Breathe You In

by Joya Ryan

  “You’re playing with fire, Amy. You want something that I’m more than willing to give you.” His dark gaze dropped to my breasts, then lower, taking in my entire body before meeting my eyes again. “But I don’t want you to misunderstand what it meant when we’re through.”

  One more step, and I finally entered his space. Felt his breath fan over my forehead. Smelled his crisp Italian suit and spicy masculine scent. Heat radiated from every square inch of him. I’d been desperate to be near him again.

  Over the past few weeks, I’d learned that Roman did, indeed, have big scary man feelings, just as Hazel had suspected. I was also certain, from the way he treated me in the moments that counted, that he was purposefully not acknowledging them.

  I didn’t know if it was the lack of touch, or that he’d foregone a jacket today and stood in black pants, vest, tie, and bright white button-down, but damn it, the man was chiseled, composed, and fine as freaking hell.

  “I’m not playing with anything, I just want you to talk to me. And maybe kiss me,” I whispered. “And I want you to mean it.”

  His gaze locked on my mouth.

  “You want to kiss me, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t want to mean it?”

  He stayed still. Didn’t shake his head, but didn’t agree.

  “Why is this hard for you?” I asked.

  “Because you’re…”

  I swallowed, waiting for him to finish, understanding why quick responses were better: too much elapsed time led to thoughts. Bad thoughts. Like, does he not want to kiss me because I’m ugly? Annoying? Weak? Was I overplaying my hand?

  “You’re different than I expected,” he finally said.

  My heart pounded and defeat washed over me. I went to step back, but he dropped the paper and grabbed my hip, preventing me from stepping away.

  “I mean that as a compliment.”

  And with that one admission, just like the night I’d met him, I felt whole. Like I wasn’t some small, insignificant thing floating through life. I was grounded, if just for a moment, in his arms.

  His lips brushed over mine. “You have been the only thing on my mind,” he said. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to keep my hands off of you?”

  “Then don’t. I want you so much.” I couldn’t get my mind and my hormones to agree. It was a big problem, because right now, I was on the brink of giving in. Closing my eyes briefly, hoping to gain some composure, I opened them only to be re-enthralled by that dazzling, dark gaze. I said the only thing I could, “We have to be on the same page with our emotions.”

  “I know,” he said.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and flicked my tongue out to taste his lips. He growled and his hands landed heavily on my ass, clutching me closer. My belly pressed against the physical proof of just how hard it had been on him.

  “I can’t give you what you want,” he said.

  “You sure about that?” My tongue darted out again. “Because you already are.” He was talking to me. Honestly.

  “You drive me crazy,” he said and consumed my mouth.

  I gasped at the force of his kiss. Hard, demanding. Like he’d missed me. Like he really had been thinking of me.

  Plunging his tongue between my lips over and over, he devoured me in a consuming rhythm that made my head swim and my knees weak.

  “God damn it, Amy,” he rasped between strong draws and nips at my bottom lip. “You confuse the hell out of me.”

  Another taste, another bite.

  I wound my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, needing more.

  “You’re so soft, so innocent.”

  He gripped my ass hard, his erection prodding, begging for attention, so I reached between our bodies to give it. He hissed as I gripped him through his pants.

  “Then there’s this other girl,” he said, as he thrust into my hand, “bold and demanding and so fucking sexy.” His words made my chest split with joy and my lust rise. “I want you so damn bad, but don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “If that means keeping a distance—”

  “Don’t you dare,” I snapped. I leaned back just enough so I could see him, our breaths mingling and coming fast. “You’ve been staying away from me because you’re concerned about me?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m going to ask you one thing,” I said. Roman was battling his own feelings, and I was battling mine. The problem was, it was starting to sound like he did care about me, but didn’t understand it. “What do you think will come of us after the election?”

  He frowned and I rolled my eyes. “I mean, after you win the election, of course,” I clarified with a smile.

