Page 58 of Before I Say I Don't
He wrapped me up like a promise. My face found that space between his collarbone and shoulder that felt pre-reserved. He didn’t talk at first; just breathed with me until my breathing remembered it’s rhythm again.
Then, low into my hair, he said, “Listen to me. You’re too strong to let a man’s half-ass effort make you feel small. You’re Kamira Sinclair—men fold in courtrooms you walk into. Don’t you dare fold in your own life. You hear me? You deserve more than excuses and crumbs. You deserve presence, not apologies. And if he can’t give you that, don’t flinch at the exit sign. Walk through it.”
I laughed through snot—a ridiculous, broken giggle. “You’re gonna make an excellent therapist when you get tired of law.”
“I’m hell on billable hours,” he joked, and I could feel the smile against my forehead. “But I know a good woman when I’m holding one.”
I pulled back, eyes burning, lashes wet. Roman was close—too close—and he looked like the answer to a question my body had been asking for weeks. The shirt hugged a chest that should’ve come with a warning label. His mouth—God. My brain offered up a highlight reel of things that mouth could do, and I closed my eyes to stop myself from narrating.
“Roman…” I whispered.
“Yeah?”
“You… have a little sauce on the side of your mouth.” I chuckled, though what I wanted to say was, you’re so damn fine.
“Get it off for me,” he instructed, tone low, unbothered, like he knew exactly what he was asking for.
I blinked at him, caught off guard, but his eyes didn’t waver—he meant it.
Slowly, I reached for a napkin, then changed my mind. My thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. Roman’s skin was warm under my touch, his breath catching just enough to make my own stumble.
I should’ve pulled back after that—wiped, teased him about being messy and laughed it off. But I didn’t. My hand lingered, thumb dragging against the curve of his bottom lip.
“It’s been weeks since Angelo touched me, and I—” my words trailed off, heat crawling up my neck.
His eyes darkened, the control in them turning to something heavier. “Careful.”
“Why?” I asked, voice small and not small at the same time.
“Because if you say you want comfort, I’m a gentleman. But if you say you want honesty…” He let it hang.
“I want both,” I said, surprising myself.
“Then hear me. Kamira, you are the kind of woman men should plan better for. The kind they don’t deserve to practice on. If you walk away from him, it won’t be because you ran to me; it’ll be because you finally ran back to yourself.”
My mouth trembled. “And if I run… and end up back here?”
“I’ll open the door.”
I touched his wrist to say thank you and immediately regretted it, because that tiny skin-on-skin sound made my body file a formal request.
“Roman,” I murmured.
“Kamira,” he said my name like a prayer.
He moved slow—slow enough for me to stop it. I didn’t. His hand came to my jaw, thumb warm, and he kissed me like he didn’t want to scare the truth away. Soft at first—testing, tasting. Then deeper, when I rose to meet him… when the sound I made got lost in his mouth. He tasted like wine and something I hadn’t felt in too long: safety with a pulse.
When we finally came up for air, foreheads touching, I was smiling and crying again like a fool.
“Happy tears again?” he kidded.
“Messy tears,” I corrected, laughing against his mouth. “But yeah. Happy, low-key. Thank you for believing in me, proving it, the cake, the lamb chops, and for… this.”
Roman kissed the tip of my nose. “You deserve soft after months of hard.”
“Tell that to my mascara,” I sniffed.
He reached for a tissue and handed it over. “Eat your potatoes before they judge us.”
