16. Cassie #3
"Roman," I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair, trying to guide him. "Please."
"Please what?" he murmurs against my skin, the hint of smugness in his voice making it clear he's enjoying my desperation. "Be specific, Cassie."
Two can play at that game. I tug on his hair, forcing him to look up at me. "Your mouth," I say, holding his gaze. "Now."
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my panties, eyes locked on mine as he pulls them down—slowly. Deliberately. Like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift.
“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “You’re already soaked for me.”
Then he’s on his knees, settling between my thighs like he belongs there—like he’s done this a hundred times in his head already.
I barely have time to brace before his mouth is on me—hot, firm, perfect .
The first stroke of his tongue is slow and devastating. He licks me like he’s savoring every second, every taste, every shudder that rolls through my body as he pushes deeper.
My hips jerk. He growls against me—low and possessive—and grips my thighs tighter, holding me open as he drags his tongue up and over my clit in lazy, wet circles that have my vision going white at the edges.
“Roman—” It’s a gasp, a curse, a broken warning I can’t finish.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He just groans like he’s starving and buries his face deeper, licking me like he owns the right to take me apart. And maybe he does—because I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except fall apart under his mouth.
His tongue flicks harder. Then softer. Then sucks—just once—directly over the bundle of nerves that’s already throbbing for him, and I cry out, legs shaking, hands fisting the cushions.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Give it to me, sweetheart.”
And I do—coming with a gasp that feels like it tears through every part of me.
The first orgasm takes me by surprise—fast and intense, leaving me gasping his name. Before I can fully recover, he's moving up my body, claiming my mouth in a kiss that tastes of me and desperation.
"Bedroom," he murmurs against my lips. "I'm not finished with you yet."
But I have other ideas—desperate ones. My hands drop to his belt, fumbling with the buckle like I’ll shatter if I don’t feel him inside me now .
“Here,” I whisper, breathless. “Now. I need you.”
He watches me with dark, burning eyes—then helps me shove his trousers down, briefs following in one smooth motion, his cock flushed and hard between us.
God.
I reach for him, fingers wrapping around him with a reverence I don’t bother hiding. He groans—low and wrecked—then claims my mouth again, swallowing the sound I make when his tip brushes against me.
“Roman—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs roughly, voice frayed.
And when he finally settles between my thighs, bare skin to bare skin, the weight of him over me is everything —hot, solid, undeniable. I wrap my legs around his waist, heels pressing into his back, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us.
I’m soaked and aching and ready, and when he thrusts—slow and deep—I almost fall apart all over again.
Our eyes lock, a silent conversation passing between us.
In that moment, everything we've been through—the accidental text, the professional boundaries, the careful dance of desire and restraint—crystallizes into something profound and unbreakable.
"Cassie," he breathes, the single word containing a universe of meaning.
"I know," I whisper back, understanding perfectly what he can't quite say.
Then we’re moving—together, in sync, like we’ve done so many times before. Only this time, there’s no holding back.
The careful restraint from before? Gone.
Now it’s pure hunger.
Raw and frantic and real.
His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in as he thrusts deeper—harder—each stroke hitting the exact spot that makes my breath falter and my back arch.
“There,” I gasp. “Right there—don’t stop.”
“I’m not fucking stopping,” he growls. “Not until you fall apart for me again.”
And I do—meeting every thrust with a desperate rhythm of my own, dragging my nails down his back, chasing the next wave like I’ll die without it.
It’s filthy. It’s frantic. It’s perfect.
We lose the illusion of control entirely.
It’s just slick skin, broken moans, bodies colliding over and over, sweat and friction and the sound of him breathing my name like a vow.
When the second orgasm hits, it crashes through me like a tidal wave—ripping through every nerve, curling my toes, stealing every sound from my throat including his name.
I’m shaking, crying out, barely holding on as he drives into me once, twice more?—
and then he follows with a ragged curse, spilling inside me, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing anchoring him to earth.
Afterward, we lie tangled together on my too-small couch, breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. There should be awkwardness—the aftermath of confessions and life-changing decisions—but instead, there's only a comfortable quiet.
"So," I say finally, my head resting on his chest, his heartbeat strong beneath my ear. "That was some negotiation."
His laugh vibrates through me, warm and genuine. "Very productive," he agrees, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my spine. "Though I still maintain we should have moved to the bedroom."
"Next time," I promise, pressing a kiss to his chest.
"Next time," he echoes, the simple phrase carrying weight far beyond its literal meaning.
We stay like that, talking softly about everything and nothing, until the chill of my apartment finally drives us to the bedroom. There, our lovemaking is slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. Each touch, each kiss, each shared breath feels like a conversation, an acknowledgment, a promise.
Before daybreak, I find myself watching Roman sleep, studying the way moonlight catches on his features, softening the sharp angles and planes. It occurs to me that I've never seen him this relaxed, this unguarded, outside of these private moments.
As if sensing my gaze, his eyes blink open, finding mine in the dim light. "What are you thinking?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.
"That for the first time since that accidental text, I don't feel like we're playing a game." I trace the line of his jaw with my finger. "No more strategies. No more calculated moves. Just us."
He captures my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. "All cards on the table," he agrees. "Finally."
And as the first light of morning filters through my bedroom window, I realize something that both terrifies and exhilarates me: I'm falling in love with Roman Kade.
Not the CEO, not the powerful businessman, but the man who makes coffee exactly how I like it.
Who notices when I forget to eat. Who sees all of me and wants more, not less.
It's too soon to say the words—we've only just admitted there's something real between us—but they're there, waiting for the right moment.
For now, I curl against him, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull me back toward sleep, content in the knowledge that whatever comes next, we'll face it together. Equal partners. In business, in pleasure, and in whatever this new relationship becomes.