  He grinned and barely grazed my bottom lip. “I don’t know. I figured we’d part.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  His eyes searched mine as what looked like a minor epiphany hit his expression. “No. I’d like to keep seeing you.”

  That simple admission made me want to dance with triumph. Roman did want more, it was just a matter of him figuring it out.

  And what I was finding was that if I held on long enough, Roman would come around. This was the first honest conversation we’d had since that night in his car. We were making progress.

  Even though a big part of me knew I wasn’t as strong as I’d like, I’d never before felt more alive. Maybe I could—and wanted to—deal with my world. Roman brought out the power, the confidence in me.

  “What changed that night at the fundraiser?” I said against his mouth.

  Was it finding out that Warren was my ex? Seeing my panic attack and deciding I was too fragile to cope with certain kinds of emotions? Whatever it was, that had been the night Roman had shifted and begun guarding himself against me.

  He took another deep taste and I moaned, gripping him a little tighter. “That night after your panic attack, you looked at me like…”

  He kissed me again, then shook his head.

  “Like what?” I breathed.

  “Like I was a goddamned hero.” My heart sped up and I clung to him.

  “You are.” I wasn’t sure if I’d actually spoken the words, or if he’d heard them, until he responded.

  “And what if I’m not?”

  His mouth was so forceful I could hardly breathe, but he didn’t let up. Like a punishment or a warning. I saw something good in Roman, something I was willing to fight for, but it was the same thing he was running from.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  I pulled back instantly at the sound of Jean calling from the door.

  Roman grinned at me and looked over my shoulder to acknowledge her.

  “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that Mayor Stanton and his wife have confirmed for tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you, Jean.”

  She scuttled out, and Roman traced my bottom lip with his thumb.

  “How do you feel about meeting the Mayor of Albany?”

  Chapter Twelve

  So what do you have in mind for tomorrow’s dinner?” I asked Roman as we wound through the produce section.

  “I have no idea. I wanted to call the caterer, remember?” He picked up an apple and put it in the basket he was carrying.

  “Cooking dinner for him will be charming, though. Plus, I like to cook, and I’m happy to help. So I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you, Amy.’” I grinned at him while putting a few onions in a plastic bag.

  “Thank you, Amy,” he replied with his own smile. I had to admit, seeing him like this, in his pressed suit and polished persona, holding a little red grocery basket while browsing the fruit section, was so wonderfully…normal.

  “What’s your favorite thing to eat?” I asked across the display of potatoes.

  He glanced up and met my gaze, a wicked smile splitting his lips.

  My eyes shot wide. “I meant food.”

  He feigned a pout and heat rushed to my cheeks. The man was incor
rigible and practically had me giggling like a teenager.

  “Well…” He walked along the column of vegetables, perusing the artichokes. “There was this one dish my mother made. It was actually the only thing she made.” His tone was sharp and his whole body was tense, but he continued. “It was a seared pork chop and some kind of cheese pasta.”

  I came to stand by him. He tossed a head of lettuce into the basket. “She only cooked it a few times when I was really young. I don’t know how she made it, and I’m sure she doesn’t remember anymore either.”

  I gently set the onions in the basket and ran a hand down his arm. Whatever the issue was between him and his mother, it was obviously touchy. Deep sadness and anger radiated from him, and I didn’t want to push. I was just ecstatic he was sharing something real about himself.

  “Well, I think I can figure out something close,” I said.

  He shrugged, then went to the section against the wall that held the berries and herbs. His expression had changed, just like after we were intimate. Closed off. It was as though he threw away whatever thoughts he was having and replaced them with indifference. Like he didn’t want to feel whatever it was he was approaching.

  It was right then that I silently reached a new level of understanding of Roman Reese. He stayed away from things he had no interest in remembering, handling, or controlling.

  And I was lumped into that group.

  Yet, he was still here with me.

  There was hope.

