Page 38 of Sexting the Billionaire

My breath catches at his proximity, at the heat radiating from his body, at the intensity in his gaze. "What would you call it?"

"A prelude," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "A preview. A promise of what could happen if we both stopped pretending this is just professional interest."

My heart hammers against my ribs so loudly I'm certain he can hear it. "Roman," I say softly, unsure if I'm warning him away or inviting him closer.

"Do you have any idea what that dress has been doing to me all night?" he asks, his eyes making another deliberate journey from my face downward.

"I've been thinking about peeling it off you—slowly—since the moment you walked in."

Heat floods my body at his words, at the naked desire in his eyes. This is dangerous territory, far beyond our text exchanges or heated glances.

"We can't," I whisper, though I make no move to create distance between us.

"Not here. Not when anyone could walk by."

A small, devastatingly sexy smile curves his lips. "So it's the location that concerns you, not the act itself?"

Caught in my own logic trap, I can only stare at him, my desire warring with my professional instincts.

"Meet me on the terrace in five minutes." His tone makes it clear this isn't exactly a request. "Unless you're not as brave in person as you are in those texts."

The challenge in his words stirs something in me—pride, defiance, desire, or some potent combination of all three.

"The south terrace is closed for the event," I point out, stalling for time while my rational mind screams warnings about career suicide.

"I have a key," Roman says simply. "Five minutes, Cassie. Or we can go back to pretending this isn't happening until the next time we're alone in an elevator."

He walks away before I can respond, disappearing into the crowd with such smooth confidence that no one would guess he'd just propositioned his Creative Director in a museum corridor.

I stand there frozen, weighing my options.

The professional choice is obvious: return to the gala, continue networking, maintain boundaries.

The personal choice is equally clear: five minutes from now, I could be alone with Roman on a deserted terrace, finally discovering if reality lives up to the fantasy we've been building.

My phone buzzes in the small clutch I've been carrying. A text from Olivia:

Did you see the Page Six editor by the bar? Perfect opportunity to pitch your sister's portfolio!

Right. Mia. My career. My responsibilities. The real world that exists beyond whatever this magnetic pull between Roman and me might be.

I straighten my dress, check my lipstick in a nearby display case, and make a decision that will either be the smartest or stupidest of my life.

Five minutes later, I'm slipping through a service door onto the museum's south terrace, the sounds of the gala fading behind me as I step into the cool night air.

The terrace is deserted, softly lit by the ambient glow from the museum windows and the city lights spread out below. For a moment, I think Roman isn't here—that perhaps this was some kind of test I've just failed by showing up.

Then I feel him before I see him, his presence announcing itself in the subtle shift of air, the faint scent of his cologne, the prickling awareness along my skin.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," Roman says from the shadows, his voice carrying in the quiet night.

"Neither was I," I admit as he steps into the light.

He's removed his tuxedo jacket, bow tie hanging loose around his neck, top buttons undone as if he needed to breathe more freely.

The sight of him slightly disheveled does something inappropriate to my insides.

"Second thoughts?" he asks, stopping a few feet away, giving me space I'm not entirely sure I want.

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