He steps over to a bar cart and lifts a bottle of whiskey. He pours a small amount of the amber liquid into two glasses. Then he returns to me, handing me one.
“You are not too much,” he says quietly. “You are not excess.”
My throat tightens. I lower my eyes to the whiskey. “He always had a way of making me feel like I should apologize just for existing.”
Roman’s hand closes over mine on the glass. It’s warm. Solid. “Then tonight, you do not apologize for anything.”
A small smile forms on my lips. I lift my eyes to see he’s standing over me, looming like a Greek god.
“We need to toast to something, right?” I ask.
He nods solemnly. “We do. How about to taking up space.”
I chuckle. “I like that.”
We tap glasses sip. The whiskey’s delicious, perfect for a cold night like tonight.
“I shouldn’t be in here,” I say after a moment.
“And yet you are. You can leave at any time.”
I sigh. “I’m your employee.”
“You are a woman who was wounded by a man who has no right to cut you. That comes first.” He sits down next to me, close enough that his warmth touches my skin in a way I’m starting to crave.
The room feels smaller suddenly.
Roman takes another sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. It’s hard to make out his expression.
Silence stretches, heavy and intimate.
“I don’t like that he made you feel small,” he says. “This fool of a man. Men who behave like that act as if they’re operating from a place of strength. But in reality, it’s weakness. They see a woman they can’t control but try anyway. They’re afraid of a woman they can’t dominate.”
My breath catches at that word.
Dominate.
When I associate it with Max, it makes me sick to my stomach. But with Roman…
“I guess I was easy to dominate at one point,” I say quietly.
He shakes his head. “Wrong. You’re here because you weren’t. You saw his weakness. And you rejected it.”
His words hit me deeply, and once again, I don’t know what to say in response.
After a tiny sip of whiskey, I set my glass on the nightstand, noticing that my hands have a slight tremble to them. In that moment, I become acutely aware of how exposed I feel sitting on Roman’s bed. How vulnerable.
How chosen.
Roman reaches toward me. I know I could stop him if I wanted to.
I don’t want to.
He brushes a loose strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear in the same way he did in the hot tub. Without thinking, I push my face against his touch, yearning for more. A shiver runs through me, the good kind.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“Yeah. I’m a little cold.”
