emotion is pain (roman godfrey x reader)
WARNINGS: sexual harassment, fluff, mentions of sex, fluff, sexism, fluff, fluff, FLUFF!!
summary: the French have always been fond of claiming things that are not theirs-- will Mr. Godfrey let them, though?
word count: 11,245
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a/n: I basically wrote this whole thing over a span of 24 hours, and I have been plotting this chapter since the absolute start, so... ENJOYYYYY HOPE U LIKE IT OMG THIS IS THEEE CHAPTER<333
"Ooh-la-la," Letha teased from the other side of the phone. "A Birkin? That doesn't sound like my cousin."
I stared down at the bag nestled in its silk shroud on my bed, sighing. I had been going nuts all day since Mr. Godfrey kicked me out of his office, and I couldn't get it out of my head how he had panicked. Had I ruined everything? I needed an expert opinion-- also known as Letha. "He said he thought it would match my heels," I murmured, still not over it. "I can't believe he even thought about that. He had my initials engraved on the gold pleating and everything."
There was a beat of stunned silence from the other end.
"Okay, what the hell is happening?" Letha burst out, somewhere between awe and alarm. "He bought you a customized Birkin and remembered your heels? This is not the man who forgot my birthday two years in a row! That jerk!"
I smiled faintly, but my head kept throbbing; it was way too late. The moon was shining brighter than ever from outside my window, and I couldn't sleep before I cracked the enigma that was Roman Godfrey.
There was a pause. Then, Letha let out a knowing little hum, like she had already read the ending of the book I was still stumbling through. "So... how badly did you fuck it up?"
"... What?"
She didn't miss a beat. "Roman only gives that much of a shit when he's on the brink of an emotional aneurysm. So either you kissed him, or you said something dangerous,"
"I'm not stupid, I didn't kiss him!"
"Oh, come on," I could hear Letha grinning through the phone. Her tone was smug now, but underneath it, there was something protective. "Roman doesn't do grand gestures, and the second you respond to him like a normal human being with emotions, he short-circuits. So," A beat. "What did you say?"
I hesitated.
"Oh God," Letha's voice dipped. "You said something emotional, didn't you?"
"I might've..." I clutched the Birkin tighter. "I might've told him I think about him... all the time..." My voice died out the further down I got in that sentence, and the silence that followed was brutal.
"Oh my God," Letha whispered, horrified for my sake."You told him?!"
"I didn't mean to, Lee! It just came out!"
I heard her flop dramatically onto something-- probably her bed. "Jesus Christ... That man's nervous system is already hanging on by a thread as it is. You basically set off an emotional nuke. There will be no North Korea tomorrow,"
I covered my face with my hand, groaning at my stupidity. "It was awful. He looked like he was going to be sick,"
"Because he was," Letha said. "Emotionally."
I let out a strangled sound. "I don't fucking get it anymore!" This was impossible. Mr. Godfrey was fucking impossible. "Not that I ever got it, like, ever, but this-- I don't get it! Why gift me a Birkin if you don't like me?!"
"You know he likes you,"
"I don't fucking know anymore!" I whined. "He got nauseous, Letha. Nauseous! Like he was about to throw up on the dead orchid in the corner that he never lets me water! Why is he like this?!"
Letha was quiet for a moment-- and then, with unnerving calm, she said; "I think it sounds like you might've reached past the persona and touched the actual Roman, and you scared the hell out of him. Of course he got nauseous,"
I sank deeper into my sheets, curling around the Birkin like it might save me. "Well, I'm scared now, too," I whispered. "What if he fires me?"
"Oh, you're such a drama queen!--"
"I'm serious, Letha!" My voice cracked as panic licked up the back of my throat. "What if that was it? What if that's what happened to the other secretaries? What if they all made the same mistake, thinking they meant more to him than the rest, and that was the line?"
"You didn't cross a line," Letha said, softer now.
"But I did," I whispered. "I felt it. Something shifted. I'm not going to have a job tomorrow, and-- and I'll never see him again." At that, I felt my eyes well with tears for the hundredth time today. I couldn't stand the thought of never seeing Mr. Godfrey again, of being discarded like his previous secretaries, of going back to meaning nothing to the man that had become my everything.
Letha exhaled quietly, full of sympathy. "Look... he's not used to people sticking around after the mask slips. It's always easier to run than wait to be hurt,"
"I didn't say anything hurtful," I mumbled. "I just said that I think about him--"
"-- All the time,"
I said nothing. The silence was loud enough for us both. Even the Birkin wasn't helping, no matter how gorgeous it looked in the moonlight right now. "I'm just... sad that he thinks he has to run,"
Letha was quiet for a moment. When she finally spoke again, her voice was unusually gentle; "He's not running because he doesn't care. He's running because he does,"
I swallowed hard. That felt too generous, too hopeful. "Then why doesn't he just say that?"
"Because he's Roman," she huffed, matter-of-factly as ever. "And Roman hasn't said how he actually feels since he was, like, five. That's when his whole world blew up."
"You mean when his dad?--"
"Yeah," A beat passed. This was clearly sensitive information. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but... Roman found him, y'know? And my mom still talks about when Aunt Olivia hit him in our driveway before the funeral because he cried."
Breathless, I could only muster a tiny what?
"Yeah," Letha mumbled. "Aunt Olivia was very adamant about mentioning that J.R. had abandoned the family on every occasion. It was constant. She's cut back on it now, though, but... it was fucking brutal. Roman was never the same after that. Every time I come crying to him about anything, he tells me I should get myself together. Still, to this day."
I went quiet.
For a long moment, the only sound between us was the soft rustling of my sheets as I shifted, the Birkin carefully sliding off my lap like even the fucking bag knew this conversation had crossed into something too raw.
"He was five," Letha added, her voice low. "Just five. So don't be shocked if he gets nauseous or if he flinches. He associates emotion with... pain, I guess."
That was it-- like the last piece of a puzzle, it slid into place, and it clicked in my head.
That's why Mr. Godfrey liked putting me over his knees. Emotion is pain. That's why he liked playing mind games and seeing how far I broke down. Emotion is pain. That's why he liked how painfully desperate I was in that drunk mail. Emotion is pain. That's why he liked humiliating me. Emotion is pain.
The more hurt we both were, the more I indulged, the more I enjoyed it too... the more he felt like he was showing me affection?
It hit me like a punch to the chest, how backwards this all was-- how twisted, how fragile. No wonder he had frozen, no wonder he had looked like he might pass out. Because I didn't cry, I didn't beg, I didn't fall to my knees like the first time, all messy and unraveling for him to feel powerful about...
I had smiled.
I had looked at the bag and smiled and said something that, to any normal person, would've meant connection.
And for him... that was the most dangerous thing of all.
I could feel it now-- what he must've felt. That invisible wire pulling tight in his chest. The walls coming down before he could stop them. The horror of it. Because maybe for the first time, it didn't feel transactional. It didn't feel controlled. It felt warm, soft.
It felt like falling, and Mr. Godfrey didn't fall-- he dragged people down with him.
"Jesus Christ," I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. "I think I broke him."
