16. Cassie #2
I set the proposal down, studying him carefully. "So this isn't about us? Our... arrangement?"
"That's the second thing we need to discuss." He runs a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of uncertainty that makes him look almost vulnerable. "There is no arrangement anymore, Cassie. Not for me."
My heart stutters in my chest. "What does that mean?"
"It means I've been lying to myself. Pretending this is just physical attraction or convenient companionship." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "But you know what I realized while waiting to hear if you'd taken Grant's offer? I realized I'd rather lose my company than lose you."
The confession hangs in the air between us, so unexpected and raw that for a moment I can't breathe.
"Roman—"
"I don't just want your talent or your body," he continues, the words coming faster now, as if he's afraid he'll lose his nerve. "I want your honesty, your fire, your refusal to settle—everything you've shown me since that first misdirected text."
I stare at him, trying to process this revelation. Roman Kade, the man who built an empire on control and calculation, is sitting on my IKEA couch surrounded by my creative chaos, telling me he wants... everything.
"I don't know what to say," I admit finally.
"You don't have to say anything." He reaches for my hand, his touch gentle but certain. "Just know that the proposal is yours regardless of your answer. No strings. No expectations. Your talent deserves the opportunity."
And that, somehow, is what finally breaks through my defenses. Not the grand gesture or the confession, but the simple acknowledgment that my career and my choices remain my own.
"You really don't get it, do you?" I say, a smile spreading across my face.
He looks genuinely confused. "Get what?"
"Why I turned down Grant's offer. It wasn't just because he was using me.
" I move closer, eliminating the careful distance I'd maintained.
"It was because I realized something too.
That whatever is between us—this complicated, messy, inappropriate thing—matters more to me than any career opportunity. "
His eyes widen slightly, a flash of vulnerability crossing his face before he masters it. "Cassie, you don't have to?—"
"I know I don't have to. That's the point." I squeeze his hand. "For the first time in my life, I'm making choices because of what I want, not what someone else wants from me. And what I want, inexplicably, impossibly, is you."
The tension in his shoulders visibly releases, and something that might be hope flickers in his eyes. "Even with all the complications? The professional boundaries, the industry gossip, the power imbalance?"
"Especially with all of that," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "Because despite every reason this shouldn't work, you've never once asked me to be smaller. You've only ever wanted me to be more. More confident. More outspoken. More myself."
"Because that version of you is extraordinary," he says simply.
And just like that, the last of my reservations crumbles. I close the distance between us, my hands finding his face, pulling him to me.
The kiss is different from our others—not driven by urgent desire or forbidden attraction, but by something deeper, more certain. His arms wrap around me, drawing me closer, and I melt against him, feeling for the first time like we're meeting as equals.
When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. "So what now? We date like normal people? Go to movies and argue about restaurants?"
"I was thinking we could start with dinner," he says, nodding toward the takeout bags he brought. "Before it gets cold."
"Always the practical businessman." I smile, pressing another quick kiss to his lips. "Food first, then we negotiate the terms of this new arrangement."
"I thought there were no more arrangements," he reminds me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Fine. This new relationship," I correct myself, watching with satisfaction as the word lands between us, solid and real.
We eat on my couch, surrounded by sketches and design boards, talking about everything and nothing. What started as Chinese food somehow transitions into Roman telling me about his grandfather and, about the childhood summers spent in his workshop learning to build things with his hands.
I find myself sharing stories about Mia her leukemia diagnosis and remission, about our parents' divorce, about how design became my escape and my passion. The conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and casual touches that grow increasingly less casual as the evening progresses.
When Roman's hand slides up my thigh, his expression turning from relaxed to intent, the atmosphere shifts from comfortable to charged in an instant.
"I believe we were discussing terms," he says, his voice dropping to that register that always makes my stomach flip.
"Were we?" I try for innocent, but my breath falters as his fingers trace patterns against my sweatpants.
"Mmm. Something about a new relationship."
"Right. That." I swing one leg over his lap, straddling him with sudden boldness. "I was thinking equal partnership, mutual respect, and absolutely no professional favoritism."
