"You're shaking," he observes.
"I'm cold," I lie.
His smile is knowing. "No, you're not."
He steps back and begins removing his own clothes—jacket first, then slowly unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a torso sculpted by expensive trainers and disciplined routine. Scars interrupt the perfection of his skin—a jagged line across his ribs, a small puckered circle near his collarbone. Evidence of a past that isn't as polished as his present.
When he's down to just his boxer briefs, he steps toward me again. This time when he touches me—one hand cupping my face, the other settling possessively on my hip—something shifts in his expression. The calculated control falters for just a moment, revealing something rawer beneath.
"I've been patient," he says, his voice rougher than before. "I've been methodical. I've given you time to adjust." His grip tightens slightly. "But my patience has limits, Delilah. And you've reached them."
Before I can respond, his mouth claims mine in a kiss that obliterates thought. This isn't the controlled exploration I expected but something hungry and demanding. His hand slides into my hair, gripping tight enough to hold me exactly where hewants me. His other arm wraps around my waist, crushing me against the hard planes of his body.
I should resist. I should maintain some semblance of dignity. Instead, I melt into him, opening to his insistence, meeting his hunger with my own unexpected desire.
A sound rumbles from his chest—approval or surprise—and suddenly we're moving. My back hits the mattress, Roman's weight following me down, his body caging mine with delicious inevitability. His hands are everywhere, stripping away the last barriers of lace, exposing me completely to his gaze and touch.
"Mine," he growls against my throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "Say it."
The demand should enrage me. It should remind me of the contract, the coercion, the uneven power balance. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly.
"Yours," I whisper, the admission torn from some place inside me I didn't know existed.
His control shatters completely. Gone is the calculating businessman, replaced by something primal and possessive. He kisses me like he's trying to devour me, hands rough but unerringly precise as they map my body. He finds places that make me gasp, exploiting each discovery with ruthless attention.
"I knew," he murmurs against my skin between kisses. "From the moment I saw you, I knew you'd respond to me like this. Like you were made for me."
I should hate his arrogance, but my body betrays me, arching into his touch, seeking more. When his fingers slide between my thighs, finding me embarrassingly ready for him, the smug satisfaction in his eyes should infuriate me. Instead, it only heightens my arousal.
"So responsive," he says, watching my face as his fingers work their magic. "So honest, at least in this."
I close my eyes, unable to bear his scrutiny as pleasure builds within me. He immediately grips my jaw, forcing my gaze back to his.
"No," he commands. "You don't hide from me. Not ever. I want to see everything—every reaction, every surrender."
His fingers continue their relentless assault, pushing me toward an edge I'm suddenly desperate to reach. Just as I approach the precipice, he withdraws, leaving me gasping and frustrated.
"Not yet," he says, his voice strained despite his control. "Not until I'm inside you."
He positions himself between my thighs, the evidence of his desire hot and hard against me. Our eyes lock as he pushes forward, stretching me in a slow, inexorable invasion that makes us both groan.
"Perfect," he hisses through clenched teeth once he's fully seated within me. "So fucking perfect."
For a moment he remains still, breathing hard, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that feels like it could consume me. Then he begins to move, and all pretense of control evaporates.
Roman takes me with the focused intensity that seems to define everything he does. Each thrust is deliberate, angled to maximize my pleasure while satisfying his own need. His hands pin my wrists above my head, his body covering mine completely, surrounding me with his heat, his scent, his possession.
"You feel it, don't you?" he demands, his rhythm never faltering. "How perfectly we fit. How right this is."
And God help me, I do feel it. This connection between us transcends the contract, the money, the power imbalance. It's chemical, primal, undeniable.
"Yes," I gasp, beyond pride or resistance. "Yes, I feel it."
Something like triumph flashes in his eyes. He releases my wrists to grip my hips instead, changing the angle to hit a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. His thumb finds the center of my pleasure, circling with devastating precision.
"Come for me, Delilah," he commands, his voice a ragged shadow of its usual control. "Show me you're mine in this, too."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless rhythm of his body against mine pushes me over the edge. I shatter beneath him, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me with unexpected intensity.