"You didn't break him," Letha murmured, gentle with my fragile state. "He was already broken. You just... got close enough to hear the cracking."
I held my Birkin a little tighter, not for the leather or the hardware or the status, but for what it suddenly represented; proof. Proof that he tried, that he cracked open a door he hadn't opened since he was a child, and I (the fucking idiot that I am) had rushed through it without knocking.
"I have to fix this," I whispered. "Somehow."
"Then be there tomorrow," Letha said, soft as ever. "Even if he acts like he doesn't want you there, be consistent. He's going to try to run away, maybe he'll even try to fire you, but he will come back eventually to see if you're still waiting for him or if you've already gone. Just show up for him. Stay put, and stay loyal."
"But... what if he says something awful?"
"Girl, this is Roman. He probably will,"
I sighed. "That's not very comforting,"
"Roman doesn't mean it," Letha sighed. "And that's always the comforting part." ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
I had prepared for this morning like countries prepare for war.
My nails were French. Long. Lilac. My hair was down. My skirt was exactly mid-thigh, with those dark, thin pantyhose I knew he liked, and my Louboutins were worn with no wobble, only poise. Mr. Godfrey wasn't going to find anything wrong to point out. There was nothing to point out. I was the picture-perfect secretary. I was a good secretary.
And I was ready to stay put.
By the time I walked into the morning staff meeting, the boardroom was already humming. Department heads. Legal. PR. Operations. The air was heavy with nerves and perfume and fresh espresso, the usual corporate tension dialed up to something just shy of explosive. Everyone was seated. Everyone but him.
The chair at the head of the table remained empty for a full ten seconds-- then, the door opened behind me.
And there he was.
Mr. Godfrey.
I felt it before I saw it; that sudden dip in the atmosphere, like someone had opened a window in a pressure-sealed room. Cold. Controlled. Terrifyingly elegant. He had walked in without looking at me, dark suit ironed to perfection, crisp collar, not a hair out of place. And his expression? Indifferent. I could've been the wall for all he cared.
Mr. Godfrey took his seat at the head of the table, set his Cartier watch down in front of him, and didn't say a word for a long, long moment, until-- "We have thirty-eight minutes before the Arnault consortium arrives. Listen very carefully, because I do not care to repeat myself, nor do I have the time to repeat myself today. Here's how this is going to go,"
His voice was low, commanding, and flat in a way that told me one wrong move today could cost someone their job. And still, the part of me that had cried into a thousand-dollar handbag last night wanted to believe there was more beneath it, that maybe the frost was just the scar tissue over whatever the hell had happened to him when he was only just a boy.
Dress codes. Press protocol. Who was allowed to speak. Who wasn't. It all went on for a while, and as it did, my eyes scoured the room, looking for the one person I had avoided since the banquet this Sunday.
And there he was-- Peter Rumancek.
He was tucked into a corner seat, legal pad already scribbled over, one foot tapping quietly under the table. His shirt was rumpled in the way that suggested he had been up since dawn, not out of obligation but because he cared too much about this case not to be.
And then he saw me.
His big, brown eyes landed on mine, and in the middle of Mr. Godfrey's frostbitten monologue, Peter gave me the gentlest, most unexpected thing I'd received in twenty-four hours; a small, soft smile.
Just for me.
No mocking. No curiosity. No smug little told-you-so. Just kindness. Concern.
But there was something quiet and understanding in the look he gave me, like maybe he had seen this before. Maybe he knew what Mr. Godfrey looked like the morning after he broke something he didn't mean to with one of his secretaries? Or maybe he just recognized the look on my face, somewhere between poise and ruin.
Then, he mouthed something across the table, silent as snowfall; you okay?
My throat tightened-- how did this even happen? How did someone so kind end up working for this evil corporation? How did something gentle bloom beneath these harsh lights? I gave the tiniest nod I could manage, feeling my heart swell; there was hope after all. Kindness was still a thing of the earth, even though Peter knew there would probably never be a him and I.
At that, relieved, Peter nodded back, lips pressing together, serious and ready to get back to work.
Meanwhile, Mr. Godfrey hadn't even glanced in Peter's direction. He was too busy pacing the front of the room now, one hand tucked into his pocket as he ran through the logistics like he was reading out a will. His voice never cracked, never faltered, but I could feel the pressure winding around the room like smoke. Every instruction was a command. Every command was a line drawn in blood.
Then, without stopping, his voice rang out again-- clear, direct.
"And you--" he said, without even looking up; "You're shadowing me today."
It took me half a second to realize who he meant.
Me.
My stomach dropped.
I blinked, heart leaping in my throat. Slowly, every pair of eyes in the room swiveled toward me-- fuck. My throat tightened as I nodded once, sharp and obedient, schooling my expression into perfect neutrality. "Yes, sir,"
The meeting dismissed moments later in a rush of chair legs and shuffling papers, but I didn't move-- I didn't dare.
Mr. Godfrey didn't have to tell me to stay behind, and sure enough, once the door closed behind the last department head, he turned on his heel and stalked toward me. "Walk," he hissed, brushing past me without slowing. I followed, heels sharp on the marble, trying not to read into the clipped pace or the way his shoulder tensed when I matched it too closely.
He led me into the hallway behind the boardroom, where the hum of corporate urgency faded into something heavier, quieter. It was sleek, sterile, and ice-cold-- white walls, no windows, and lighting that made everything feel too exposed. It was the kind of hallway where voices echo and secrets suffocate. I followed him without a word, my heels clipped sharply against the floor as I tried not to draw attention to the fact that we were alone again. Just him. Just me. Just silence.
But then, he stopped.
Mr. Godfrey turned to me with a suddenness that knocked the air out of me, like a trap snapping shut-- one second I was walking, and the next I was up against the wall, the cold biting through my blouse as he closed the distance with terrifying precision. His arm braced to the side of my head, caging me in, his body angled too close to ignore, and his scent of leather and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke pressed into the space between us like a hand around my throat.
"You are going to keep your mouth shut today," he hissed, each word slow, deliberate venom.
I didn't move, didn't speak-- I couldn't. My pupils had probably blown, staring up at Mr. Godfrey with fear churning in my gut.
"You will not smile. You will not sigh. You will not breathe the wrong way in my direction, do you understand me?" Every word was punctual, like a needle prodding my skin; his green eyes darkened with every word. "If I hear one word-- one fucking sound from you that isn't strictly professional, I swear to God, I'll make you wish I had fired you yesterday."
I felt my breath catch in my throat.
Mr. Godfrey didn't blink. Was he perhaps hoping to obliterate me with his eyes?
He was so close that I could see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his knuckles had gone white where they pressed into the wall above me. Even worse, was that up close, he looked like he hadn't slept, like he had spent the night unraveling and had stitched himself back together just for the sake of this day-- and barely managed so. Just barely.
There was only rage. Only rage, only pain.
Emotion is pain.
"I'm not here to make things worse, sir," I breathed. "My position is to-- to help you. I'm your secretary. Utilise me as you must."
Finally, Mr. Godfrey blinked, but it wasn't relief or acknowledgment that followed-- it was contempt, pure and unedited. He looked at me like I was a stain on his shirt, something ugly and clinging and beneath him. "Help me?" he echoed softly-- and then came the laughter. A single, bitter sound, short and joyless; "You think this is help?"
