Page 73 of Sexting the Billionaire

I set the proposal down, studying him carefully. "So this isn't about us? Our... arrangement?"

"That's the second thing we need to discuss." He runs a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of uncertainty that makes him look almost vulnerable. "There is no arrangement anymore, Cassie. Not for me."

My heart stutters in my chest. "What does that mean?"

"It means I've been lying to myself. Pretending this is just physical attraction or convenient companionship." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "But you know what I realized while waiting to hear if you'd taken Grant's offer? I realized I'd rather lose my company than lose you."

The confession hangs in the air between us, so unexpected and raw that for a moment I can't breathe.

"Roman—"

"I don't just want your talent or your body," he continues, the words coming faster now, as if he's afraid he'll lose his nerve. "I want your honesty, your fire, your refusal to settle—everything you've shown me since that first misdirected text."

I stare at him, trying to process this revelation. Roman Kade, the man who built an empire on control and calculation, is sitting on my IKEA couch surrounded by my creative chaos, telling me he wants... everything.

"I don't know what to say," I admit finally.

"You don't have to say anything." He reaches for my hand, his touch gentle but certain. "Just know that the proposal is yours regardless of your answer. No strings. No expectations. Your talent deserves the opportunity."

And that, somehow, is what finally breaks through my defenses. Not the grand gesture or the confession, but the simple acknowledgment that my career and my choices remain my own.

"You really don't get it, do you?" I say, a smile spreading across my face.

He looks genuinely confused. "Get what?"

"Why I turned down Grant's offer. It wasn't just because he was using me." I move closer, eliminating the careful distance I'd maintained. "It was because I realized something too. That whatever is between us—this complicated, messy, inappropriate thing—matters more to me than any career opportunity."

His eyes widen slightly, a flash of vulnerability crossing his face before he masters it. "Cassie, you don't have to?—"

"I know I don't have to. That's the point." I squeeze his hand. "For the first time in my life, I'm making choices because of what I want, not what someone else wants from me. And what I want, inexplicably, impossibly, is you."

The tension in his shoulders visibly releases, and something that might be hope flickers in his eyes. "Even with all the complications? The professional boundaries, the industry gossip, the power imbalance?"

"Especially with all of that," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "Because despite every reason this shouldn't work, you've never once asked me to be smaller. You've only everwanted me to be more. More confident. More outspoken. More myself."

"Because that version of you is extraordinary," he says simply.

And just like that, the last of my reservations crumbles. I close the distance between us, my hands finding his face, pulling him to me.

The kiss is different from our others—not driven by urgent desire or forbidden attraction, but by something deeper, more certain. His arms wrap around me, drawing me closer, and I melt against him, feeling for the first time like we're meeting as equals.

When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. "So what now? We date like normal people? Go to movies and argue about restaurants?"

"I was thinking we could start with dinner," he says, nodding toward the takeout bags he brought. "Before it gets cold."

"Always the practical businessman." I smile, pressing another quick kiss to his lips. "Food first, then we negotiate the terms of this new arrangement."

"I thought there were no more arrangements," he reminds me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Fine. This new relationship," I correct myself, watching with satisfaction as the word lands between us, solid and real.

We eat on my couch, surrounded by sketches and design boards, talking about everything and nothing. What started as Chinese food somehow transitions into Roman telling me about his grandfather and, about the childhood summers spent in his workshop learning to build things with his hands.

I find myself sharing stories about Mia her leukemia diagnosis and remission, about our parents' divorce, about how design became my escape and my passion. The conversationflows easily, punctuated by laughter and casual touches that grow increasingly less casual as the evening progresses.

When Roman's hand slides up my thigh, his expression turning from relaxed to intent, the atmosphere shifts from comfortable to charged in an instant.

"I believe we were discussing terms," he says, his voice dropping to that register that always makes my stomach flip.

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