Page 15

Some men need instruction manuals. Others just know how to read a woman's body like it's the only language that matters. You don't need closure, sweetheart. You need someone to ruin you for every other man.
I type it without thinking, then stare at my screen in mild horror, slightly shocked at my boldness. Where did that come from? This isn't how Roman Kade communicates, and it most certainly isn't how the CEO of a luxury brand conglomerate talks. This is something else entirely—a side of myself I rarely acknowledge, let alone express.
Though if I'm being honest, it's exactly how I'd speak if we were face to face. If I could use the full arsenal—the voice that's been compared to aged whiskey, the eyes that women have described as "dangerous," the way I move into someone's space until they can feel the heat coming off my body.
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again as they compose their response. I find myself holding my breath.
Who are you?
Three words, but they hit like a physical force. Who am I? In this moment, I'm not Roman Kade, business magnate and fashion industry CEO. I'm just a man having the most interesting conversation in recent memory with someone who has no preconceptions about me.
Someone who appreciates honesty. And wall sex
I respond, unable to resist adding that last bit.
I think about the photograph again—the confidence in that angle, the way the dress was positioned to show her best features. That doesn't look like someone who's spent years making herself smaller.
That looks like someone reclaiming her power.
Camden sounds like a man who can't handle all of you. And based on that photo, he's missing out on quite a lot.
Stop bringing up the photo! I'm dying of embarrassment.
Don't be. It's beautiful. You're clearly beautiful. And any man who makes you feel small around beauty like that is a fucking amateur.
Three dots. Four. Five. Then:
Can I tell you something? Since you're apparently my accidental confidant today?
Lay it on me, sweetheart.
The endearment has been slipping out without conscious thought. Something about this conversation feels intimate already, despite not knowing her name or face. Though I've seen enough to know Camden is a goddamn idiot.
I've never actually done half the things I just described in that text. That was wine and rage talking.
Something shifts in my chest. She's being vulnerable now, trusting me with the truth behind her bravado.
The best ideas sometimes are. But now I'm curious—what would sober, unfiltered you want?
I want someone who makes me feel desired, not tolerated. Someone who doesn't need instructions or schedules. Someone who has the confidence and just... knows.
Someone who pins you against walls because they can't wait one more second to taste you?
YES. Jesus. Yes.
The speed of her response sends heat through me. I'm in dangerous territory now, but I can't seem to stop myself.
Someone who looks at you the way I'm looking at your photo right now—like you're something worth savoring?
Oh god. How are you doing this to me?
Doing what, sweetheart?
Making me feel things through text messages. This is insane.
She's right. It is insane. I'm sitting in my corner office overlooking Manhattan, having the most explicit conversation of my professional life with a complete stranger whose cleavage I can't stop staring at.
Tell me what else you've been denied. What else has this Camden idiot failed at?