And just when I thought it wasn't possible, Mr. Godfrey leaned in closer, the expensive smell of him suffocating my every breathing cell. The space between us was already nonexistent, but he closed it anyway, like proximity itself was a weapon, pushing me up against the wall to make it impossible for me to run. "You are not helping," he hissed. "You are hovering, like some pathetic little girl playing office."
I didn't move, couldn't move-- my breath had gone still in my chest.
"You're not soothing. You're distracting. I have forty million dollars on the line today, and you're standing here with your little skirts and your silly fucking lip gloss like this isn't real, like--" Mr. Godfrey's eyes darted down at me with disdain, but had I not been alert to any new mood-change, I wouldn't have caught what I just did.
He had inhaled a short, sharp, shaky breath as his gaze fell on my lips. My silly fucking lipgloss, as he'd called it.
Oh?
"You don't even know what the fuck you're doing to me," Mr. Godfrey breathed, low and vicious, as if blaming me for the fact that his pupils had just dilated. "I shouldn't have hired you. You might be the biggest fucking mistake of my time in this office."
The abrupt distance he created felt cold, harsh, like being plunged into freezing water after the unbearable heat of his closeness-- did Mr. Godfrey really just say that? Did he mean it? I stared up at him with big, glossy eyes, obediently silent as he straightened his suit jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and smoothed his expression into the same perfect, detached mask he had perfected.
There was a quick moment where I noticed him scanning me, wondering whether he had broken me down completely, or whether he was up for another round of defiance. But here I was, getting a verbal lashing and taking it without flinching-- emotion is pain.
Nodding to himself, almost frustrated by my lack of resistance or snark, Mr. Godfrey rolled his eyes and accepted the reality that he perhaps had housetrained me enough. "Keep quiet today," he huffed. "Or I'll find someone else who can sit pretty behind your desk."
It didn't take long before he turned and resumed his walk down the hall, leaving me to follow. I stayed where I was for a heartbeat, feeling raw and hollowed out. I knew this was coming. I knew, I knew, I knew it, yet it stung like a hard smack to my face.
Sniffling, hearing Letha's words echoing through my head, I straightened my spine, gathered every fragment of dignity I could find, and silently followed Mr. Godfrey into the shadow of uncertainty.
Stay put.
Stay loyal.
I needed to keep my mouth shut today, no matter what-- there was no way in hell I'd let him find anyone else for my job.
Everything was on the line.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
How does one become one with the wall? Camouflage was probably the best solution. Why hadn't I worn that today? Wearing the same boring shade of grey as the wall could've helped me disappear, and there was nothing I wanted more right now. Stupid, stupid secretary.
I was doing my absolute best to blend into the wall just behind Mr. Godfrey, breath shallow and heart racing, willing myself invisible as the elevator doors slid open with a muted ding, and suddenly the hallway felt infinitely smaller as a regiment of impeccably tailored suits filed out, LVMH's most formidable leading the charge. At their front stood the son of the CEO, a man I recognized from the same issue of Forbes as Mr. Godfrey's front page-- this was the man splattered all over page six for a dating scandal.
Frederic Arnault, tall, blue-eyed, and with the effortlessly dismissive smile of a man who knew he never had to introduce himself, came forward with a certain fondness I didn't often see in businessmen, immediately heading toward Mr. Godfrey with open arms. "There he is!" he exclaimed, voice richly accented and dripping with cocky charm.
What caught me more off guard than witnessing this warm welcome, was the way Mr. Godfrey stepped forward, genuinely happy to see what I could only assume was a childhood friend-- how close were the Godfreys with the Arnaults? "Finally, I managed to drag you across the ocean," Mr. Godfrey murmured. "Get me a fucking medal."
Frederic laughed, leaning in to clasp Mr. Godfrey's shoulder firmly, their familiarity obvious and rooted in shared history-- I wondered what these two had gotten up to before. No good, probably. "Oh, you know me," Frederic purred. "I just follow the scent of money."
To my side, I felt Norman Godfrey rolling his eyes for me. "If we're done reliving your teenage years, gentlemen, perhaps we could move on?" he huffed. "We have a lot on the agenda."
And just as I saw Frederic turning to Norman, about to say something cheeky that he'd easily get away with, my biggest fear came true-- his icy blue gaze shifted with interested, eyes piercing through Norman's shoulder straight to me, tucked awkwardly in Mr. Godfrey's shadow. "And who's this delightful secret you're hiding back here, Roman?" he teased, eyes glittering with mischief.
My reaction was instantaneous.
Goosebumps fleshed out across my skin, and I felt my nails trying to dig into the wall behind me. Now that I had Frederic's eyes on me, my blood ran cold at the discomfort-- he had a very peculiar empty look about him, and his eyes were a hole to the core of the energy he exuded. Suddenly, the warm persona wasn't working on me; I knew that look. I knew that exact look of I-can-get-what-I-want with a mix of I-don't-take-no-for-an-answer.
Mr. Godfrey briefly glanced over his shoulder before turning back smoothly. "Just my secretary. She's new,"
"Ah," Frederic murmured, leaning back slightly, deliberately slow like he was tasting the sight of me. "Roman, dearest, your taste improves with each hire."
My pulse spiked, breath snagging somewhere beneath my ribs-- no, no, no, no, no!
Mr. Godfrey let out an unimpressed huff, masked as casual boredom, before recovering by introducing Frederic to the rest of the delegation, everyone exchanging quick pleasantries as I started scooting closer to Norman, hoping to be swallowed behind his height.
And just as I thought I'd get away with it, Norman (that fucker) moved a step forward, greeting one of the LVMH partners, leaving me without a hiding spot. Before I could hide behind someone new, someone slid forward, and their large palm settled on the small of my back.
My breath hitched, and I wasn't surprised when I glanced up to see who it was-- Frederic was saying something to Mr. Godfrey in passing as his hand continued snaking down my back like he had all the right to feel me up. I could feel my ribs caving in on themselves, suffocating me from the inside, as his fingers moved up again to squeeze my waist, checking out the curve of my figure as panic rose in my throat.
Before I could wriggle myself out of his grip, scream, kick, fight, Frederic had already withdrawn his hand, smoothly turning his attention back to Mr. Godfrey as though nothing had happened.
He... had missed the whole thing.
My glossy eyes repeatedly tried to find his green ones, desperately, silently pleading for him to look at me, and I would've spoken had he not--
"If I hear one word-- one fucking sound from you that isn't strictly professional, I swear to God, I'll make you wish I had fired you yesterday,"
Swallowing my panic, trying to steady my breathing, I forced myself to remain composed, silently following as the entire delegation moved further down the hallway, praying the trembling in my hands wouldn't betray me.
I just needed to get through this day.
One more day.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Later that day, during the lunch break, the hum of the printer was the only thing anchoring me in the copy room, the rhythmic flash of paper offering a fragile distraction from the anxiety still prickling beneath my skin. Click, click, click. Bzzz.
