation later."
She nods, though something in her expression suggests she doesn't entirely believe me. "Tonight. My place this time."
"It's a date." The word slips out before I can stop it, hanging awkwardly between us. We don't have dates. We have an arrangement.
"Is it?" She picks up her portfolio, her expression unreadable. "I'll see you at the office, Mr. Kade."