Chapter 25 Addison
TWENTY-FIVE
ADDISON
The brick that’s been sitting in my stomach since I had to half-lie about my dinner plans is finally starting to disintegrate as I board the elevator in Roman’s apartment building.
Only a couple of minutes more until I can step into his arms and forget the stress of the day, from the hours of challenging Bill Reeves on behalf of my client, to secretly meeting up with Austin.
He’ll undoubtedly ask me about how my time was with my cousin, and that’s okay.
I’ll be able to answer truthfully because I did actually meet up with Sam.
Roman’s birthday is coming up, and since he’s such a huge Blackhawks fan, I want to give him a hockey stick signed by the team.
Sam is hooking me up with four seats behind the players box for us—Chance, Jane, Roman, and me—at a home game next month.
Then we’ll be invited to party with the team afterward, where Sam will bring the stick so all the guys can sign it for him there.
I’m crazy excited to surprise him. That should definitely earn me Best Girlfriend Ever status, if I don’t have it already.
So I only have to feel guilty about omitting the part where I met Austin at Starbucks.
Not an outright lie, but it still bothers me, knowing we’re keeping our dealings secret from Roman.
I implored Austin to be truthful with his friend, but he was adamant that Roman not know he hired me as his attorney, much less the reason.
Since I said I would only work pro bono, it’s a really informal arrangement.
More me helping a friend than a strict attorney-client relationship.
But that doesn’t mean I can take liberties with his request for confidentiality.
It’s a simple job of helping him with a contract and a non-disclosure agreement.
Tonight we talked about what he needed. I’ll draw up the papers with the proper language and meet with him one more time to make sure everything is to his satisfaction, and that should be it.
No more sneaking around. No more omissions.
No more lies. I just keep telling myself that I’m not doing anything wrong, or that would hurt Roman.
I’m helping a friend with a private matter, that’s all.
Roman understands better than anyone that keeping a client’s privacy is just part of being an attorney.
I’m an attorney. I think today is the first time I’ve truly felt like one.
Not like a law student, not like an intern who will be one someday, and not like a junior colleague still learning the ropes.
I feel like an accomplished, capable attorney who can hold her own against one of the best in all of Chicago.
Knowing I’ll win that settlement for my client was a rush unlike anything I’ve ever known.
And sharing the moment with Roman magnified it by a million.
If his father hadn’t been there, I would have thrown myself into his arms and squealed like a little girl.
Remaining stoic and professional had been harder than winning the case.
But then afterward in Roman’s office… I sigh audibly, thankful there’s no one else in the elevator with me to witness my reaction to the memory.
I don’t have to glance down to know my nipples are standing out against my worn Loyola long-sleeve tee, and thanks to my breath growing shallow, my heaving bosom is practically waving them around like a flag on the Fourth of July.
At least the skinny jeans I threw on when I rushed home to change are providing me with some cover for any excitement happening below the waist.
As the doors part on Roman’s floor, I step into the hall and make my way toward his apartment, remembering how he made furious love to me on his leather couch earlier.
Making furious love. It’s the perfect description, and it makes me smile.
What started out as simple fucking has evolved over the course of a few months into something much deeper.
But even though the emotional substance has grown, it hasn’t changed how we express things in the metaphorical bedroom.
Sex for us is like a contact sport—fast-paced and sweaty, with numerous positions.
But we also play dirty and often have the bruises, bite marks, and scratches to prove it.
It’s a delicious dichotomy of romantic roughness. Furious love.
This afternoon was no different. At least, not physically.
Emotionally, though…that’s another thing entirely.
The details are a little fuzzy, but I remember him giving me the control, then leaning back to let me fuck him however I saw fit.
But that never happened. He wasn’t complacent for more than a few seconds before grabbing my hips to guide my movements to meet his upward thrusts.
And that’s when I noticed the change in him.
Something in his eyes I’d never seen until then.
Something deeper, more open, like his heart was calling to mine.
We haven’t said the “L” word yet, but I think we could be close.