My fingertips shook lightly as I rearranged the files, mentally counting the pages to ground myself. Click, click, click. Bzzz.
One, two, three.
Click, click, click.
Had I maybe imagined Frederic's hand on my waist? Maybe he had simply tried to pass by or something, or maybe he thought I was someone else? Then again, who else would he do that to...? Hopefully not Mr. Godfrey-- then they would surely have more than a friendly relationship, and I didn't like the thought of that. I was convinced Mr. Godfrey was too fond of women to ever fool around with men. Or? Maybe if he were drunk. Or high. Or on some type of drugs. Did Mr. Godfrey ever take drugs? In his youth, probably. If he still did it, that would be bad. Oh, well-- I concluded that Mr. Godfrey and Frederic Arnault probably didn't have some sort of intimate past, and that left me with... Frederic being a classic creep.
Before I could conclude on how to deal with the situation, the soft click of the copy-room door closing made my heart stutter.
Oh no.
I turned around in an instant, breath freezing as I met Frederic's piercing blue gaze. Why was he here? Why wasn't he taking lunch with the rest of his delegation? Oh, this was bad. This was so bad.
He leaned casually against the now-closed door, hands tucked comfortably into his pockets, his expression effortlessly pleasant-- still, something was unsettling about his eyes; it was like his smile didn't quite reach them.
I didn't want to be here with him. I didn't want to be alone with him. This was bad. This was dangerous. Should I brace for the worst? I already did.
The room felt impossibly small, cramped, suffocating, as I backed up against the printer, immediately alert. "Sir," I tried, forcing a polite smile like I wasn't trying to crawl into the copy machine. "I think you might've gotten a bit... lost. Should I help you find the rest of your company?"
At that, Frederic let out a warm, short laugh, dripping with wealth-- he shook his head, tutting at me like I was a wounded bird he was circling, ready to eat. "It seems I have gotten lost, yes," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "But it was fate, perhaps."
... Fate?
No, no, no!
My smile turned strained, desperate to hide my discomfort. Swallowing became impossible. "Just making copies," I managed to mumble, voice barely audible over the steady mechanical rhythm of the machine. Click, click, click. Bzzz. "Nothing about-- nothing about fate. Just my job."
"Yes... You might be right," he murmured, taking a slow, measured step toward me. "Roman does keep you busy. He's always been rather... demanding."
My breath hitched as Frederic took another leisurely step closer, my back pressing harder into the edge of the copier. There was nowhere to retreat, nowhere to vanish, nowhere to run-- I was screwed. "Mr. Godfrey has high expectations," I managed, voice trembling faintly despite my desperate attempt at neutrality.
Frederic's lips curved knowingly, the warmth of his charm sharpened by something colder beneath the surface. "High expectations," he echoed, voice gently amused. "I can see why he chose you, then." His blue eyes wandered deliberately down my form, lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl. When he lifted his gaze again, the emptiness behind his charm was unmistakable, terrifyingly hollow.
"You're nervous," he pointed out, his smile widening slightly, clearly pleased. "You shouldn't be. I promise I'm perfectly harmless."
"You never know," I blurted out.
"Oh, really?" Frederic hummed, cocking his head to the side. "What, do I look like a classic office rapist?"
He knew damn well. He fucking knew. That word made my blood run cold, and I swallowed hard, my mouth painfully dry. He was using it on purpose, of course. What was I supposed to do, though? I was so scared that I couldn't think clearly-- if I started screaming and Mr. Godfrey came running, he'd obviously take Frederic's side. This Arnault douche would say I was throwing a tantrum, that I was acting out, that I was trying to force a fake accusation on him to get money-- you name it.
I had nowhere to go, with no help in sight.
My silence stretched between us, my pulse frantic in my ears as I prayed to every entity in the universe that I didn't believe in that Frederic wouldn't try anything, and that I wouldn't be forced to fight.
And just when I felt certain he would close the remaining gap with his freakishly long legs, Frederic smoothly stepped to the side, reaching for the door handle with casual grace. He opened the door, stepping back with a practiced upper-class elegance "Ladies first," he murmured softly, the perfect picture of gentlemanly courtesy.
Despite the prestige, despite the facade, I saw it still-- the complete and utter glee in his eyes at the fear swimming in mine.
My legs trembled as I rushed to move past him, hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. He didn't touch me this time, didn't even brush against me, yet his gaze lingered heavily on me as I passed.
"See you soon!" Frederic added, the promise in his voice sending ice flooding through my veins as I slipped from the room, breathing shallow, heart hammering painfully in my chest.
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Click, click, click.
I was falling apart.
Click, click, click, came the sound of my heels as I followed a nervous Mr. Godfrey down the hall, on our way to finalize the contract with LVMH. His new passion project, his new dream of branching out Godfrey Industries, all depended on what would happen in that room in three minutes.
"Do you have the statistics poll?" Mr. Godfrey called out over his shoulder, flipping through the contract over and over.
I could only hum-- I had promised not to speak. Not to make a sound. Not to say a word.
My pulse was still frantic, skin still crawling from Frederic's barely-veiled threats, but as we stopped in front of the conference room, I forced myself to breathe, to steady, to maintain the fragile façade I had worn since this morning. He was right behind that door. That awful man was barely a wall away, and everything depended on me being able to take whatever he was about to dish out.
If Mr. Godfrey lost this deal because of me, he'd definitely fire me. I'd never see him again. I'd never be his again. I'd lose everything.
Stay put.
Stay loyal.
Mr. Godfrey's head bowed, eyes scanning over the contract meticulously, each word examined with ruthless scrutiny. His brows were knitted tightly, tension coiled in his posture, shoulders rigid beneath his perfectly tailored jacket-- I tried not to think about how handsome he was, and how I had leaned against those exact broad shoulders as he made me cum on his fingers in his office chair just a breath ago. I needed to have that again-- I needed him to see that I could take whatever he'd throw at me, so that he could snap out of whatever Godfrey-induced trauma-bubble he was drowning in.
But...
I was so scared.
I carefully placed myself in Mr. Godfrey's line of sight, willing him to look up. My heart pounded, anxiety screaming that I shouldn't even attempt this, that he would only dismiss me again, but the ghost of Frederic's hand still burned on my waist, my spine still shuddering under the memory of his cold, possessive touch.
Slowly, Mr. Godfrey's gorgeous green eyes lifted, meeting mine with barely concealed irritation. "Yes?" he snapped.
"Sir," I whispered, my voice strained with tension, scared to speak, desperately trying to communicate my fear, my discomfort, everything that remained trapped behind a veil of silence. I stared up at him, eyes wide and desperate, pleading silently for him to truly see me. "I..."
Mr. Godfrey's gaze hardened slightly, patience visibly fraying at the edges. He gave me an expectant, cold look; "You better choose your words very carefully," he hissed. "We're about to finalize a critical deal. I don't have time for distractions or confessions."
I think about you all the time.
Click, click, click.
My heart tightened, pain souring through me as my courage dissolved beneath his dismissal. I felt small, insignificant, like a child interrupting important adult affairs-- but Frederic's actions lingered in my mind, causing a slight tremble in my fingers.
