Page 68 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

Rome groaned and checked the time on his phone on the nightstand. “Chef’s downstairs in the kitchen, but no one should be on this floor for another few hours. Housekeeping comes by daily Monday through Saturday once I’m at work, but they don’t come until midday on Sunday. There’s a coffee bar through there.”

He pointed to a pair of doors, and I dropped the panties, judging it safe to go commando under these conditions. I opened the doors to find a small living room. It smelled like leather and paper and him, and I was glad to see this place seemed a bit more lived-in than the vast space upstairs. A briefcase rested next to a desk, with a suit jacket hanging on a coat hanger slung on a doorknob to the left. There were books stacked on a side table and a pair of shoes that looked like they’d been kicked off at the end of the couch.

The coffee bar was fantastic. It had both a real espresso machine and a pod machine. I went for speed and ease of use and chose a pod, clicking it into place and pressing the appropriate buttons before investigating the mini fridge to figure out the milk situation.

Bent over and underwear-less as I was, I should have known danger approached. My only warning was a soft groan and the sound of Rome’s footsteps on the plush rug, and then his hands were slipping beneath the rich cotton fabric of his button-down to stroke my hips.

Standing, I turned, but I wasn’t prepared to be picked up and placed on the edge of the desk. I laughed as Rome buried his face in my neck, then my laughs turned to gasps as he reached between us. By the time my coffee was done brewing, Rome was positioning himself where I wanted him, his cock sheathed and steel hard.

With his hair mussed and a teasing smile on his lips, he looked deliciously undone. I liked this version of him. It felt like I was seeing a side of him that no one else got to know. Someone who wasn’t perfectly put together. A man who didn’t lock himself away behind a remote, difficult exterior.

He slid inside me slowly, his gaze holding mine. I was tight, but his touches this morning had been enough to spark arousal. Enough that the push of him against my inner muscles felt delicious. I leaned back on his desk and rocked against him as he unbuttoned the three or four buttons I’d managed to do up, spreading his shirt wide open so he could feast his eyes on my nakedness.

This morning’s interlude was different from the frantic, intense sex we’d had last night. Rome held my legs wide and took me slowly there on his desk while the smell of fresh coffee permeated the air, the scent of his cologne draped over me from the fabric of his shirt.

His gaze held mine for a moment, then dropped it to my chest, to my stomach, then down to where we were joined. The way he looked at me was almost tender. I felt cared for as he watched me, his gaze full of some emotion I couldn’t read. Admiration? Desire? Tenderness?

A warm hand stroked my sides, my breasts. His touch was reverent as it slipped down, pausing over my stomach. He stroked the skin below my belly button as his thrusts became deeper, soft groans rattling in his throat. I arched off the desk, needing friction, needing—I didn’t know what I needed. I just knew the way he was looking at me and touching my body made me feel like my skin was on too tight.

I gasped when his hand slipped that little bit lower to the spot right where I wanted it. He used his fingers to get me over the edge, then held me through the resulting soft, gentle waves of my orgasm before taking his own release. I discovered I was trembling as he whispered sweet words in my ear, his broad palms smoothing down my spine. Rome’s breaths were as ragged as mine. After a while, he placed a soft kiss on my temple, then pulled out of me and disposed of the condom. I caught my breath, legs dangling off the edge of his desk, then slithered down to put my feet on the floor and wobbled my way to the coffee machine.

His arms snaked around me as I put a drop of milk in my cup, a low groan rumbling through his throat. His hands stroked my stomach, my hips, my thighs.

“Already?” I asked, laughing.

“It’s the sight of you in my shirt,” he said, huffing. A few strands of my hair fluttered in his breath, and despite the orgasm he’d just given me, arousal sparked low in my stomach. His fingers stroked the edge of my lower lips, and a fine trembling began in my thighs.

“Put your hands flat on the counter,” he said against the skin of my throat.

I complied, and Rome pulled my hips back before kicking my legs apart. Then he knelt behind me and licked me from clit to opening, and all the way back to the cleft of my ass. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the edge of the counter, a gasp escaping my lips.

He hummed, sliding his tongue through my folds. “Want my breakfast,” he groaned, then slid his tongue inside me while moving a finger to my bud.

By the time he was done with me, my coffee was cold and my legs trembled like a newborn fawn’s. I collapsed on the floor and was scooped up in his arms and nestled against his chest as he carried me to the sofa on the other side of the room. I inhaled the scent of his skin, pleasure-drunk, dazed, thinking of nothing except how good it felt to be cuddled in his lap with my face mashed against his throat, his fingers drawing patterns on the outside of my thigh.

By Monday,I was walking funny. I refused Rome’s offer of a ride to the office, even though we had a midday meeting with Clara and her team about the upcoming schedule of events. I made my way home to change and get ready, a silly smile plastered on my face.

Most of my stuff was packed—I was planning on moving things over to the new apartment this week once I knew what our schedule looked like—but I put on a simple wrap dress and made sure my hair and makeup were presentable. When I had my keys in hand and was ready to head out the door, my phone rang.

I blinked at the name on the screen, not having seen it there for a long time. After a brief hesitation, I answered. “Hi, Mom.”

“Nikita,” she said, voice brighter than I’d heard it in years. “How is my darling daughter?”

I bit back the snarky retort that wanted me to ask who her darling daughter might be, because it sure as hell wasn’t me. But I wasn’t going to get dragged down into bitterness if my mother was making an effort. I sat on the arm of my couch and said, “I’m good, Mom. How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, and I imagined her waving a hand. “It’s all the same here. I miss you. How’s work at the store? Did you finish your course?”

My brows jumped. It had been longer than I’d thought since we’d caught up. “Actually, I’m not working there anymore.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I got a new job, and it’s been going really well.”

“What about your promotion?”

There was a pinch in my heart. I grimaced. “That…fell through.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” my mother said, and it felt disproportionately good to hear. It might have been the first time that my mother offered sympathy without immediately eclipsing it with her own woes and needs.

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