Chapter 8 - Midnight Confessions
The kiss was not gentle. It was a torrential release of five years of denial, longing, and unspoken fury. Roman’s hands slid from my cheeks into my hair, pulling me flush against his towering frame until there was no space left between us.
I gasped into his mouth, tasting the dark warmth of his lips, wrapping my arms around his neck as he lifted me effortlessly off the floor. My back met the polished mahogany of his desk, papers scattering across the carpet as he parted my knees, stepping between them with a hunger that obliterated every trace of his legendary discipline.
“Abigail,” he growled against my throat, his lips trailing fire down to the hollow of my collarbone. “Tell me to stop now, or I swear to God I won't let you leave this room.”
“Don't you dare stop,” I pleaded, tugging at the buttons of his black shirt until they tore free, exposing the broad expanse of his chest, marred by the faint scars of a life lived on the razor’s edge. “I spent five years waiting for you to see me. Look at me, Roman.”
He pulled back just enough to look down into my eyes. His gaze was wild, completely unhinged by desire, his pupils dilated until the gray was swallowed by black.
“I have never seen anyone else,” he said fiercely. “From the moment you turned eighteen and looked at me across that garden, there hasn't been another woman on this earth for me.”
He caught my face again, his kiss deeper this time, possessing, demanding everything I had to give. His large hands slid down the curve of my waist, unzipping the green dress until the silk pooled around my hips on the desk. Every touch of his rough, calloused fingers sent ripples of electric heat surging through my blood.
When he finally took me, it wasn't a corporate merger. It was an absolute surrender of two souls who had fought their way through a minefield of grief, duty, and pride to claim what was always theirs. The city lights flickered through the falling snow outside the glass, but inside the office, there was only the sound of our breathing, the rhythmic creak of the desk, and the fierce, breathless confessions whispered into the Chicago midnight.
Hours later, the storm began to settle.
I lay across Roman’s chest in the oversized master bed, the heavy linen sheets pulled over our shoulders. His arm was locked securely around my waist, his fingers tracing slow, idle patterns along my bare spine. For the first time in my life, the silence between us wasn't a battle of wills. It was peace.
“What happens tomorrow?” I asked softly, resting my chin on his breastbone.
Roman smiled—a genuine, unshadowed smile that took ten years off his face. “Tomorrow at noon, we walk into St. Patrick’s Cathedral. We sign the papers. We consolidate the trust. And then we fire every board member who attended Vance’s dinner.”
May you like
I laughed softly against his skin. “And after that?”
Roman tilted my chin up, his eyes soft in the dim predawn light. “After that, Abigail Vale, I take you back to Lisbon for a month. And this time, I won't be watching you through a camera lens.”