Still, my will-power to adhere to Mr. Godfrey's commands of keeping quiet and out of sight outweighed my fear; he was more important to me than anything.
However, on the other side of my inner monologue, Mr. Godfrey sighed at my silence, irritation flashing briefly before he shook his head with dismissal. "If you're going to hover like this, at least make yourself useful. Go get coffee for everyone. Make it quick,"
His tone left no room for argument, no space for explanations or pleas for understanding. Hurt flickered briefly in my eyes before I forced it down, nodding silently. I was doing the right thing by staying quiet. I was adhering to orders. I was adhering to the orders of my dominant. My boss. The CEO. Roman fucking Godfrey. I stepped back quietly, turning away, humiliation burning hot and bitter in my chest.
This had been my opportunity to say something...
But I was a good secretary-- Mr. Godfrey would realize that after the contract was signed, right?
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Minutes later, the boardroom hummed with anticipation. The heavy wooden doors were shut behind me, sealing in a numbing mix of expectation, ambition, and power. The suits lining the sleek mahogany table were pristine, expressions composed, voices hushed and professional as they finalized the arrangements.
The ultimate terror, Frederic Arnault, sat opposite Mr. Godfrey, lounging back with effortless ease next to his delegation, as though everything around him belonged firmly in his grasp, including the contract now placed before him by the one and only Peter Rumancek.
Avoiding Peter's pitiful gaze, I circled silently around the table, carefully setting cups of freshly brewed coffee before each executive and lawyer, my hands trembling imperceptibly with each placement.
Mr. Godfrey was visibly out of himself with excitement, his leg bouncing with joy; "I'm so glad that we managed to draw something up," he murmured, watching Peter hand Frederic the pen. "It's been an honour doing business with friends."
"Agreed!" Frederic's blue eyes glinted with smug satisfaction. "I still believe this was all a ploy to have me step on American soil, though. You better not try to make me eat some McDonald's trash."
Norman cleared his throat, scooting forward in his chair next to a laughing Mr. Godfrey. "Boys," he said, voice stern. "Enough. Do we have a deal or do we not?"
Grinning, Frederic leaned back in his chair, holding the pen like it bored him. "Mmm..." he mused aloud. "I'm not sure. I think I need to be courted a little harder, the French way. Perhaps someone should make me another offer... maybe with a kiss?"
Polite laughter skittered across the table like static, unsure and awkward. I felt my stomach twist, my grip on the next hot coffee faltering as my heart skipped an anxious beat.
"Maybe you can offer up the secretary, Roman?" Frederic continued, tapping the pen against the table as amusement danced in his evil eyes. "Bet she'd do it for the good of the company, hm?" That hellish gaze darted to me-- "Wouldn't you, cherie?"
The silence was no longer polite.
It was strangled.
Every eye in the room hesitated-- some darted to me, some to Mr. Godfrey, but most fixed downward in panicked neutrality, pretending they hadn't heard what they'd just heard. I stood still, coffee cup hovering uselessly in my hand, my body completely detached from my mind, which had gone screaming somewhere far away. I could feel Peter's horrified gaze on me, the pity in those brown eyes searing through my body like a sword cutting me in half.
Mr. Godfrey's foot stopped bouncing, and that was enough of a tell for me. No matter how panicked he was about my confession yesterday, no matter how furious he was with me, this made his jaw tick. "This is America," he said, tone light and controlled. "We tend not to auction off our secretaries here, though I'm sure you miss the old world charm."
We only tend to spank them sore and make them cum in our private offices.
Frederic grinned wider, pleased with himself. "What can I say? I bring the old French spirit wherever I go,"
"And the lawsuits," Norman muttered under his breath-- it was loud enough to hear, but no one laughed; not this time.
As the tension rose, Frederic raised his hands in mock innocence. "Oh, come on, it was a joke! She's lovely, that's all!"
"And aren't you charming," Mr. Godfrey said, clearly souring despite the polite smile still plastered on his face. "But now that we've all complimented each other, let's move on, shall we?"
Yes, please.
With a shaky breath, I continued my coffee run, trying to steady my breath as I realized I was nearing Frederic.
I watched as he finally leaned in over the contract, signing his family name with a dramatic flourish he probably learned in some expensive boarding school in Switzerland. As he laid down the pen, Mr. Godfrey visibly relaxed, the barest flicker of genuine relief softening his features.
And for that, this was worth it.
His relief, his pleasure, his peace-- it was all worth it.
My heart soared as I calmed down a notch, and I held back a small smile as I placed Frederic's coffee down with exaggerated caution, trying not to get too close. I was so crazy about Mr. Godfrey that I'd go through this hellish day for his gain, I'd stay quiet for his comfort, and I'd suffer for his joy. Wasn't this love? Wasn't this pure, unfiltered devotion? Why couldn't he see it and enjoy it too?
But just as I straightened, feeling a faint relief at escaping unscathed, my biggest fear came true.
Frederic's hand moved, and it settled on the curve of my ass like it belonged there, like it was his right, like he owned me.
Humiliation and shock seized me, freezing me in place, and a startled squeak was barely suppressed behind my tightly clenched teeth as I shot up straight. My eyes widened, glossing instantly with tears of betrayal and violation as my vision blurred, staring straight at the wall in front of me as I forced my thoughts out of my brain. I couldn't be here. I couldn't stay in this moment. My body wasn't mine. It didn't belong to me. Not right now.
Ironically, Mr. Godfrey had once predicted this one of our first email exchanges; the French are awfully fond of claiming things that are not theirs.
But this time...
Mr. Godfrey saw.
His green eyes snapped directly to Frederic's hand, and in an instant, something flickered in Mr. Godfrey's expression-- momentary disbelief chased by furious, white-hot rage.
It probably didn't take more than two seconds. Nothing more. He didn't need more to decide his course of action.
In one smooth, lightning-fast movement, Mr. Godfrey snatched the contract off the table before kicking away his chair, shooting up straight-- this sent a jarring, shocked silence cascading around the room, with Peter's jaw dropping and Norman freezing in his seat with horror.
"Get out!" Mr. Godfrey yelled, the boom of his voice making the coffee in front of him shake.
To make matters worse, Frederic leaned back casually, utterly unfazed, eyes glittering smugly as he slowly removed his hand from me, making no move to apologize or back down. "Oh, relax! She doesn't seem to mind!"
No, no... no, no, no.
My face flushed hot with shame, tears welling, blurring my vision further.
And with that, it only got worse-- Mr. Godfrey's rage ignited, a terrifying blaze in his green eyes as they finally met mine. He saw. He knew. He saw. So, without hesitation, possibly for the first time in his life, he ripped the contract into jagged shreds, flinging them onto the polished table. Gasps echoed around the room, executives frozen in stunned disbelief, with Norman gripping his heart like he was about to have a heart attack.
Frederic stood, slow and threatening, no longer smiling. "Careful, now. You're making a mistake, Roman,"
"No," Mr. Godfrey hissed. "You did. Now get the fuck out before I make you bleed!"
"Roman!" Norman cried out, standing up as well. "We have a forty million dollar deal! Think about this!"
