Page 39 of Sexting the Billionaire

"About a million of them," I say honestly. "This is?—"

"Complicated?" he supplies. "Risky? Potentially disastrous?"

"All of the above."

Roman steps closer, close enough that I can see the subtle variations of blue in his eyes, close enough that I would only need to sway forward slightly to be pressed against him.

"Tell me to leave," he says softly.

"Tell me this isn't what you want, and we'll go back inside. Back to professional texts and appropriate meetings and pretending we don't both feel this."

It's an out.

A graceful exit from this precipice we're standing on. All I have to do is say the words, and we can return to the safety of clearly defined boundaries.

Instead, I reach up and touch his face, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I've never been very good at lying," I whisper.

The last thread of his control seems to snap at my touch. His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck as he closes the remaining distance between us, his lips claiming mine with an intensity that steals my breath.

The kiss is nothing like I imagined—and I've imagined it plenty.

It's better.

Hotter.

More consuming.

His mouth is demanding yet responsive, taking and giving in equal measure as his free hand slides to my waist, pulling me against him.

I kiss him back with equal fervor, weeks of tension and desire converging in this moment. My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fine fabric of his shirt, the rapid beat of his heart matching my own.

When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I feel dizzy with want and the surreal realization that I'm kissingRoman Kade on a museum terrace while New York's elite mingle just beyond the door.

"That wall text," Roman murmurs, his lips trailing along my jaw to the sensitive spot below my ear. "Tell me exactly what you imagined."

A shiver runs through me at both his words and the sensation of his mouth on my skin. "I think you know," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathless.

"I want to hear you say it," he insists, his hands skimming down my sides to my hips. "Tell me, Cassie."

The command in his voice, the heat in his eyes, the solid press of his body against mine—it all combines to short-circuit my usual filters.

"I imagined being pushed against a wall," I whisper, watching his pupils dilate. "Strong hands pinning mine above my head. A man holding me there while he kisses me until I can't breathe, can't think, can't remember anything."

A low sound, almost a growl, escapes him.

"Like this?" he asks, walking me backward until I feel the cool stone balustrade against my back.

His hands capture my wrists, gently but firmly guiding them above my head and holding them there with one of his own.

"Yes," I breathe, arching slightly against him. "Exactly like this."

His free hand traces the neckline of my dress, a feather-light touch that makes me shiver despite the heat building between us. "And then?"

I'm about to tell him—about to describe in explicit detail exactly what happens next in my fantasy—when the sound of voices nearby breaks through our haze of desire.

"Is someone out here?" a voice calls from the service door. "This area is closed for the event."

Reality crashes back with jarring force.

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