19. Roman #3
She climbs onto my lap, straddling me with a deliberate intimacy that makes my breath catch. Her heat presses against my growing hardness, separated only by the thin fabric of her pajama bottoms. Her hands frame my face, forcing me to meet her gaze.
"Let me show you," she whispers, the words both a plea and a promise.
She kisses me deeply, her tongue exploring my mouth with a thoroughness that leaves me breathless. I reach for her hips instinctively, but she catches my wrists, guiding them to rest at my sides.
"Let me," she murmurs against my lips. "Just feel."
I surrender, a foreign concept in every other aspect of my life. Her mouth traces a path from my lips to my jaw, then down the sensitive column of my throat. When she nips lightly at my pulse point, I can't suppress a groan.
Her fingers work at my buttons, exposing my chest inch by torturous inch. Each newly revealed patch of skin receives the devoted attention of her lips, her tongue, occasionally her teeth. By the time she pushes my shirt from my shoulders, I'm fighting to remain passive, to let her maintain control.
"You're always so restrained," she whispers, her fingers tracing the taut muscles of my abdomen. "Always so in command. Let go for me, Roman."
Her palm presses against the hard ridge straining against my pants, and my hips buck involuntarily. She smiles, pleased by this evidence of my desire, of my slowly fracturing control.
When she slides from my lap to kneel between my legs, I nearly lose my mind. Her eyes hold mine as she unbuckles my belt with deliberate slowness. The metallic sound of my zipper being lowered seems obscenely loud in the quiet room.
"Lift," she commands softly, and I raise my hips, allowing her to slide my pants and underwear down my legs.
I'm completely exposed now, my arousal evident and insistent. The vulnerability of my position—fully naked while she remains clothed—should make me uncomfortable. Instead, I find it strangely liberating.
She studies me with unconcealed appreciation, her hands gliding up my thighs with feather-light touches that make my muscles jump beneath her fingers.
"You're beautiful," she says, and coming from her, I believe it. Not as flattery or manipulation, but simple truth.
When she takes me in her mouth, I have to grip the couch cushions to keep from thrusting upward. The wet heat of her engulfing me is exquisite torture. She works me with devastating skill, alternating between gentle suction and the flat pressure of her tongue until I'm fighting for control.
"Cassie," I warn, my voice strained beyond recognition. "I won't last if you keep?—"
She releases me, pressing a final kiss to the sensitive tip before rising to her feet.
With deliberate movements that hold my complete attention, she strips away her clothing—first the oversized sweatshirt revealing perfect breasts with dusky nipples already tightened with arousal, then the loose pants sliding down slender legs.
She stands before me completely naked, a goddess in the dim light of her apartment. I reach for her, unable to remain passive any longer, but she steps back with a small shake of her head.
"Not yet," she says, her voice husky with desire. "Tonight I'm in charge."
She climbs back onto my lap, her knees bracketing my thighs, her center hovering tantalizingly above where I most want her. I can feel the heat of her, the evidence of her arousal making her slick and ready.
"Look at me," she demands softly. "Don't close your eyes. I want to see you."
Our gazes lock as she slowly, excruciatingly slowly, lowers herself onto me. The sensation of her body welcoming mine, tight and hot and perfect, nearly undoes me. I grip her hips, fighting the urge to thrust upward, to take control of our pace.
"God, Cassie," I groan as she takes me fully, our bodies completely joined. "You feel incredible."
She doesn't move immediately, instead leaning forward to kiss me deeply, her inner muscles clenching around me in a way that makes me see stars. When she finally begins to move, it's with a deliberate rhythm that speaks of worship rather than mere pleasure.
Her hands brace against my chest as she rises and falls, each movement precise and measured. I run my hands up her sides to cup her breasts, capturing the hardened peaks between my fingers. She gasps, her rhythm faltering momentarily.
"That's it," I encourage, emboldened by her response. "Show me what you need."
She increases her pace slightly, her breathing growing more ragged. I slip one hand between our bodies, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves where we're joined. The first touch makes her cry out, her back arching beautifully.
"Roman," she moans, her movement becoming less controlled, more desperate. "Don't stop."
I circle my thumb in the pattern I know drives her wild, watching in awe as pleasure transforms her face. There's something miraculous about witnessing Cassie like this—completely uninhibited, completely honest in her desire.