But he was too far gone-- blinded by rage, Mr. Godfrey grabbed the coffee mug in front of him and flung it across the table, making Frederic duck. "Get out!"
The mug hit the wall behind Frederic with a brutal, wet crash. Coffee sprayed across floor-to-ceiling windows in a starburst of heat and ceramic shrapnel; one of the LVMH partners let out a shocked yelp, ducking instinctively, someone dropped a pen, and Peter jerked to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process.
"Roman, enough!" Norman shouted.
But it was chaos now. Pure chaos.
Frederic straightened slowly, brushing an imaginary speck from his jacket-- that infuriating, oily smirk had finally faltered. "You're unstable!" he yelled. "You've just made the worst mistake of your career! The Arnault association will never forgive what happened here today!"
"I don't give a crap!" Mr. Godfrey yelled back, already reaching for another mug of coffee; had Norman not stepped in, there would've been another one flung across the room. "I will make sure you don't have a job by dawn!" Mr. Godfrey continued; "I will ruin you!"
I was sick to my stomach.
Their shouting became distant, like I was underwater-- echoing, distorted, and suffocating. My vision blurred as nausea violently surged in my chest, panic roaring loud enough to drown out everything else. Unable to take another second of it, I turned and bolted from the room, nearly tripping over my heels as I stumbled down the marble hallway.
Behind me, the yelling continued-- Mr. Godfrey's fury tangling with Frederic's smug threats. I didn't stop to listen, didn't dare look back. I passed by my desk, grabbing my new Birkin, before dashing to the elevator; I hammered at the elevator button, begging for it to arrive before I burst into tears and died on the spot.
It took approximately a year to arrive. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Everything was ruined. I would never see Mr. Godfrey again. I had somehow managed to be the thing that fucked it all up for him without even trying, so was this maybe a sign? Men. Fucking men. I hated Frederic Arnault. I hated, hated, hated him.
The doors slid open agonizingly slow as I watched all the businessmen streaming out of the conference room down the hall, some dripping with coffee. With a loud hitch of my breath, I slipped inside the elevator, hand pounding the close door button frantically, praying for the metal barrier to shut out the chaos and shame.
But just as the doors began to seal, a hand shot through the narrowing gap-- I let out a horrified scream. It was like a scene taken directly out of The Shining, and my mind went awry, thinking the worst, deciding the worst. Was this him? Was this Frederic? Was I not going to be able to escape after all?
The elevator jolted back open, and Mr. Godfrey stepped inside, chest heaving, eyes wild, tie askew, hair tousled from his fury.
Thank God.
My breath left me, and I nearly buckled over with relief.
He stood there, staring at me, breathing hard as the elevator started going down. For once, the mighty Roman Godfrey had no words, only raw panic and something else, something deeper, that made my stomach twist again. He swallowed thickly, voice ragged, shaky with worry as he finally managed; "Are you-- Are you alright?"
If I were... alright?
With that, the answer no left me before I burst into tears.
Loudly sobbing, all-taking sadness and anguish drowned me as I pressed my back to the elevator walls, dropping my Birkin before hiding my face in my hands.
Mr. Godfrey froze for a good second before letting out a breathy fuck.
It didn't take long before he jammed his hand into the emergency stop button, our ride coming to a halt. He stared at me, hands twitching at his sides, unsure whether to reach for me or stay away. His eyes were coiled in panic and guilt, every breath ragged in his chest; "Was he like this all day?" he echoed, sounding as far from himself as he ever had.
I couldn't speak, couldn't muster the energy. This feeling was too much-- I knew I was losing everything. Nothing was in my control. I knew I had failed his one wish of being invisible today, although it wasn't even my fault. I was going to lose Mr. Godfrey. I could never work here again. Was his career ruined? Had I managed to screw it up for him to that degree? Everyone had seen Frederic Arnault feeling me up like I was some toy, like I was some easily accessible whore that was designated to the office, and I couldn't get that awful feeling of his hand on my ass out of my system.
"Were you... Were you trying to tell me about this earlier?" Mr. Godfrey asked, taking a step closer.
I barely nodded, fingers clawing into my hair as I tried to scrape Frederic's touch off my body, off my skin, off my scalp. "You said-- You said I would lose-- lose my job if I spoke, I--"
"Did he do this any other time today?"
In the middle of a new sob, I mustered the energy to nod again, and that only made it worse; now, Mr. Godfrey looked like he was about to punch the wall. Instead, he raked a hand down his face, eyes burning, voice cracking. "You go against my orders every day, but not the one time you should have?"
"Because you needed the deal!" I sobbed. "Because you needed the deal and I--" My voice cracked; "I didn't want to-- to ruin anything for you! Not more than I've-- already done!"
"Jesus Christ," Mr. Godfrey breathed, more shocked than angry now. His eyes found mine, wild and horrified; "You think I'd sell you out for a deal?"
I couldn't answer-- my voice had died somewhere in the middle of the elevator floor, and my body shook too hard to speak.
Mr. Godfrey ran both hands through his hair, pacing again in the tiny space, teeth clenched like he was trying to hold back a scream. When another sob twisted out of me, he immediately stopped, turning to me with a horrible helplessness I had never seen in him. "I'm sorry," he said, voice trembling. Was that his first time saying that? "I should've protected you, I should've-- I never should've put you in that room. I knew he was a creep, he's always-- he's always been like that, but I didn't think he'd try to?-- I didn't think. I haven't been able to think since yesterday."
I think about you all the time.
I sank lower against the elevator wall, still crying, chest aching. Some small, soft part of me heard the sincerity in Mr. Godfrey's voice-- the way it cracked around the edges, the way he couldn't stop pacing like something inside him had shattered.
And then, it fell out of me; "I didn't-- I didn't sign up for this,"
Frail as ever. Broken and battered.
Mr. Godfrey stopped pacing.
I didn't look up-- I couldn't. I kept my fingers buried in my hair, trying to breathe through the dizziness rising in my chest. "I didn't sign up to be the... the office whore," I whispered, breath catching in my throat. "I-- I didn't sign up to get... felt up by your business partners while you look the other way."
"I didn't look away," Mr. Godfrey shot in, pained.
"You did," I snapped, the words rising bitter and hot. Tears streaked down my cheeks as my voice trembled; "Because you-- Because you pushed me away, I was scared to say a word to you. All. Day."
Mr. Godfrey's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his mouth open but speechless, like every word he might say would be the wrong one.
"You were so mean," I breathed, a fresh tear rolling down. "In the hallway. And I stayed put, I stayed loyal, and I was ready to-- to take your abuse, because I was stupid enough to think that maybe if I stayed quiet, you'd... consider me as something more than this."
Mr. Godfrey stared at me like I was slipping out of his grasp, like he could feel me fading from the frame of whatever structure we had built; whatever unspoken, burning, complicated thing had held us together was falling apart, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. "Abuse?" he breathed, tasting the word.
Sniffling, I desperately tried to wipe away my tears. "And I'm sorry that I-- I'm sorry that I said I think about you all the time, but I'm mostly sorry that it scares you so much,"
Instead of the barking I thought I'd get from saying that, there was nothing.
Silence.