I’m not in a hurry, though. Things are greater than great between us, and as long as that’s the case, I don’t mind taking our time with the bigger steps.
I almost knock on the door, then I remember his text.
He said he might be in the shower, and I should just let myself in.
My mind instantly flashes me pictures of shower sex, but I shut them down before I get too excited.
Roman prefers to keep his showers hygienically purposeful, so that’s one variety of sex we haven’t done.
I don’t push him on it because the man more than makes up for it with every other kind I knew about, and some I didn’t.
I have zero complaints in that department. Or any department, really.
Using my key, I open the door and lock it behind me, then set my purse on the console table in the entry hall, which is lit only by a small lamp.
“Roman?” He doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s still in the shower.
I’ll grab a glass of wine and wait for him on the balcony.
It’s a beautiful night, if a little cool, and I like looking up at the moon from his super-comfy lounge chair.
I round the corner and wonder why he left all the lights off in the apartment. Maybe he hasn’t been in the main living area since the sun set. Luckily Roman’s design taste is minimalist, so it’s a straight shot across the room to the light switch by the kitchen and dining room.
“How was dinner?”
I yelp as my hands fly to my mouth, and I spin around just as Roman turns on the lamp next to the chair where he’s sitting. I drop my hands and press them against my heart, jack-rabbiting behind my ribs. “Fucking hell. Are you trying to kill me, Reeves? I thought you were in the shower.”
“I was. Now I’m not.”
“Obviously,” I say wryly. Panic ebbing, I take in the whole picture.
His hair doesn’t appear damp, but it’s not styled how it was during the day so he’s been out of the shower long enough for it to dry.
Which makes me wonder why he’d text me ten minutes ago to say he was about to take one, but then I realize it was so he could ambush me.
Roman has a flair for the dramatic—whether it’s in court, with his appearance, or during sex, he loves the shock factor.
It’s one of the things that turn me on about him, but this time it nearly gave me a heart attack.
He’s wearing a pair of jeans but the rest of him is gloriously bare, his tattooed muscles and sinews accented with highlights and shadows cast by the nearby lamp.
He sits sprawled out in his wide leather chair like the leader of some badass club, legs splayed, arms propped on the sides, and a squat glass of whisky lazily clutched in one hand.
It reminds me of the wine I was on my way to snag, which I now need more than I did thirty seconds ago.
“Mind if I help myself to some wine?” I ask as I enter the kitchen.
“I don’t pretend to think I can stop you from helping yourself to whatever you want, Addison.”
His apartment is much larger than mine, and not open concept, so I can’t see him to gauge his expression, but I swear there’s a hint of derision in his tone. Stopping at the counter, I call over my shoulder, “Is everything okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m keeping things from you.
I focus on pouring myself half of a glass of Coppola cabernet and head back into the living room.
Pausing in the doorway, I take a sip and study him, searching for clues that he suspects something, but all I see is heated passion in his half-lidded eyes.
He lifts the glass to his lips, keeping me pinned with his gaze, and takes a healthy drink of his whisky.
That’s when I notice the bottle of Glenfiddich next to him is more than half gone.
I can’t remember how full it was last time I was here, but I’ve never seen him keep the bottle near him like that.
He keeps it on a sideboard and gets his refills there.
I tilt my head slightly in question. “Baby, have you had a lot to drink?”
“Don’t worry about me. I can handle my liquor. Just unwinding from the day.” He sets his drink on the table and crooks his finger at me. “Come here.”
Fluttering erupts in my belly as I obey and fold myself onto his lap, sitting sideways.
One of his hands slides up to palm the back of my neck and the other grips my jaw, his fingertips pressing into my cheeks.
Then he pulls me to him, his lips bruising mine as his tongue plunges inside, demanding my surrender.
I give in, needing so badly to feel how much he wants me, to know that I haven’t lost him to my secrets.
He tastes so strongly of whisky that if I wasn’t already drunk on the way he makes me feel, I could probably catch a buzz just from making out with him.