"I won't last much longer," I warn her, my own release building inexorably as her inner walls begin to flutter around me.
"Open your eyes," she urges softly. "Stay with me."
I hadn't realized I'd closed them against the overwhelming sensation.
I force them open, holding her gaze as we move together.
The intensity of the connection—not just physical but emotional, visceral—threatens to overwhelm me.
There's nowhere to hide, no CEO mask to retreat behind, just Roman stripped bare in every sense.
I feel her climax begin, her body clenching rhythmically around mine as waves of pleasure wash over her. The sight of her coming undone, her eyes still locked with mine in that moment of complete vulnerability, pushes me over the edge.
"Cassie," I gasp, my release tearing through me with unprecedented force. I thrust upward, burying myself deep inside her as I begin to empty myself.
When release finally comes, it's with her name on my lips and her eyes locked on mine, witness to my complete surrender. She follows moments later, her body trembling around me, her vulnerability as total as my own.
Afterward, she collapses against my chest, both of us breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. I wrap my arms around her, holding her with a desperation I don't try to disguise. Her head rests in the crook of my neck, her breath warm against my skin.
"I love you," I whisper into her hair, the words escaping before I can censor them. "I'm in love with you, Cassie."
She goes very still against me, and for one terrible moment I think I've miscalculated, pushed too far too fast. Then she raises her head, eyes shining with unshed tears.
"I love you too," she says, voice thick with emotion. "Even when you're being an impossible CEO."
Relief floods through me, so intense it's almost painful. I pull her back against me, unwilling to let her see how much those three words have undone me.
We stay like that, tangled together on her couch, until her breathing evens out into the rhythm of sleep. I shift carefully, adjusting our position without waking her, marveling at the trust implied by her ability to sleep in my arms.
A sharp knock at the door shatters the moment.
Cassie stirs against me, blinking sleepily. "What time is it?"
"After eleven," I say, glancing at my watch. "Are you expecting someone?"
She shakes her head, already reaching for her discarded clothes. "Probably Mrs. Finch from across the hall. She locks herself out at least once a week."
The knock comes again, more insistent this time. I pull on my pants while Cassie wraps herself in a throw blanket, padding toward the door, still half asleep.
She peers through the peephole, then freezes, suddenly fully awake. "It's Camden," she whispers, turning to me with wide eyes.
A surge of territorial anger rises in me, primal and immediate. "I'll handle it," I say, already moving toward the door.
"No." She puts a hand on my chest, stopping me. "I need to deal with this myself. Otherwise, he'll just keep coming back."
I want to argue, to protect her from this intrusion, but the determined set of her jaw tells me it would be futile. And she's right—this is her battle to fight.
"I'll be right here," I concede, stepping back but not retreating completely.
She nods gratefully, secures the blanket more firmly around herself, and opens the door just enough to reveal her face.
"Camden," she says, her voice cool and composed. "It's nearly midnight. What are you doing here?"
"I've been trying to reach you for weeks"
His voice drifts through the partially open door, the plaintive tone setting my teeth on edge. "You're not returning my calls, my flowers were sent back?—“
He pauses, then adds with a casual shrug, "That wine subscription we used to get? Still ships to my place. One of the boxes had your new address on the invoice. Guess you forgot to cancel."
Cassie’s eyes narrow, her voice clipped.
"I didn’t forget. I just didn’t expect you to still be opening my mail."
" It was addressed to me." He lifts his hands, defensive. "I didn’t even realize until I looked at the paperwork inside. Come on, Cass—it’s not like I was stalking you."
"Because I don't want to talk to you," Cassie interrupts. "I've made that very clear."
"Five minutes," he pleads. "Just give me five minutes to explain."
"Explain what? Why you cheated on me? Why you're suddenly interested again months later?" Her voice hardens. "There's nothing to explain, Camden. We're done. We've been done since the night you told me you'd 'outgrown' me at our anniversary dinner."
"I made a terrible mistake," he says. "The biggest mistake of my life. Without you, I?—"
"Stop." Cassie's command is quiet but firm. "I'm not interested in your regrets or your explanations. I've moved on. You need to do the same."
