Chapter 31 #2
I take a deep breath, trying to ignore how his cologne—notes of sandalwood and something distinctly masculine—makes my thoughts scatter.
"Rainfall showers crafted from purified ocean water," I begin, watching his intense eyes focus on me.
"Glass floor sections suspended over natural tide pools where guests can watch the mesmerizing dance of sea anemones and starfish.
Driftwood sculptures carved by local artists that tell the story of the Pacific.
" I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
"And, I don't know, maybe one of those underwater restaurants like in the Maldives?
Or even a luxury underwater suite? I remember reading about them in a travel magazine—how the walls are transparent and schools of tropical fish swim by while you're eating or sleeping. "
Roman's eyes widen, dark lashes framing his surprised expression.
He snaps his fingers, the sharp sound cutting through the air.
"Oh my god, Lilith," he exclaims, leaning forward so suddenly I can see the flecks of amber in his brown irises.
"I can't believe you said that. I never even considered underwater luxury suites or restaurants until this moment. "
His fingers fly across the keyboard, bringing up dazzling images on his triple monitors—underwater dining rooms where jellyfish float past like living chandeliers, and submerged glass bedrooms where the ocean becomes both ceiling and walls.
"The luxury suite has an infinity pool that seems to melt into the sea," he points out, his voice quickening with excitement, "butler's quarters with private access, and enough space for six guests to live like aquatic royalty. "
He swivels toward me, his smile transforming his usually stern face. "This is a fantastic idea," he says, his gaze holding mine. "I'll need specialized architects and marine engineers, but these would be perfect for our ultra-high-net-worth clients who've seen everything else."
A smile tugs at my lips. Leave it to Roman to casually drop millions on something as extravagant as underwater dining rooms and bedroom suites. The renderings are breathtaking though—I can almost feel myself drifting off to sleep beneath schools of tropical fish dancing overhead.
Roman pushes away from his chair and perches on the edge of his desk, those mile-long legs dangling.
It's a habit I've noticed he reserves for our meetings—this casual posture that seems at odds with the buttoned-up billionaire everyone else sees.
I doubt anyone else gets to witness this version of him.
"Lilith," he says, his voice softer than usual. "Your perspective on this is invaluable. What made you think of it? How did you know about these underwater structures in the Maldives?"
"I stumbled across it in Big Sur," I explain. "During a meditation retreat—nothing fancy, just simple bungalows and lots of silence. I was thumbing through a travel magazine in the lobby, waiting for my instructor, when I saw the article. The concept just stuck with me."
His throat bobs with a swallow as he shuffles papers on his desk, not meeting my eyes. "These weeks without you... I've been miserable," he admits. "I know I fucked up."
"You did," I say, my lips curving despite myself. "And I've been counting the days too. But if you can't bring yourself to trust me—"
Roman slides off the edge of his desk in one fluid motion and draws me to my feet. His fingers thread through my hair, his voice dropping to a murmur against my temple. "Trust takes time with me. I'm trying."
And then he's kissing me, his mouth crashing against mine with such force I stumble backward, my spine meeting the cool plaster wall as his calloused hands find my flushed face, my tangled hair, the sensitive hollow of my neck—anywhere to hold me closer.
I taste cherries and ocean salt and raw need on his tongue as it slides against mine, three torturous weeks of absence dissolving in the molten heat between us.
His strong fingers dig into the curve of my hips, lifting me effortlessly until my feet dangle above the hardwood floor, and I wrap my trembling legs around his solid waist, not caring about that stupid fight anymore, only that now we're breathing each other's ragged air, desperate and starving like survivors of some emotional shipwreck.
His calloused hands claim my feverish skin with desperate hunger, strong fingers pressing into my soft flesh as if trying to reach the very marrow of my soul.
I cry out—a high, broken sound—when Roman's perfect white teeth graze the sensitive hollow of my neck, the sharp sting melting into liquid pleasure as he growls my name—"Lilith"—like a sacred prayer and a forbidden curse tangled together in the humid darkness between us.
Then he carries me to his couch and the solid weight of his muscled body crushes me into the vicuna wool, anchoring me to earth while my dizzy mind threatens to shatter into a thousand glittering pieces.
We’re soon naked and when he slips on a condom and drives into me with one powerful thrust, I claw at his broad, sweat-slicked back, feeling the electric connection between us ignite like summer wildfire.
His midnight eyes burn into mine, pupils blown so wide with desire that only a thin ring of amber remains, a possession that mirrors my own consuming, ravenous need.
I lock my trembling legs around his narrow waist viciously, demanding more, branding this incandescent moment into memory—the corded muscles of his shoulders straining beneath my crimson nails, the primal sound torn from deep within his throat when I command him harder, deeper.
When release finally detonates through every nerve ending, it ravages me like his beloved Pacific ocean during a violent storm—powerful, merciless, and absolutely devastating in its intensity.
Afterward, lying on his black leather couch, the Pacific churning and frothing right outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, I watch moonlight glint off the whitecaps while he holds me against his warm chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, his lips occasionally brushing my temple.
My body feels languid, satisfied, yet my mind races with uncertainty.
His espresso-dark eyes still hold that guarded look when they meet mine, and he admitted he still doesn’t trust me - for no good reason.
But I have to follow my heart, which has tangled itself in Roman's presence like sea kelp wrapped around an anchor.