Chapter 5 #2
He pressed his hips forward. There was no mistaking the erection pressing against my stomach now. It was hard, heavy, and demanding.
"Is that precise enough for you?" he asked, his voice rough with anger and lust. "Do you need to write that down?"
My heart was beating so fast I thought I might die. It was exhilarating.
"I think..." I panted, my hands coming up to grip his t-shirt. "I think I need to double-check."
Roman let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan.
"You are impossible," he muttered.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn't a tentative first kiss. It wasn't a movie kiss. It was a collision.
His mouth crashed onto mine, devouring. He tasted like coffee and aggression. His lips were demanding, forcing mine apart.
I opened for him instantly. I had been waiting for this for five days. Maybe my whole life.
His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming it. It was deep, wet, and filthy. He kissed me like he hated that he wanted me, but he couldn't stop.
I moaned, the sound vibrating in my throat. I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.
"Roman," I whimpered against his mouth.
"Shut up," he growled. "You talk too much."
He moved one hand down my body. It was a heavy, possessive slide. Over my breast, down my waist, over the curve of my hip. He gripped my thigh and hiked it up, wrapping my leg around his waist.
This brought our centers flush together.
The friction was blinding. I was wearing thin cotton leggings. He was wearing sweatpants. There was nothing stopping the sensation.
He ground against me. A slow, deliberate roll of his hips that made my vision white out.
"You think you can tease me?" he murmured against my neck, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle there. "You think because you are the President's daughter, you are safe?"
"I don't..." I gasped, my head falling back as he sucked a mark onto my skin. "I don't want to be safe."
"Good," he said. "Because you are not safe. Not in this room. Not with me."
He moved his hand between us.
He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate.
He slid his hand down the front of my leggings. The waistband snapped. His large, rough hand Cupped me through my panties.
I cried out, bucking into his touch.
"Wet," he noted, his voice sounding satisfied and smug. "So wet for me, Myshka."
"Roman, please," I begged. I didn't even know what I was begging for. Everything. Anything.
"Please what?" he taunted. He circled my clit with his thumb through the silk. The pressure was perfect. Firm. Relentless. "Please stop? Please go away?"
"Please don't stop," I sobbed.
"Good girl."
The praise hit me harder than the touch. Good girl. It melted my bones.
He slipped his hand inside my panties.
His fingers were callused. The contrast of the rough skin against my slick heat was overwhelming. He found me instantly. He slid two fingers inside me, stretching me, filling me.
I screamed, burying my face in his shoulder to muffle the sound.
"So tight," he groaned into my ear. He started to move. In and out. Curling his fingers. "You feel so good. Mine."
"Yes," I gasped. "Yours."
He set a rhythm. Fast. Punishing. His thumb worked on the outside while his fingers wrecked me on the inside. He held me pinned against the wall with his body weight, taking all the control, taking all the choice.
I was unraveling. My world narrowed down to the feeling of his hand and the sound of his ragged breathing in my ear.
"Look at me," he ordered.
I forced my eyes open.
He was watching me. His face was flushed, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes were blown wide, dark and feral. He looked like he was in pain, and like he was in heaven.
"Come for me, Vanessa," he commanded. "Right now."
The order pushed me over the edge.
I shattered.
It ripped through me, a wave of pleasure so intense it felt like falling. I clamped down around his fingers, my body convulsing, shaking apart. I screamed his name, scratching my nails down his back.
He held me through it. He kept moving, milking every last drop of the orgasm from me, until I went limp in his arms.
He slowed down, then stopped. He didn't pull away immediately. He kept his hand there, pressed against me, feeling the aftershocks.
For a long minute, the only sound in the room was our harsh, ragged breathing.
Slowly, reality started to bleed back in.
The basement. The deal. My father. The team.
Roman pulled his hand out. He wiped it on his sweatpants—a gesture that was somehow incredibly erotic and incredibly domestic.
He lowered my leg to the floor.
My knees buckled.
He caught me instantly, his hands gripping my waist to steady me.
"I got you," he said. His voice was quieter now. Still rough, but the anger was gone.
I leaned my forehead against his chest. I was trembling.
"Oh my god," I whispered.
"Yeah," he breathed.
He lifted his hand and tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my cheek.
"That," he said, "was not part of the syllabus."
I let out a shaky, hysterical laugh. "Extra credit?"
Roman looked down at me. He didn't smile. He looked serious. Terrified.
"We are in trouble, Vanessa," he said softly.
I looked up at him. I could still feel his fingerprints inside me. I could still taste him on my lips.
"I know," I said.
"We cannot do that again," he said. But his hands were tightening on my waist, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away.
"Okay," I lied. "Never again."
"Good."
"Good."
He stared at my mouth.
"Go to the bathroom," he said abruptly, stepping back. "Clean up. Before I change my mind and throw you on that couch."
He turned and walked toward his bedroom. He walked stiffly.
"Roman?" I called out.
He stopped at the door.
"You forgot your measurement," I said.
He looked back over his shoulder. The look he gave me could have melted steel.
"I think we both know the measurement fits, Vanessa."
He slammed the door.
I slid down the wall until I hit the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. I pressed my fingers to my lips. They were swollen.
I looked at the yellow tape measure lying on the rug like a dead snake.
We had broken every rule. We had crossed every line.
And I couldn't wait to do it again.