"Is there someone else?" Camden asks, a new edge to his voice. "Is that why you won't even talk to me?"
I tense, ready to intervene if needed, but Cassie handles it perfectly.
"My personal life is no longer your concern," she says. "But yes, I'm with someone who values me exactly as I am. Who doesn't need me to be smaller or quieter or more convenient."
There's a pause, then Camden's voice again, harder now. "It's Kade, isn't it? The rumors are true."
"Goodnight, Camden," Cassie says, firm and final. "Don't come here again."
She closes the door before he can respond, turning the deadbolt with deliberate finality. For a moment she leans against it, eyes closed, gathering herself. Then she looks up at me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"You didn't intervene," she observes. "Even though you clearly wanted to punch him."
"I still might, if he keeps sending flowers," I admit. "But you handled it perfectly. You didn't need my help."
Her smile widens, bright with something that looks like pride. "No, I didn't. But I'm glad you were here anyway."
She crosses to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her head against my chest. I hold her close, marveling at her strength, her clarity, her unwavering sense of self. All qualities I recognized from the beginning, all reasons I fell for her despite every self-protective instinct.
"Come to bed," she says, taking my hand and leading me toward her bedroom. "I'm exhausted."
The casual domesticity of the request—not for sex, but simply to sleep beside her—catches me in an unexpected rush of tenderness. This is what I've been missing all these years of pursuing success and control. This simple human connection, this quiet intimacy.
"I'll be right there," I tell her. "I just need to send a quick email to Zara about tomorrow's schedule."
As she disappears into the bedroom, I pull out my phone, sending a brief message to my assistant to clear my morning meetings. Whatever crisis awaits at Elysian can wait a few hours. For once, I'm putting my personal life first.
I'm about to follow Cassie when I hear a small sound from the bathroom—the unmistakable sound of retching. Moving quickly, I find the door ajar, Cassie kneeling on the tile floor, her body heaving as she's violently ill.
"Cassie," I say softly, kneeling beside her to hold her hair back. "Let me help."
She doesn't protest, too caught in the grip of nausea to maintain her usual independence. I stroke her back gently, murmuring soothing nonsense until the worst passes.
"Sorry," she gasps, accepting the damp washcloth I offer. "Not exactly the sexy ending to the evening I had planned."
"Are you okay?" I ask, concern overriding any other consideration. "You've been sick a lot lately."
"Just a bug," she says, not meeting my eyes. "Or stress. With the launch, and Mia starting, and everything with Grant..."
I'm not convinced, but I don't press. Instead, I help her to her feet, supporting her weight as she rinses her mouth at the sink.
"You should see a doctor," I suggest, keeping my tone neutral with effort. "If it persists."
"I will." She turns in my arms, offering a weak smile. "Promise. Now can we please just go to sleep? I'm dead on my feet."
"Of course." I press a kiss to her forehead, noting with concern how pale she still looks. "Whatever you need."
I guide her to bed, tucking her in with a tenderness I've rarely shown anyone. She drifts off almost immediately, exhaustion claiming her, while I lie awake beside her, mind racing with possibilities I'm not sure either of us is ready to confront.
It's nearly an hour later when I'm jarred from near-sleep by the sudden absence of her warmth beside me. The bathroom light flicks on, a thin stripe of brightness visible beneath the closed door.
I wait, listening for sounds of illness again, but there's only silence. Long minutes pass, then more. Just as I'm about to check on her, the door opens.
Cassie stands in the doorway, backlit by the bathroom light, something clutched in her hand. Her expression is unreadable, a complex mixture of fear and wonder and uncertainty.
"Roman," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "We need to talk."
She steps forward, extending her hand to show me what she's holding—a small white plastic stick with a clear pink plus sign visible in the tiny window.
"I'm pregnant."
Two words that change everything. That render all other concerns—Grant's patent claim, industry rumors, Camden's unwelcome appearance—utterly insignificant in comparison.
Two words that crack the foundations of the carefully constructed life I've built, opening possibilities I've never allowed myself to consider.
Two words that terrify and exhilarate me in equal measure.
"You're pregnant," I repeat, the words strange and monumental on my tongue. "We're having a baby."
And in that moment, I understand with perfect clarity that nothing will ever be the same again.