His hands find my hips, steadying me above him. "Agreed. Anything else?"
"Complete honesty," I say, rolling my hips against his in a way that draws a sharp intake of breath from him. "Even when it's uncomfortable."
"Especially then," he agrees, his hands sliding under my sweatshirt to find bare skin. "My turn. Exclusivity. Privacy but not secrecy—we don't flaunt it, but we don't lie if asked directly."
"Agreed." I press closer, enjoying the hardening evidence of his desire beneath me. "And separate apartments. At least for now."
"Prudent." His fingers trace the edge of my bra, teasing but not quite giving me what I want. "Though I reserve the right to revisit that term in the future."
"Noted." I lean down to kiss him, slow and deep, reveling in the way his control visibly unravels. "Anything else?"
"Just one thing," he says, his voice rough with desire. "This couch isn't conducive to what I have in mind."
I laugh against his mouth. "Counter-proposal. Right here. I've always wondered if that famous control extends to all situations."
His eyes darken, accepting the challenge. "I should warn you—I play to win."
"So do I," I whisper, grinding against him more deliberately. "That's what makes this interesting."
What follows is a delicious test of wills. Roman, determined to maintain his composure, and me, equally determined to shatter it. I pull his tie free with deliberate slowness, enjoying the way his breathing quickens as I work my way down the buttons of his shirt.
"For someone who claims to be impatient, you're taking your time," he observes, his voice admirably steady despite the flush spreading down his neck.
"Good things come to those who wait," I murmur, pushing his shirt from his shoulders to reveal the chest I've come to know intimately over the past months.
I trace the defined muscles with my fingertips, following with my mouth, enjoying his sharp intake of breath when I find a particularly sensitive spot just below his collarbone. His hands tighten on my hips, but he makes no move to take control, letting me set the pace.
It's a heady feeling, having Roman Kade at my mercy, and I intend to savor it. I take my time exploring him, learning what makes his breath hitch, what makes the muscle in his jaw jump with the effort of restraint.
When I finally reach for his belt, his hand closes around my wrist, stopping me.
"My turn," he says, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine.
In one fluid movement, he flips our positions, pressing me back against the couch cushions. Now it's my turn to catch my breath as he tugs my sweatshirt over my head, his eyes darkening at the sight of the simple cotton bra beneath.
"If I'd known you were coming over, I'd have worn the black lace," I say, a breathless attempt at humor.
"I prefer this," he murmurs, tracing the edge of the cotton with his thumb. "This is the real Cassie. Not the Creative Director, not the woman trying to impress. Just you."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard, creating a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with physical desire.
His mouth replaces his thumb, tracing along the edge of my bra, then lower, across my stomach, creating a trail of heat that makes me arch beneath him. When he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants, I lift my hips, helping him slide them down my legs.
"Still determined to test my control?" he asks, his voice rough as he takes in the sight of me wearing nothing but cotton underwear on my living room couch.
"Always," I manage, though my own control is rapidly unraveling under his hungry gaze.
He smiles, that dangerous smile that promises delicious retribution, before lowering his head to press a kiss to the inside of my thigh. "Challenge accepted."
What follows is an exquisite form of torture. His mouth and hands seem to be everywhere except where I want them most, teasing, building, until I'm practically vibrating with need.
What follows is slow, devastating torture.
His mouth trails up my inner thighs—open-mouthed kisses, lingering and wet—while his hands roam over my hips, my waist, everywhere but where I’m aching for him.
He’s all heat and stubble and patience I don’t have. Every brush of his lips leaves me tighter, wetter, my body arching on instinct as he avoids the one place I need him most.
I'm trembling, panting, strung so tight it hurts.
His fingers ghost over the edge of my panties, then retreat—again.
A whimper escapes me. I don’t even try to muffle it.
“Roman,” I breathe, half a plea, half a warning.
He just grins against my skin and kisses higher.
“Not yet, sweetheart. I want you begging.”
And I’m close—so close—to doing exactly that.