My thighs clench around his hand, and I see satisfaction flicker in his expression. "Maybe."
"Good." His fingers trace higher, dangerously close to where I'm already wet for him. "Because I've been thinking about it all morning. About how tight you were. How perfectly your body fits mine. How I'm going to take you again tonight, slower this time, until you forget your own name."
The SUV pulls up to the tower before I can respond, and Roman withdraws his hand with visible reluctance. We exit into the cold, the wind biting despite our coats, and I'm grateful for the excuse to press closer to Roman's warmth as we walk toward the entrance.
Lev meets us in the lobby, his dark suit immaculate, his expression professionally neutral. But I catch the slight smirk when he notices how close Roman and I are standing, how Roman's hand rests possessively on my lower back.
"Morning," Lev says. "Ready for another day?"
Roman's jaw tightens slightly, but he nods. We process through security and into the elevator, the three of us standing in silence as the car rises toward the forty-second floor. I'm acutely aware of Roman beside me, of the heat radiating from his body, of the way his cologne fills the confined space.
The elevator chimes, announcing our arrival. The doors slide open.
"Surprise!"
The shout comes from at least a dozen voices, and everything happens at once. Roman and Lev move with terrifying speed, their hands going to weapons concealed beneath their jackets.Guns appear, aimed at the crowd of office staff gathered in the reception area. There are shrieks, genuine terror in the voices, and I watch in horror as Natasha drops the elaborate cake she'd been holding. It hits the marble floor with a sickening splat, white frosting andCongratulations! written in blue icing spreading across the expensive tile.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes. Roman and Lev with their weapons drawn. The staff with their hands raised, faces pale with shock. The ruined cake between them like a casualty of war.
Then I laugh.
I can't help it. The absurdity of the situation, the genuine terror on everyone's faces, the way Roman and Lev look like they're about to start a firefight over a surprise party. It bubbles up from my chest, uncontrollable and slightly hysterical.
"Put the guns away," I manage between gasps. "It's a party. They threw us a surprise party."
Roman's blue eyes meet mine, and I see the moment understanding dawns. His expression shifts from lethal to embarrassed, and he holsters his weapon with quick efficiency. Lev does the same, though his dark eyes continue scanning the crowd with professional vigilance.
"Blyat," Roman mutters under his breath, his accent thick. "A surprise party."
I move toward Natasha, who's standing frozen with frosting-covered hands, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so sorry," she sobs. "I didn't mean to… I just wanted to… we all wanted to celebrate…"
"It's okay." I pull her into a hug despite the frosting, feeling her trembling against me. "It's a lovely gesture. We're just… we're not good with surprises."
That's the understatement of the century, but it makes Natasha laugh through her tears. I help her clean up the ruined cake while the rest of the staff slowly recover from their terror. Someone produces napkins, and we work together to salvage what we can of the celebration.
Roman approaches, his expression carefully neutral, but I see the guilt flickering in his blue eyes. "I apologize," he says to the assembled staff, his voice carrying that authority that makes people straighten instinctively. "That was… an overreaction. Thank you for the gesture. It's appreciated."
The tension eases slightly, and someone produces champagne. We toast to the marriage, to new beginnings, to the baby that's apparently common knowledge now based on the knowing glances at my stomach. The party proceeds with forced normalcy, people laughing too loudly, trying to pretend they weren't just staring down the barrel of their boss's gun.
But gradually, genuine warmth returns. Natasha produces a backup cake from somewhere, smaller but still decorated with congratulations. People share stories about their own weddings, offer advice about pregnancy and parenthood. And through it all, I'm acutely aware of Roman watching me with an expression I'm learning to recognize.
Pride. He's proud of how I handled the situation, of how I turned potential disaster into something manageable.
The party finally winds down, and people drift back to their desks. Roman and I retreat to our offices, and I try to focus onthe work waiting for me. But my attention keeps drifting through the glass wall to where Roman sits at his desk, his sleeves rolled up to reveal those prison tattoos, his expression focused as he reviews documents.
Heat floods through me, and I shift in my chair, trying to ease the ache building between my thighs. Roman's gaze lifts, meeting mine through the glass, and the hunger in his blue eyes suggests he knows exactly what I'm thinking about.
His phone rings, breaking the moment, and I force my attention back to my computer screen. But the sexual tension doesn't ease. It simmers beneath the surface, constant and consuming, making concentration nearly impossible.
I'm reviewing quarterly reports when movement in my peripheral vision makes me look up. Alexei stands in my office doorway, and my heart leaps with joy at seeing my brother. But then I notice his expression, the way his shoulders are set with determination, and dread pools in my stomach.
"Eva." His voice is steady, but I hear the emotion beneath it. "We need to talk."
I gesture him inside, closing the door for privacy. "What's wrong?"
Alexei settles into the chair across from my desk, his blue eyes so like our mother's meeting mine with painful honesty. "I'm going back to Russia."
The words hit like a physical blow. "What? No. Alexei, you just got here. You're supposed to stay, to go to school here?—"
