He picked me up like I weighed nothing. I gasped, my legs parting automatically to anchor around his waist.
The wall held my back. Roman held everything else.
I clutched his shoulders, heart thudding loud enough that I was sure he could hear it. My fingers tangled in the back of his shirt as he pinned me against the wall, eyes flicking from my mouth to my throat, then back to my eyes…
He wouldn’t make another move until I said yes with every part of me.
“Roman-“
He didn’t let me finish. His mouth brushed mine once, and everything fell out of focus.
He walked over to the dresser and set me down on it, the surface cool even through the fabric of my dress. I pressed my palms against the wood as I tried to steady my breath. He wasn’t speaking. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at me, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered, was louder than anything he could’ve said.
The wall muffled the sounds from the hallway. Laughter, silverware. The soft ping of a mimosa glass being refilled. That world didn’t exist anymore.
He sank to his knees between my legs.
I stared down at him, too aware of the heat blooming between my hips, too aware of the heat of his hands as they skimmed up my thighs like they had every right to. My whole body had turned traitorous. My pulse beat like a war drum, and my skin felt too sensitive. I was shaking, and he hadn’t even touched me yet.
His hands slid under my dress, slowly and reverently. I gasped when his fingers brushed the bare skin above my knees. Sucked in a breath when he moved higher. My thighs trembled.
“Let me take care of you, Mags,” he whispered.
All the reasons to stop- this is fake, this is dangerous, this will ruin you
-dissolved the second his mouth touched me.
I gasped, hands flying to his hair before I could stop myself. My fingers curled into the thick strands, needing to hold on to him or else I’d float away. He groaned low in his throat, like he liked that. Like he wanted more.
He flicked his tongue over me in languid strokes, testing, exploring. When my hips rolled involuntarily, he growled and pulled me closer, his grip on my thighs tightening.
I forgot how to breathe.
Every thought in my head disappeared. Every drag of his tongue, every press of his mouth sent sparks up my spine. He was patient and thorough, finding what made me tremble, what made me bite down on a gasp, what made my fingers clench tight in his hair. When I whimpered his name, he moaned against me.
I tipped my head back and bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
Pleasure surged through me, but it was the emotion that wrecked me. The care in his touch. The way he held my thighs like he was holding on for dear life. The way he worshiped me with every stroke of his tongue as if this wasn’t a mistake, but something he’d chosen to do.
I tried to hold on, tried to ground myself in the moment, the room-anything.
But I couldn’t.
I came apart with a sound I didn’t recognize, a cry I didn’t mean to let loose. My hips bucked against his mouth as a wave of heat crashed over me, shattering everything I thought I was holding together.
He let me ride it out, his touch steadying me as I shook.
I sagged back against the wall, chest heaving, vision blurring. Roman was still on his knees, looking up at me like I was the sun.
That was what undid me. Not the pleasure, not even the orgasm, but that look. The desire in his eyes said I was something he wanted. Not for show. Not for the pack. Not because we were pretending.
I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t break the spell or ruin the moment or call it what it was.
But maybe it was already too late. I had the sinking, unbearable sense that I’d just let him see the real me, and he didn’t leave.
He wanted me.
I left the room first.
My cheeks were on fire. My hair was a disaster. Roman’s touch was still burning on my thighs. No matter how hard I tried to pull my dress into place or smooth down the wrinkles, I might as well have been walking in wearing a neon sign that read
Just Got Oral in the Guest Room.
Behind me, I heard Roman’s unhurried footsteps. The soft whoosh of his palm running through his hair, the tug of fabric as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. I glanced over my shoulder. He was so casual, as if he hadn’t had his head between my legs five minutes ago.
Swallowing hard, I forced myself to keep walking.
When we stepped back into the crowd, it was like the air got sucked out of the room. Conversations stalled. Someone dropped a fork. My skin prickled. Everyone was trying to look like they weren’t looking at us.
My gaze landed on the wives-perfectly styled, impeccably dressed, half-pinned curls still holding strong in the humid air. One raised her brows and whispered to the woman next to her. Another made no effort to hide her smirk. Across the table, someone nudged her mate with a look that could only mean they finally did it.
Seraphina choked. It wasn’t a little cough-it was a full-on, eye-watering, champagne-down-the-wrong-pipe moment. She slammed her glass down and blinked hard, as if trying to make sure we were real.
I wanted to crawl under the table. Or fake a fainting spell. Or slip out the back door and never come back. Roman took my hand and intertwined our fingers like it meant nothing.
Or maybe like it meant everything.
My stomach somersaulted. My brain was still somewhere back in the guest room, refusing to reboot. The only thing I could focus on was the warmth of his palm against mine, the quiet certainty with which he guided me back to our seats as if we hadn’t just taken our entire fake dating strategy to a sky-high level.
I should’ve let go. I should’ve said:
What the hell did we just do? Or:
We can’t act like this now. But I didn’t. I let him hold my hand. I let him pull my chair out for me. I let him tuck me back into the crowded table and pretended I wasn’t unraveling in real time.
I sat there, a little dazed and a little high from whatever the hell had just happened between us.
My gaze caught on Seraphina again.
She was frozen. Pale. Fingers clenched tight around the base of her glass like it was the only thing anchoring her to Earth. Her lipstick was smudged, a faint line bleeding at the corner of her mouth.
With deliberate, agonizing slowness, Roman picked up his cloth napkin and dabbed the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t even bothering to hide his smirk.
The table went still.
Seraphina’s face crumbled. Her throat bobbed, her nostrils flared, and for half a second, I thought she might throw the glass.
She stood. Her chair scraped back with an audible screech against the floor, the noise sharp and violent in the hushed dining room. “You think I wanted this? I was raised to believe this would be mine.” I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She turned and stalked out, heels clicking with precision, back stiff, hair swishing like a curtain behind her.
As I watched her go, something hot and electric bloomed in my chest. I recognized it as victory. For once,
I was the storm someone else had to weather. And that feeling… it was real. It was raw and messy and probably petty, but it was mine.
Until it wasn’t.
Because Roman still had that smug, self-satisfied quirk to his lips. The kind of smile you’d wear after checkmating your opponent. Or after planting a flag in enemy territory.
Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe right.
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