Page 42 of Sexting the Billionaire

Henri closes the door with practiced discretion. "Home, sir?"

Home.

The word hangs between us. Not my office. Not a hotel. My home—a place I almost never bring anyone, especially not someone connected to Elysian.

"Yes," I confirm, watching Cassie's face for any sign of hesitation. "Unless you'd prefer somewhere else?"

She meets my eyes, challenge and desire warring in her expression. "Your home is fine."

Henri nods and raises the privacy partition. The muted hum of the engine fills the silence as we pull away from the curb.

Neither of us speaks as the car navigates through Manhattan traffic. The space between us on the seat might as well be the Grand Canyon or a millimeter at the same time. I'm acutely aware of her—the subtle scent of her perfume, the way her fingers nervously smooth the fabric of her dress, the soft sound of her breathing.

This is ridiculous. I run a multi-billion-dollar company. I negotiate international deals over breakfast. I've stared down hostile takeovers without breaking a sweat. Yet here I am, tongue-tied like a teenager because a woman who accidentally sexted me is sitting in my car.

"You can still change your mind," I find myself saying, surprising us both. "One word from you and Henri will take you home instead."

She studies me with those sharp green eyes that seem to see through every façade I've built. "Is that what you want?"

"What I want," I say carefully, "is irrelevant if you have any doubts."

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "That's not an answer, Roman."

"No, it's not what I want," I admit, the truth like a foreign language on my tongue. "But I need you to be sure."

Her hand slides across the seat, bridging the distance between us. When her fingers touch mine, the simple contact sends an electric current up my arm.

"I'm sure," she says simply. "For tonight, at least."

The qualification hangs between us—for tonight—a reminder that whatever happens next comes with no promises, no expectations beyond the hours before dawn. It should be a relief. Instead, it creates an unexpected hollow feeling in my chest.

I turn my hand, capturing her fingers with mine. "For tonight," I echo, sealing the temporary contract between us.

The rest of the drive passes in charged silence, her hand in mine the only point of contact, yet somehow more intimate than anything I've experienced in recent memory.

When the car pulls up to my building on the Upper East Side, I feel an unfamiliar flutter of anxiety. My penthouse is my sanctuary, designed precisely to my specifications with the same exacting standards I apply to everything in my life. Few people have seen it—fewer still have spent the night. Bringing Cassie here crosses yet another line, erasing one more boundary between boss and employee, between professional and personal.

Henri opens the door, and I exit first, offering my hand to help Cassie from the car. The doorman nods respectfully as we approach, betraying no reaction to my bringing a guest home at this hour. One of the many reasons I pay an obscene amount for this building.

"Goodnight, Henri," I say. "Take tomorrow morning off."

"Very good, sir." His expression remains professionally neutral, but I catch the glimmer of knowing amusement in his eyes. "Enjoy your evening."

The private elevator requires my fingerprint to access the penthouse level. As the doors close, sealing us in the confinedspace, the memory of our last elevator encounter hangs heavy between us.

"No security cameras in this one," I say, nodding toward the ceiling.

Her eyebrow arches. "Is that an invitation or a statement of fact?"

"Just relevant information," I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting. "What you do with it is entirely up to you."

She takes a step closer, eliminating the careful distance I'd maintained in the car. "What would you like me to do with it?"

The open challenge in her voice sends heat coursing through me. For weeks, we've been circling each other with text messages and heated glances. The anticipation has built to the point where even standing near her feels combustible.

"I'd like you," I say, my voice dropping lower, "to stop overthinking this as much as I am."

A surprised laugh escapes her. "You're overthinking too?"

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