Page 40 of Sexting the Billionaire

Roman releases my wrists immediately, stepping back to put respectable distance between us even as his eyes promise this interruption is merely a postponement.

"Just getting some air," he calls back smoothly, his voice betraying none of the passion that had consumed him moments before. "We'll be right in."

A security guard appears, looking apologetic when he recognizes Roman. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kade. I didn't realize it was you."

"No apology necessary," Roman says with easy authority. "You're just doing your job. We were about to return to the gala anyway."

I'm impressed by his composure, especially since I'm certain I look exactly like what I am—a woman who was just thoroughly kissed against a stone balustrade by her boss.

"Of course, sir," the guard says, tactfully averting his eyes from my no doubt flushed face and slightly mussed hair. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

He disappears back through the door, leaving us alone again in the suddenly awkward aftermath of our interrupted moment.

"I should..." I gesture vaguely toward the door, reality reasserting itself with each passing second.

"Go ahead," Roman says, understanding in his eyes. "I'll follow in a few minutes. Less conspicuous that way."

I nod, grateful for his practicality even as part of me wishes we could return to the mindless passion of moments ago.

"Cassie," he says as I turn to leave. "This isn't over."

It's both a promise and a warning—one that sends another tremor of anticipation through me despite my returning common sense.

"I know," I acknowledge. "That's what terrifies me."

His smile is slow and confident, making my heart stutter in my chest.

"Good things often do."

I slip back into the gala with what I hope is inconspicuous grace, though I can't help feeling like every person I pass can see what just happened written all over my face. I make my way to the nearest restroom, desperate to check my appearance before anyone who matters sees me.

The mirror confirms my fears—flushed cheeks, slightly swollen lips, a general aura of "just been thoroughly kissed." I do what I can with makeup and deep breathing, trying to restore my professional façade.

By the time I emerge, I've almost convinced myself I can salvage the evening—network a bit more, make an appropriately timed exit, and spend the weekend processing what just happened and what it means for my career, my principles, and my rapidly disintegrating boundaries.

But as I rejoin the crowd, my phone buzzes with a text. Roman, of course.

That wasn't even close to everything I want to do to you. Just so you know.

I glance across the room to where he's engaged in conversation with museum trustees, looking every inch the composed, sophisticated CEO. Only I know what lies beneath that perfect exterior—the heat, the hunger, the intensity that nearly consumed us both on that terrace.

With fingers that still tremble slightly, I type my response:

Prove it.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, immediately questioning my sanity. Did I really just challenge Roman Kade to prove his sexual intentions? While we're both at a charity gala surrounded by the most influential people in fashion?

Apparently, I did.

I watch him check his phone, watch his expression change from polite interest in whatever the museum director is saying to something darker, hungrier. His eyes find mine across the crowded room, holding me in place with the sheer force of his gaze.

He excuses himself from his conversation group with practiced ease, and my heart rate doubles as I realize he's coming straight for me. Walking with purpose through the crowd, not rushing but moving with clear intent.

Oh god. What have I done?

He reaches me in what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, stopping close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body but not so close as to raise eyebrows.

"Car. Ten minutes," he says, his voice low and controlled but with an undercurrent that makes my knees weak. "Unless you'd like to withdraw your challenge?"

---