Page 59 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

“I thought you claimed the floor,” I blurted.

Dark-blue eyes lifted to meet my own. His brow arched. “I changed my mind.”

Suddenly, this whole situation felt perilous. I wasn’t sure I could resist his pull any longer—wasn’t even sure I wanted to.

Sure, he was my boss. But this whole situation was unusual. We kept having to pretend to be a couple at all these public events. Was it any wonder that closeness had muddled the boundaries a bit? All the touches of his hand on my lower back, my waist, my shoulders, the shared looks between client meetings, the way his thumb stroked the outside of my elbow when he wanted to guide me into the next room.

It had been weeks, and I was tired of resisting.

Rome set his phone on the nightstand, then slipped his glasses off. He glanced at the space on the bed next to him, then looked at me. “Do I terrify you that much?”

“I wouldn’t call it terror.”

His lips kicked, and I started moving. I fluffed the pillows—they were divine—then threw back the plush comforter and got under the blankets. My heart thumped and my movements felt jerky. The mattress was soft beneath me, but I couldn’t relax.

Rome was right there, wearing loose pants and a T-shirt. He got under the blankets on his side, and I could feel the heat of his body just inches away from mine. The mattress dipped as he rolled over to turn off his light, and the room was plunged in darkness. After a few seconds, my eyes adjusted to the silvery light of the moon.

The only sounds were our breathing and the rustle of fabric against fabric. I rolled over so my back was to Rome, but my eyes remained open. Sleep was far away. With my gaze, I traced the shape of the lampshade and followed the corner of the wall up to the crown molding. From this angle, I could see a slice of the dressing room, including the tufted ottoman in the center of the room. I noticed the way the moonlight cut shadows across the walls, how it reflected off the ocean outside to throw shimmering light across the walls and ceiling.

But my awareness was all on Rome. On the weight of him behind me. His breathing. His stillness.

My body felt alive, and we hadn’t said a word. We hadn’t touched. But I felt heaviness in my breasts and pressure in my core. I curled my knees up and clenched my thighs as my heart thumped.

His breathing was deep and even, and I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Wouldn’t that be funny? I’d lie there, tortured by unrequited lust, and he’d snooze away, unaffected? It would be typical of my life. Always the placeholder, never the chosen one.

Then he shifted. I heard the rustle of fabric and felt the comforter tug as he moved. His fingers curled around my hair, gently moving it away from my neck. My breath quickened. His fingertip was warm as it traced the shell of my ear, moving down my neck and across my shoulder. He slipped it under the thin strap of my nightgown, following the fabric down to the lace trim near my shoulder blade. His touch feathered over my skin, but it still felt intense. My focus narrowed to the scant few inches where our bodies connected.

“Do you wear this kind of thing to bed every night?”

“What do you mean?”

“Silky, lacy things.” His fingers moved back up along the strap, sliding it toward my shoulder. “I need to know if I should edit the fantasies I’ve been having of you.”

I rolled onto my back and arched my brow at him. He was leaning on his elbow, his head propped on his hand. His smile was dangerous.

“I like wearing nice things, and that includes bedtime,” I told him.

He made a rough noise at the back of his throat, his fingers moving to trace the neckline of my nightclothes. “All this time, I thought you dressed up to convey a message. But you don’t, do you? You do it for yourself. Just like you told me.”

I hummed in agreement, and he shifted his hand so his palm rested on my breast. He stroked the silky fabric of my nightgown with his thumb, watching the movement of the fabric under his touch.

It was unbearable. It was delicious. I wanted the moment to last forever, and I wanted him to wrench my thighs apart and bury himself inside me. It no longer mattered who he was or who I was. We were in a cocoon of stillness and moonlight, where the real world wouldn’t intrude. It was a weekend away from reality.

When he plumped my breast and pinched my nipple, I arched into the touch—and that was all the invitation Rome needed. He leaned over me, taking my breast—fabric and all—in his mouth. My fingers twined into his hair as my breaths panted, lightning darting through my veins at the feel of his breath through the satin, the heat of his palm as it moved over my ribs.

“Rome,” I panted, curling my hand into his hair.

He kissed my neck and jaw. “You want me to stop?”

“God, no.”

He let out a harsh laugh—little more than a huff of breath—and kissed me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer. My knees bent and my thighs spread to cradle him between them, the nightgown pooling at my hips.

Rome’s movements were hurried. He swept his hand down my side and over my thigh, pushing it wider to palm my core. He groaned as his hand met with the heat of me, his fingers dipping beneath the gusset of my panties.

“I’ve wanted you for weeks,” he growled.

I gasped at the feel of his fingers sliding through my wetness. My hips bucked; I needed more. When he buried a finger inside me, I let out a low moan.

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