Page 79 of Sexting the Billionaire

His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back as our breathing slows, our heartbeats gradually returning to normal. There's something profoundly intimate about these moments after—more vulnerable, in some ways, than the act itself.

When we finally collapse back against the pillows, satisfyingly exhausted and slick with sweat, the sun has fully risen over the Manhattan skyline visible through Roman's floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Coffee?" Roman offers, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before sliding out of bed with that unconscious grace that never fails to captivate me.

"Please," I agree, watching unabashedly as he pulls on a pair of pajama bottoms without bothering with a shirt. The view of his retreating back—all lean muscle and tantalizing dimples just above the waistband—is enough to make me consider skipping caffeine altogether in favor of round two.

But my growling stomach vetoes that plan, reminding me that we worked up quite an appetite last night and again this morning. I steal one of Roman's discarded t-shirts from a nearbychair and pad after him into the kitchen, drawn by the promise of coffee and something more substantial than desire.

This domestic routine still feels novel—Roman grinding fresh beans while I perch on a counter stool, both of us comfortable in the morning light. There's no need to rush, no need to maintain professional distance. Just two people enjoying a Sunday together.

"Omelette?" Roman asks, pulling ingredients from his ridiculously well-stocked refrigerator.

"You don't have to cook for me every time," I say, though I'm already nodding. The man makes exceptional eggs. "I'm perfectly capable of pouring my own cereal."

"I enjoy cooking," he says simply, cracking eggs into a bowl with practiced precision. "It's... meditative."

I watch him work, fascinated by this glimpse of the man beneath the CEO persona. Roman Kade, billionaire business mogul, chopping vegetables with the concentration of a Michelin-starred chef. It's these moments—these small, ordinary intimacies—that I'm still getting used to.

"What?" he asks, catching my gaze.

"Nothing. Just..." I hesitate, uncertain how to articulate the warmth blooming in my chest at this simple domestic scene. "I like seeing you like this. Unguarded."

Something flickers across his face—vulnerability quickly masked by a practiced smile. "Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."

"Your secret kitchen skills are safe with me." I accept the mug of coffee he slides across the counter, prepared exactly how I like it. "Though I'm curious when you learned to cook like this. Somehow I don't picture little Roman at cooking classes between corporate takeover seminars."

The joke doesn't land as expected. Instead, Roman's expression shutters slightly, his hands pausing in their rhythmic chopping motion.

"My grandfather taught me," he says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "During the summers I spent with him after my mother died."

The casual mention of his mother's death—something he's never spoken of before—catches me off guard. "I didn't know your mother had passed," I say softly. "I'm sorry."

"Cancer. I was eight." He resumes chopping, the knife moving with more force than necessary. "My father didn't handle it well."

"That must have been incredibly difficult," I offer, sensing there's more to the story but not wanting to push.

Roman is silent for a long moment, focused on the vegetables as if they hold the secrets of the universe. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, more distant.

"My father was... exacting. Before my mother died, he was merely demanding. Afterward, he became..." He searches for the right word. "Relentless."

"In what way?"

"In every way." Roman transfers the vegetables to a pan, the sizzle filling the silence. "Nothing was ever good enough. Every accomplishment was met with criticism for what could have been better. Every failure was a personal affront to the Kade legacy."

The bitterness in his tone speaks volumes about old wounds still unhealed. I want to reach for him but sense he needs space to continue.

"My first report card after my mother died, I got all A's except for one B in art," he continues, his focus still on the pan. "He didn't speak to me for three days. When he finally did, it was to tell me that mediocrity was a choice, and I had chosen wrong."

"That's horrible," I say, unable to keep the shock from my voice. "You were a child who'd just lost his mother."

"In his mind, that was precisely why I needed to be exceptional." Roman's mouth twists in a humorless smile. "Grief was an indulgence we couldn't afford. The Kade name demanded perfection, regardless of personal circumstances."

"And your grandfather?" I prompt gently, wanting to steer him toward what seems like a more positive memory.

Something softens in Roman's expression. "My mother's father. The exact opposite of my father in every way. He believed in joy, in creating things with your hands, in finding beauty in imperfection." He flips the omelette with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Those summers in his workshop were the only times I felt like I could breathe."

"What did he make?"

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