Mr. Godfrey leaned against the opposite elevator wall like the floor was tilting underneath him. His eyes, those sharp, vibrant green eyes, had lost all their venom now; they were just wide, sad, and exhausted, searching for the right thing to say.
"Maybe it's best if I leave," I breathed, feeling myself melt into the walls of the elevator. "I will only be hurt here. Maybe it-- maybe it will heal me to go." It will be death, it will be death. Click, click, click. "I don't want to leave you, or-- or this job, but I can't keep ruining myself like this for nothing in return."
The hum of the elevator resumed beneath our feet, but before I could take another breath, Mr. Godfrey slammed the emergency stop again. The lights above us flickered, the car jerked to a halt, and--
"No,"
The word cracked through the air like a verdict.
Mr. Godfrey stood there, one hand still braced against the panel, the other twitching at his side like it didn't know what to do with itself. His chest rose and fell in frantic swells, his tie was crooked, his hair was messed up from the violence of the boardroom, and something wild, raw, and unfamiliar had taken over the cold, composed man I had known for months.
"No," he repeated, barely above a whisper now, as if saying it aloud made it real. "You can't leave."
My world stopped. Everything did.
I stared back at him, trying to blink away the tears that kept falling. "What?" I breathed.
"You--" Mr. Godfrey's hand dropped from the panel, hung limp for a second, and then curled into a fist. "You can't--" he broke off, swallowing hard, eyes flicking up to meet mine. "You can't leave me. I won't let you."
The silence stretched; my tears were still clinging to my jaw, my cheeks hot with them, and my chest started to bruise from the sobbing.
Mr. Godfrey looked at me now like he was seeing me for the first time; not just the crying girl in the elevator, not just his secretary, not his temptation, but something entirely new, something he needed.
"I'll give you something in return," he breathed, a wave of calm pushing up against his shore. Something told me he had gotten to terms with what had been bothering him for so long-- something told me he had cracked it.
And then, without a word, Mr. Godfrey walked toward me. His dress shoes thudded dully against the floor of the elevator, echoing off the metal walls like heartbeats, like my thudding heartbeat. The closer he got, the more I felt the constricted breath painfully tug at my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut and braced against the elevator walls for what I could only assume was some sort of punishment or telling-off, or something that would hurt me in emotional ways I couldn't begin to imagine.
But...
That was until I felt Mr. Godfrey's fingers gently touch my cheek, touching me like I'd break with one misstep. I flinched, but not from fear of him; it was from the sheer disbelief that something so soft could come from him, the same man who had just shattered a multi-million-dollar deal like all his work had meant nothing to him at the end of the day.
My eyes fluttered open.
It didn't take long before Mr. Godfrey cupped my cheek, his thumb softly ghosting beneath my ear, brushing away the wet trails of what had once been silent, humiliating tears. I could barely breathe under the weight of it, under the tenderness I hadn't expected, under the ache that came with realizing I wasn't prepared for kindness; not from him, not now, not ever.
Mr. Godfrey didn't speak-- he didn't have to, not when his hand moved slowly, deliberately, from my cheek to my wrist, then lower, down to my hand, where he carefully took it in his.
And then... he placed it flat against his chest.
Right over his heart.
It was pounding.
This was not the calm, cold steadiness of the man I knew from meetings and memos, not the clinical thud of control-- this was frantic.
Mr. Godfrey's chest rose beneath my palm, breath catching as I touched him. I couldn't believe he was letting me, couldn't believe this was happening; I felt his heart race under my fingertips and realized, with a dizzying ache, that it matched the rhythm of my own. "Sir," I breathed, searching his eyes.
"No," he murmured, like he was peeling off the armour he had worn for too long. "Do you know my name?"
"Your name...?"
Mr. Godfrey's eyes searched mine, swallowing, before his mouth brushed against mine, making my breath hitch. Then, like a confession meant for no one else in this world; "My name is Roman. Call me that," he whispered. "I want to be Roman to you."
Trembling, breathless, I whispered back into the space between us--
"Roman,"
At that, Roman exhaled.
Roman, Roman, Roman.
Click, click, click.
He breathed against my lips, soft and reverent, relieved and nervous; "I think about you all the time, too," he echoed. "All the time, you are on my mind. You are my every waking thought. To me, you are water."
My breath trembled against the air between us. Had I heard that right? I stared back at Mr. Godfrey-- Roman, eyes wider than ever before.
He stood there, frozen, for a heartbeat longer, the kind of stillness that felt tight, like the whole weight of the moment was pressing against his ribs. His eyes flicked down to my lips, then back to my eyes-- once, twice, like he was unsure if he was allowed, like he had forgotten how this even worked.
And then, suddenly, like he couldn't stop himself, his soft lips found mine.
It was fast. Quick. A short press of his mouth to mine, more instinct than plan, like he just had to feel it, had to know. The kiss barely lasted a second, but his lips were warm, a little dry, and gone too soon.
When he pulled back, the look in his eyes made my breath catch.
Roman looked... shellshocked.
As if kissing me had burned him and soothed him all at once, as if his brain had to catch up to what his body had just done, as if it was his first kiss ever. Roman had probably not kissed anyone in a really long while, considering he didn't even like being touched-- when had his last kiss been?
Something about that made my cheeks redden, and a small smile formed, one I hadn't expected to have on my face today. My free hand found the lapel of his jacket and tugged, just enough to invite him closer, just enough to let him know I wanted more.
Roman's eyes flicked down to my lips again, this time slower, more deliberate-- and then he leaned in again, this time letting it happen.
The second kiss was different.
It was hesitant, yes, but deeper, like he was rediscovering something he had buried a long time ago. His hand cupped my jaw with a newfound care, and he kissed me like he didn't know what he was doing, but wanted to get it right.
Roman's hand left mine, slithering down to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and my fingers slid up his neck, disappearing into his hair. It was surprisingly soft, with a silky finish I hadn't felt against my skin before. At that, he made a soft, involuntary sound into my mouth as I touched him, like the sensation startled him, like he couldn't believe I was touching him like that, and he couldn't believe he was letting me.
Roman kissed like a man who had spent his whole life resisting softness and didn't know how to receive it. His mouth moved carefully over mine, pausing often, almost like he was memorizing the shape of me, the pace of my breath, the way my breath quivered slightly when he lingered.
It was almost frustrating how slowly this was going-- I had wanted him like this for so long, so much that I was ready to burst like fireworks. However, when Roman pulled away, his breath fanning shakily against my upper lip, his words changed something in me; "I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to be like this with someone."
My eyes rounded out, and with a surge of fondness washing through my veins, I reached for the strand of brown hair that lay softly over his forehead. "You're doing fine," I breathed. "Does it feel nice?"
Roman's green eyes dared to shut as my fingers brushed that loose strand of hair from his face, and for a moment, he just stood there-- utterly still, like that small, delicate touch had undone him more than expected. When he opened his eyes again, something had shifted in them; the hesitance was still there, but beneath it, desire began to bloom, as if I had just cracked open a door he had kept bolted shut for years.
Emotion... doesn't have to be pain.
"It does," he said, somewhat hoarse. "You taste sweet."
