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“Roman—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs roughly, voice frayed.
And when he finally settles between my thighs, bare skin to bare skin, the weight of him over me iseverything—hot, solid,undeniable. I wrap my legs around his waist, heels pressing into his back, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us.
I’m soaked and aching and ready, and when he thrusts—slow and deep—I almost fall apart all over again.
Our eyes lock, a silent conversation passing between us.
In that moment, everything we've been through—the accidental text, the professional boundaries, the careful dance of desire and restraint—crystallizes into something profound and unbreakable.
"Cassie," he breathes, the single word containing a universe of meaning.
"I know," I whisper back, understanding perfectly what he can't quite say.
Then we’re moving—together, in sync, like we’ve done so many times before. Only this time, there’s no holding back.
The careful restraint from before? Gone.
Now it’s pure hunger.
Raw and frantic andreal.
His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in as he thrusts deeper—harder—each stroke hitting the exact spot that makes my breath falter and my back arch.
“There,” I gasp. “Right there—don’t stop.”
“I’m not fucking stopping,” he growls. “Not until you fall apart for me again.”
And I do—meeting every thrust with a desperate rhythm of my own, dragging my nails down his back, chasing the next wave like I’ll die without it.
It’s filthy. It’s frantic. It’s perfect.
We lose the illusion of control entirely.
It’s just slick skin, broken moans, bodies colliding over and over, sweat and friction and the sound of him breathing my name like a vow.
When the second orgasm hits, it crashes through me like a tidal wave—ripping through every nerve, curling my toes, stealing every sound from my throat including his name.
I’m shaking, crying out, barely holding on as he drives into me once, twice more?—
and then he follows with a ragged curse, spilling inside me, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing anchoring him to earth.
Afterward, we lie tangled together on my too-small couch, breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. There should be awkwardness—the aftermath of confessions and life-changing decisions—but instead, there's only a comfortable quiet.
"So," I say finally, my head resting on his chest, his heartbeat strong beneath my ear. "That was some negotiation."
His laugh vibrates through me, warm and genuine. "Very productive," he agrees, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my spine. "Though I still maintain we should have moved to the bedroom."
"Next time," I promise, pressing a kiss to his chest.
"Next time," he echoes, the simple phrase carrying weight far beyond its literal meaning.
We stay like that, talking softly about everything and nothing, until the chill of my apartment finally drives us to the bedroom. There, our lovemaking is slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. Each touch, each kiss, each shared breath feels like a conversation, an acknowledgment, a promise.
Before daybreak, I find myself watching Roman sleep, studying the way moonlight catches on his features, softening the sharp angles and planes. It occurs to me that I've never seen him this relaxed, this unguarded, outside of these private moments.
As if sensing my gaze, his eyes blink open, finding mine in the dim light. "What are you thinking?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.