Page 15 of If You Love Me

I stop arguing because his tone and his expression remind me of our weekend together. Even now, he could give me a look, or utter the simplest phrase, and turn me into his unapologetically willing cock slut.

I slide my arms into his sleeves, which are six inches too long, and pull the hood up, submerging me in his warmth. Romanholds the door open, and I step out into the rainy evening. The temperature has dropped several degrees, and the rain picks up the second we’re on the sidewalk. Roman’s hand settles on my low back as he stays close and guides me around the corner. The simple contact makes my body heat.

He doesn’t utter a word and I’m suddenly too nervous to speak.

He’s soaked to the bone when we reach his car, but he still opens the passenger door and waits until I’m settled before he rounds the hood.

He’s wearing a pale blue shirt, and every single defined muscle is now highlighted by the translucent clinging fabric. And—oh God. I’d forgotten how good Roman smells. It’s a combination of a very specific body wash, shampoo, and his aftershave. It made my knees weak back then, and now…sitting in the passenger seat of his car, I’m surrounded by his woodsy scent.

“Oh, fuck me.” I swallow past the lump in my throat as I remember, vividly, what happened the last time I was in a car alone with him.

Roman slides into the driver’s seat. Every part of him is soaked through.Every part. He slides the key into the ignition, turns the engine over, and adjusts the temperature so we’re not blasted by the air conditioning. He turns to face me. I try to form a sentence, to say…something. Anything. But I’m frozen, heart hammering in my chest while my body remembers all the ways he made it sing.

“I have to grab my bag from the back.” He leans in, his face only inches from mine. His chiseled jaw is so close I could brush my lips along the edge.

It’s a challenge not to.

He retrieves a knapsack, unzips it, and produces a towel and an extra shirt. The towel he runs over his hair and face. And then he shucks off the soaked shirt.

“What are you doing?” Desire makes my voice waver.

He tosses it into the back seat—the interior is leather—where it lands with a wet thud. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Taking your clothes off.” My whisper sounds horrifyingly needy.

I should get out and walk, fuck the soggy dinner. I should look away. I should not be staring shamelessly at his gloriously naked chest. That I’ve raked my nails over. That my lips have been on when I kissed my way down his body and he fed me his cock and his cum.

“I’m wet.” He rubs the towel over his cut chest and arms. “Are you?”

I barely manage to keep from squirming under the intensity of his gaze. “What?”

He pulls the dry shirt over his head. “Wet, Lexi.” Eyes on me as he slides his thick arms through the sleeves and covers his exceptional abs. “Are you?”

“I-I—” I tug at my collar and stammer, “I’m your coach. You can’t—we can’t.”

His lip twitches. “I meant from the rain, but it’s good to know where your head is.”

I swallow my mortification and force my eyes to the windshield. It’s officially a torrential downpour.

Roman sits on the towel, fastens his seat belt, and taps the GPS. “I need your address, Alexandria.”

My pussy sobs at the rough sound of my name leaving his lips. With shaking hands, I type my address into the navigation system. I’ll be home in nine minutes, according to the digital voice.

Roman pulls into traffic. I wish I had a bottle of water. My mouth is so dry. Seven painfully long minutes into the ride, I crumble under the weight of my regret.

“Roman, I?—”

“Donottell me you’re sorry.” The steering wheel groans under his grip.

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

He’s a brick wall of…something. But I can’t get a bead on his emotions. I sense his anger, but there’s more. Is he upset? Hurt? Frustrated? All of the above? “Are you going to tell management?”

His jaw tics. “I won’t ruin your career over a moment of weakness that happened three fucking years ago.”

I wish I felt relief, but the sharp bite of his words is a fresh wound. It’s dismissive. It cheapens the memories I’ve coveted the past three years. Taints them with bitterness.

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