I lifted my chin, forcing the single reluctant movement. I nodded my head. He registered the silent answer. The ghost of a cold smile touched his mouth, not triumphant, but satisfied. He hoisted me into his arms as if I weighed nothing, stepping back from the cold, polished surface of the desk.
“Then let’s go,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear as he turned, carrying me out of the office and toward our suite. The fight for tonight was over.
He carried me into the sprawling master suite, the air thick with unspoken promises, past the shadowed sitting area to the massive bed draped in midnight silk. The sheets whispered against my skin as he lowered me onto them, cool and inviting, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body. He loomed above me, still encased in that tailored suit that screamed power with crisp lines hugging his broad frame. I braced for the storm,expecting rough hands to claim me, to mark me as his territory in a brutal rite of possession.
But Roman didn’t pounce. Instead, he moved with a deliberate slowness that twisted the tension tighter, a predator savoring the hunt. His dark eyes locked onto mine, unyielding, as he flicked open his cufflinks one by one, the metallic clinks echoing like a countdown. Each button of his shirt parted under his fingers, revealing inches of taut, scarred skin, battle-hardened muscle that spoke of violence survived and inflicted. He shrugged off the jacket, letting it crumple to the floor, then peeled away the shirt, exposing the chiseled expanse of his chest, dusted with dark hair that trailed down to the V of his hips. His pants followed, sliding down powerful thighs, freeing the thick, veined length of his cock, already hard and straining toward me.
I lay there, breath shallow, my body humming with anticipation. The air between us crackled, my nipples pebbling under his gaze as he drank in the sight of me, spread out, vulnerable, the thin slip of my dress riding up my thighs. I expected the savage thrust, the dominance that would bend me to his will. But when he finally joined me on the bed, it was with a restraint that bordered on torture.
His hands, callused from years of wielding power, traced my curves with feather-light touches, skimming my collarbone, dipping into the valley between my breasts, igniting Sparks that raced to my core. He hooked his fingers under the straps of my dress, easing them down slowly, exposing my tits to the cool air. My nipples ached one, then the other, drawing a gasp from my lips. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me.
He lowered his head, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking gently at first, then with increasing fervor, his tongue flicking and teasing until I arched off the bed, fingers threading into his hair. His free hand slid down my body, parting mythighs, fingers finding the slick heat of my pussy. He stroked my folds, circling my clit with maddening precision, building the pressure without mercy. “So wet for me already,” he growled against my skin, slipping one finger inside, then two, curling them to hit that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.
I writhed beneath him, hips bucking, but he held me steady, his weight a delicious anchor. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he rasped, his jaw clenched, eyes dark with barely leashed hunger.
“You don’t,” I whispered, my voice breaking as I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. His cock pressed against my entrance, hot and insistent, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he filled me, stretching me inch by inch, the burn of fullness blending into exquisite pleasure. He paused, letting me adjust, then began to move, deep and measured, each roll of his hips grinding against my clit.
The rhythm built, fierce yet controlled, his hands gripping my hips, angling me to take him deeper, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that devoured. I met him thrust for thrust, nails digging into his back, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He was possessive, yes, pounding into me with overwhelming intensity, but beneath it was a gentleness, pausing when I gasped, adjusting when I moaned, reading my body like a map to my undoing.
Waves of pleasure crested, higher and higher, until I shattered around him, my pussy clenching his cock in rhythmic pulse, crying out his name. He followed with a guttural groan, spilling hot inside me, his body shuddering against mine.
I nestled into his chest, inhaling the musky scent of sweat and cologne. For the first time, peace washed over me. I fell asleep in his arms.
I woke up slowly, the sensation of heavy, warm muscle against my back a confusing, yet not unwelcome, reality. Roman’s arm was draped possessively over my waist. I easedmyself out of his grip, every movement reminding me of the night’s intensity.
I found my silk robe draped over the chaise lounge. I pulled it around myself, cinching the belt tight, feeling the return of the strategic armor the silk represented. My body was still breathing hard, not from exertion, but from the emotional aftershock of the intimacy.
Roman shifted behind me, pushing himself up onto one elbow. He watched me, his expression unreadable in the morning light.
I walked to the end of the bed, needing distance, needing to reestablish the dynamic of captor and captive, rather than lover and lover. I had to set the boundary, or I would lose myself entirely.
“If you think this makes me compliant,” I whispered, turning to face him, my voice brittle with forced defiance, “you’re wrong.”
He smiled, a slow, predatory curving of his lips that was both infuriating and undeniably attractive. He pushed himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached back and grabbed a glass of water from the bedside table, taking a long drink.
He wiped the moisture from his mouth with the back of his hand, a casual, brutally masculine gesture.
“And if you think you can manipulate me with sex,” he answered, his voice low and amused, “you’re wrong.”
We stared at each other, a mirror image of two liars. We both knew the truth; the line we had crossed was more dangerous than any political agreement. I had created a weakness neither of us could afford.
I turned away sharply, unable to hold his gaze. I walked toward the walk-in wardrobe, needing the structure of clothing and routine. Yet as I walked, I realized he didn’t believe his ownwords. I saw a tiny, fleeting shadow of uncertainty across his eyes before he masked it. He might be a mafia boss, but I was the contradiction he couldn’t control.
As I began getting dressed, my eyes fell on the sleek, built-in television screen on the wardrobe wall. It was set to a major international news channel.
The headlines scrolled beneath the image of my engagement photo. The newscasters were using words like unprecedented, puzzling, and hostage. They were confused whether this was actually an engagement or a kidnapping being posed as an engagement. They were also speculating about the absence of Liza’s father from the scene, noting the unusual haste of the ceremony and the lack of a formal announcement.
I stared at the screen, a slow, cold realization washing over me. The situation was completely messy. The entire world was watching, waiting for a crack in the façade. But that mess was leveraged. My status as Roman’s fiancée was highly unstable, publicly questioned, and politically volatile.
And yet, I knew instinctively, this is my best bet. To fight him, I had to be inside his walls. To be free, I had to appear chained. I had to play the part of the compliant prize until I found the exact moment to strike.
I finished buttoning my dress, a simple, high-necked grey silk, when Roman strode into the wardrobe area. He bypassed my choice entirely.
“No,” he said, pulling a hanger from the back rail. “Today, we made a statement. You’re wearing this.”
He held up a deep emerald designer gown, conservative, expensive, and perfectly appreciated for a high society event. Before I could object, a Lobanov security detail member, apparently doubling as a stylist, was there to assist me. I realized he hadn’t planned to ask for my input at all. He simply intended to dress me and display me.
In less than twenty minutes, Roman had ushered me to a hospital ribbon-cutting ceremony sponsored by one of the Lobanov foundations. It was pure, calculated theater.
