chapter 7 – Morning Distance.

(Roman's POV)

That's the last thought that sticks as I shove through the office doors, barking orders at the assistant who scurries behind me with a tablet full of numbers I don't give a shit about right now. I lock myself in the corner suite, drop into the leather chair, and stare at the city skyline like it owes me answers while the clock ticks toward noon and my head keeps circling back to her.

I don't go near the east wing when I finally drag my ass home that night. I don't check the kitchen, don't linger in the foyer, don't even glance down the hallway that leads to her room. Instead I head straight for my study, pour three fingers of Lagavulin, and sit in the dark with the door cracked just enough to hear if she moves through the house. Because I know she will. She always does.

My phone lights up on the desk.

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

I already deleted the first one this morning, but she sent it again, word for word, like she knew I'd pretend I never saw it. I stare at the screen for too long, thumb hovering over the reply button while every filthy impulse screams to type back something that would make her thighs clench.

Instead I delete it. Again. Then I power the phone off completely and toss it into the drawer like it's radioactive.

Fuck her games.

I finish the whiskey in one long swallow, pour another, and try to focus on the merger docs spread across the desk. The numbers blur. All I see is her leaning in that gym doorway, bare legs glowing under the low lights, my shirt hanging off her like it was made for her body instead of mine. The way she said "Make me" like she was daring me to prove I could.

I almost did.

One more step and I would've had her against the wall, hand around her throat just tight enough to feel her pulse jump, mouth on hers until she forgot how to talk back.

But I didn't.

And now I'm paying for every second of that restraint.

Morning comes too fast. I shower cold, dress in the dark, and slip out before the sun's even thinking about rising. The driveway's empty when I pull away, gate closing behind me with that soft hydraulic hiss, and for the first time in days the house feels quiet again. Too quiet. Like it's holding its breath waiting for her to fill it with trouble.

I don't look back in the rearview.

Don't need to.

I can still feel her eyes on me from last night, still hear that soft "Roman…" echoing in my skull while I drive toward the city, jaw locked, hands tight on the wheel, already counting the hours until I have to walk back into that house and pretend I don't want to drag her into the nearest room and fuck the smirk right off her pretty face.

My phone stays off the whole way to the office. I tell myself it's because I need focus. Truth is I'm scared she'll text again.

And even more scared I'll finally answer.

By evening the house smells like rosemary and garlic, Maria’s doing, and I walk in starving for something other than the knot in my gut. I drop my keys on the console, loosen my tie, and head straight for the dining room because avoiding her all day didn’t kill the hunger, it just made it meaner.

She’s already there, sitting at the far end of the long table like she owns the damn place, backless black top clinging to her spine, the fabric dipping low enough that I can see the delicate knobs of her vertebrae when she shifts. Those tiny shorts again, legs crossed, one foot swinging lazy under the table while she picks at her salad with the fork like she’s got all the time in the world to drive me insane.

I take my seat opposite her, far enough that I can pretend there’s distance between us. Maria sets the plates down quietly, gives me a quick look that says she knows exactly what’s brewing, then disappears.

Silence drops heavy. I cut into the steak, knife scraping the porcelain louder than it needs to. She hums something soft under her breath between bites, that little tune she does when she’s pleased with herself, and I swear it’s the same one she hummed the first night she wore my shirt and walked past me in the kitchen like she was testing how long I’d last before I snapped.

I don’t look up. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

She does, though. I feel her eyes on me, slow and deliberate, dragging over my shoulders, down my arms, lingering where my sleeves are rolled to the elbows.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she says, voice light, almost sweet. “Rough day at the office, Roman?”

I spear a piece of meat, chew slow. “Busy.”

“Busy ignoring me?” She laughs low, the sound sliding under my skin. “You left before dawn. Didn’t even say goodbye. I was starting to think you missed me.”

“Figured I’d give you space.” I mutter, still not meeting her eyes.

“Space?” She leans forward just enough that the top gaps, and fuck, I catch the curve of her breast before I force my gaze back to the plate. “You think that’s what I want? Space?”

I finally look at her. Mistake. Her lips are glossy, parted, eyes dark and glittering like she’s already won. “What do you want, Lana?”

She shrugs one shoulder, the movement making the fabric slip an inch lower on her back. “Maybe I want you to stop running. Maybe I want you to admit you’ve been thinking about me all day.”

“Thinking about strangling you, maybe,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.

She smiles wider, slow and filthy. “Promises, promises.”

Inside my head it’s a fucking war. “Don’t do it, Roman. Don’t let her bait you. She’s twenty-two. She’s Valentina’s daughter. You touch her and everything burns.” But then the other voice cuts in, low and mean: “She’s already burning you, asshole. Look at her. She’s wet just sitting there watching you try not to break. One word from you and she’d crawl under this table.”

I clench my jaw, take a swallow of wine. “Eat your food.”

She pushes a cherry tomato around her plate. “Not hungry.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you’re here,” she says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And because I like watching you pretend you don’t want to bend me over this table and fuck me until I can’t walk.”

The fork stops halfway to my mouth. My cock jerks hard under the table. I set the utensil down carefully, fingers flexing. “Watch your mouth.”

“Why?” She uncrosses her legs, lets one foot slide forward until her bare toes brush my ankle under the table. Light. Teasing. Gone again before I can react. “You like it when I talk dirty. I can tell.”

“You don’t know shit about what I like.”

To Be Continued...