"That will be the silly fucking lip gloss,"
At that, we finally shared our first relaxed laugh-- a small huff of air, barely there, barely a breath.
That laugh, fragile and startled, seemed to undo him further. Roman blinked slowly, like he wasn't used to that kind of ease, that kind of warmth; it was as if even the gentlest humour between us was foreign territory, a language he had only heard but never spoken.
But he wanted to learn-- I could sense it, I could feel it, I could see it.
I was still cupping the back of his neck, thumb gently stroking the base of his hairline, and when our eyes locked again, there was no tension; only inevitability.
"Right," Roman murmured, smirking. "Let's get that lip gloss off, then."
Before I could process the sentence, before I could even breathe, Roman bent and hooked his arms around the backs of my thighs, lifting me in one smooth motion. I let out a small gasp, legs instinctively tightening around his waist, arms flying to brace myself around his shoulders. The elevator wall met my back with a dull thud as he pressed me into it, and then-- God--
His mouth crashed into mine.
This wasn't the hesitant, searching kiss from before; this was something else entirely. Roman kissed me like he had run out of time, like his hunger had overtaken every bit of restraint he had clung to. His tongue slid past my lips with a low, desperate groan, coaxing mine into a rhythm that was dizzying, filthy, and perfect. My breath hitched, body arching into his without thinking, my fingers fisting into the back of his suit as if anchoring myself to this moment, to him.
Roman was all heat and passion-- he pressed me harder into the elevator wall like he couldn't get close enough, like he didn't want there to be any space between us at all. His hands were gripping my thighs, hard, but not cruel; grounding, like he couldn't believe someone was this close to him and he was letting them.
When Roman pulled back slightly to breathe, his lips were pink and flushed, a tiny smear of my gloss shining on his mouth. His voice was gravel and velvet all at once, and it ghosted over my lips with unbearable intimacy; "I think it's gone now,"
I could barely nod. My pulse throbbed in my throat, in my wrists, in places I didn't even know could ache, but I still leaned forward, mouth brushing his again, and breathed out against him; "Good job,"
Roman gave a hoarse laugh against my lips, something breathless and almost boyish that tugged straight at my heart. "God," he muttered, kissing the corner of my mouth like he couldn't help himself; "You really are trouble."
I grinned, still catching my breath, drunk on the taste of him and the air between us. "You like trouble," I purred. "You wouldn't have hired me if you didn't."
Roman's eyes flared at that-- something between mischief and dark hunger flickering just behind the green. He tilted his head, letting out a low, breathless laugh, and then he kissed me again, so briefly it barely counted, just a brush of lips that still managed to send heat licking down my spine. "Filthy mouth," he whispered, his thumb ghosting over the corner of my lips like he could still feel the ghost of my grin. "Talking about taking cock on your first interview."
My cheeks turned a peculiar shade of maroon-- I remembered it like it was yesterday.
"Would I have had to lie down and take a cock for the first time to know how to handle this job? Would I have had to go through the experience of feeling myself being split open, the blinding pain of that, for you to know that I could take you stepping on me to get the job done at this company?"
Oh, how that comment had haunted me for days. "My mouth might be filthy," I mumbled, voice dying out midway; "But you're still kissing it."
At that, Roman's hands gripped my thighs harder, hitching me up with a breathless groan as he pressed me even tighter into the wall. I arched into him helplessly, heart slamming against my ribs as I realized he was pressing his hardened cock between my legs. "Damn right I am," he murmured.
Roman's soft mouth found mine again, but this time it wasn't just hungry-- it was devouring, a series of slow, dragging kisses, open-mouthed, heated, sinful, that made me whimper into him, mind buzzing with aching pleasure, as if we were both trying to make up for all the time we had spent not doing this. Roman pulled back just a breath-- his lips brushed mine like a tease, his nose nudging the edge of my cheek, his voice vibrating against my skin. "You have a problem with that?" he asked, right as he kissed me again, wetter now, more possessive.
I tried to answer, tried to throw something smart back at him, but Roman didn't give me the chance. His mouth was already on mine again, drinking in every sound I made, every shaky breath, like he was starving and I was the only thing that could ever feed him.
Roman's teeth scraped lightly at my bottom lip, and when I whimpered into his mouth, he smiled against me: "Didn't think so," he whispered.
He kissed down the corner of it, along my jaw, toward my neck, dragging his lips lower. "Filthy," he groaned, tongue swiping once over the spot beneath my ear. "Pretty," Another kiss, hotter now. "Bratty mouth," He bit lightly at the edge of my throat, grinning when I gasped. "But it keeps saying my name."
I was melting, undone, clawing at his shoulders. "Roman," I breathed.
A groan tore from his throat-- guttural, low, shaken, before he surged forward and kissed me again, this time with tongue and teeth and possession, as my hips bucked into his without shame, chasing friction, chasing him.
Emotion is pleasure.
Emotion is soft.
When Roman finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, both of us panting-- his lips were red, swollen, and wet from mine, and those green eyes (God, those eyes) were burning now. No fear, no confusion; just need.
I wanted him with that same fire. I wanted him more than I wanted safety, logic, maybe even dignity-- but the reality was creeping in now, slow and bitter, like cold fingers up my spine. My heart was still racing, lips swollen, body thrumming with heat from where his mouth had been, and somewhere in the haze of lust, fear still flickered.
"Roman..." I started, feeling how foreign his name was on my tongue. "What... what happens now?"
His hands stilled where they were gripping my thighs-- I could feel the weight of the question sink into him.
"That was Frederic Arnault," I whispered. "And you just blew up a really important deal for a secretary."
HR would definitely come knocking now, those long-legged fucks.
But Roman just... stared at me.
He blinked once, slowly, unreadable. Then, without changing his grip on me, without even pretending to explain, he leaned in again, brushing his mouth just shy of mine. His voice, when it came, was low-- steady and warm, but dismissive in a way that made me shiver. "Don't think about that," he murmured, breath brushing across my lips. "I'll handle it."
That was it.
No justifications. No damage control speech. No panic. Just that quiet, maddening certainty in his voice.
"You blew up a forty million dollar contract," I breathed, blinking. Did he not consider the potential ramifications?
"I said," Roman whispered, pressing his forehead to mine now, his (Forbes) nose skimming along mine. "Don't think about it." His hands slipped lower, gripping the back of my thighs again before he rolled his hips slightly forward, pressing me harder into the elevator wall so I could feel all of him. "I've made worse messes for much less than you."
My breath caught, my hips keening against his before I could stop myself. Was this really happening? Could it really be that easy?
And then Roman kissed me again-- slow this time, but possessive. His tongue dragged lazily into my mouth, his hands firm, commanding, like now that he had made up his mind, there was nothing else in the world to consider. Not HR. Not reality.
There was no nausea. No panic.
Just us, as it was always supposed to be-- grounded, together, and finalized, like a forty million dollar deal.
And God, how I kissed him back.
(a/n: omfg you guys have no idea how SATISFYING this was to write??? FINALLY these bastards got together!!!! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE AND SUPPORT AND COMMENTS AGGHHHHH ILY!!!!! HOPE U LIKED IT!!)
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