Chapter 6 – The Moan

(Roman’s POV)

I wake up rock fucking hard.

Not the lazy morning kind. The kind that hurts, throbs low in my gut, leaves me breathing through clenched teeth before my eyes even open.

In the dream she was on her knees in my study, skirt shoved up, my hand fisted in her hair, guiding her mouth while she looked up at me with those big, defiant eyes. Whispering my name around my cock like a dirty prayer. Then I flipped her over the desk, spread her wide, and fucked her until the whole room smelled like us.

I come awake gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, hand already gripping myself through the boxers like that'll make it stop. It doesn't.

"Fuck."

I roll out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor hard. No way I'm lying here jerking off to my wife's daughter like some pathetic teenager. Not tonight. Not again.

I yank on sweatpants, no shirt, and head straight for the basement gym. Heavy bag, weights, mirrors on every wall so I can watch myself break something that isn't her.

The lights flicker on low when I step inside. I don't bother with music. Just the sound of my own breathing and the thud of my fists against the bag. I hit it hard, over and over, shoulders burning, sweat already dripping down my back. Trying to pound her out of my system.

It doesn't work.

Every punch lands with her face in my head. Her smirk when she bent over in the kitchen. The way her nipples peaked under my shirt. That soft "Roman" from two nights ago still ringing in my ears like she branded it there.

I'm dripping, chest heaving, when I hear it.

A small sound from the doorway. Not a moan this time. A soft exhale, almost a sigh.

I freeze mid-swing. Turn slow.

There she is.

Leaning against the frame in nothing but one of my black button-downs, sleeves rolled, hem barely skimming the tops of her thighs. Hair messy from sleep, eyes heavy-lidded and locked on me. Watching. Not hiding.

My pulse kicks harder.

"You lost, little girl?" I growl, voice rough from the workout and everything else.

She doesn't flinch. Just tilts her head, lets her gaze drag down my bare torso, slow, deliberate, like she's memorizing every ridge of muscle.

"Couldn't sleep," she says, soft, almost sweet. "Heard you leave your room. Figured I'd see what the big bad Roman Vale does when he's restless."

She steps inside one bare foot, then another. The door stays open behind her.

I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist. Don't move closer. Don't trust myself to.

"You shouldn't be down here."

"Why not?" She smiles, small and dangerous. "Afraid I'll distract you?"

I laugh once, low and bitter. "You already have."

Her eyes flick to the bulge in my sweats. No shame. No pretending she doesn't see it.

"Good," she whispers. Then, quieter, like a secret just for me: "Roman…"

My name on her tongue again. Soft. Needy. Exactly like in the dream.

My hands flex at my sides. I take one step toward her. Then stop.

"Go back to bed, Lana."

She doesn't. Instead she leans back against the wall, crosses her arms under her chest so the shirt pulls tight. Nipples hard against the fabric.

"Make me."

The words hang there. Challenge. Invitation. Fucking landmine.

I stare at her for a long beat. Chest rising and falling too fast.

Then I turn back to the bag. Slam my fist into it so hard the chain rattles.

"Last warning," I say without looking at her. "Walk away now, or I won't be responsible for what happens next."

She stays right where she is. Watching. Waiting.

And I know, deep in my gut, that tonight the game just changed for good. But before I can do something stupid she works out swaying her hips, like she knows it's driving me crazy.

I slam my fist into the bag one last time after she leaves, the chain rattling like it's mocking me, then I stand there breathing hard while her scent still hangs in the air, vanilla and warm skin and that faint trace of my own cologne on the shirt she stole.

She's gone, hips swaying down the hallway like she didn't just step into my fucking sanctuary and turn it into her playground, but my head won't let her go.

All morning it's the same loop playing on repeat while I try to focus on emails and calls and the billion-dollar bullshit that usually keeps me sharp. Instead I'm seeing her leaning in that doorway again, eyes dark and hungry as they dragged down my bare chest, sweat running over my abs, her lips parting just enough when she whispered my name like she was already imagining how it'd sound when I finally snapped and said hers back.

"Roman…" she breathed, soft, needy, exactly the way she said it in the dream that woke me up hard enough to hurt.

I grip the steering wheel at a red light until my knuckles turn white, muttering to myself like a crazy bastard. "Get your shit together, Roman. She's twenty-fucking-two, your wife's kid, and you're sitting here replaying her staring at your dick like it's the eighth wonder."

But the replay won't stop.

I see her crossing that threshold into the gym, bare feet silent on the rubber mats, the black shirt barely covering her ass while she watched me pound the bag like I could punch her out of my system. The way she tilted her head and smiled small and dangerous when I growled at her to leave. "Make me," she said, voice low, challenging, like she knew I was two seconds from grabbing her wrist and yanking her against me.

I almost did.

Fingers twitched, muscles coiled, cock throbbing so hard it hurt to breathe. One step and I could've had her pinned to the mirrors, thighs wrapped around my waist, my mouth on hers swallowing whatever smart-ass comeback she tried next.

Instead I turned back to the bag. Let her walk away. Let her win the round.

Now I'm paying for it.

My phone buzzes on the passenger seat. I glance down.

Lana: You looked good down there last night. All that sweat. All that control. Wonder how long it'll last.

No emojis. No bullshit. Just her poking the bruise she left.

I delete it fast, but the words are already burned in. "Wonder how long it'll last." She's counting the seconds until I break, and the fucked-up part is I'm counting them too.

By the time I pull into the underground garage at the office, my jaw's so tight it aches, and every time I blink I see her again: leaning against that wall, shirt pulling tight over her tits, nipples hard like they were begging for my teeth.

I slam the car door harder than necessary.

One of my guys, Elias, looks up from his phone near the elevator. "You good, boss?"

"Fine," I snap, brushing past him. "Just another fucking day."

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. Smart man.

Inside the elevator I lean against the wall, close my eyes for half a second, and there she is again, saying my name in that breathy little voice while she watches me sweat for her.

I mutter under my breath, low and vicious. "Keep pushing, little girl. See what happens when I stop holding back."

The doors open on my floor.

I step out, already knowing the answer.

Not long.

Not fucking long at all.

To Be Continued...