  “Make what you want for dinner,” he said, grabbing a carton of blueberries and zeroing those dark eyes in on me. “So long as I get what I want for dessert.”

  “Now this is comfort food,” Ken Stanton, the mayor of Albany, said. “You made this?”

  He looked at me from across the big dining room table. He had to be in his late fifties. With his white hair and kind eyes, a certain jolliness radiated from him.

  I smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Though Roman had insisted that his staff help, I had gotten to make my version of Roman’s mother’s dish. Not to mention, using his kitchen was like working in a dream. There were state-of-the-art appliances and so much space that my entire apartment could have rested on the countertop like one of Hazel’s creepy crafted turkeys.

  “Wow.” He took another bite, then pointed his fork at Roman. “I think you’ve got a keeper here, Reese.”

  Heat rushed to my cheeks, half from the mayor’s praise and half from the way Roman looked at me. Like he was proud.

  After grilling Roman about what he remembered of the dish, I had spent all afternoon trying to perfect what I was pretty sure was macaroni and cheese and a shake ’n bake pork chop. With a little engineering, I had made everything from scratch and added homemade apple sauce as another side. I just hoped it was everything Roman imagined.

  “Indeed I do,” Roman said and palmed my knee under the table.

  Now my blush was turning into a full-body heat. Aside from the steamy kiss in his office yesterday, it had been weeks since Roman and I had been intimate. The smallest touch still set me off.

  The mayor and Roman chatted about the state and various events coming up, while the mayor’s wife and I mostly nodded and smiled. The couple seemed nice and genuine. But what was interesting was the way Roman looked at Mayor Stanton—with a certain respect.

  “I hear your campaign is going well,” Roman said.

  Ken took a drink of his wine and nodded. “We’ll see after his new ad comes out. Cunningham is running a tough campaign.”

  “I thought Mrs. Cunningham was retiring this year,” I said. I was certain Warren had said that at the fundraiser.

  “She is. It’s her son who is going for her seat,” Ken affirmed. “Young guy, mid-twenties I believe.”

  I accidentally dropped my fork, and it clanged against my plate. “Her son. As in, Warren Cunningham?”

  Roman nodded, his jaw clenching tightly. I tried really hard to not look shocked, but this was definitely news to me. Roman returned to his conversation with Ken, for which I was grateful.

  “Tough?” Roman asked. “It looks like Cunningham has launched a smear campaign against you. How are you going to retaliate?”

  Ken took another bite of his pork chop and smiled at me before returning his attention to Roman.

  “I’m not, son,” he said, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “What Cunningham is putting out there about me is baseless and without fact. The people of New York know I’m honest. I just have to trust that.”

  Roman looked at me for a long moment. Something was going on behind those eyes. Something I so badly wanted him to share with me. And in his own way, he was. Slowly. Dropping little hints here and there about the man he was, the man he wanted to be.

  As if reading my mind, he smiled and wound his fingers with mine, holding my hand under the table, offering a glimpse of support.

  Despite all that had happened over the past few weeks, tonight, for the most part, was a success. And I’d cling to that.

  “What are you doing?” Roman asked from the doorway of the kitchen.

  “Apparently nothing.” I spun around and looked at the spotless kitchen. “I was going to help clean up, but it looks like your staff already did.”

  He nodded. “They left over an hour ago.” He leaned against the doorjamb and stared me down. “Dinner was impressive.”

  “Thank you. I hope it was like you remember it.” Taking a page from his book, I did my own leaning: a hip against the island in the middle of the massive kitchen.

  “It was better.”

  His voice sent sparks along my nape. Running my fingertip along the cool granite counter, I kept my eyes locked on his, and my body language approachable, but strong. Another thing I was learning from him.

  “Thank you for cooking, Amy. It really was incredible, and you didn’t have to do it.”

  “You’re welcome. And I wanted to.”

  He nodded slowly, his gaze going from my eyes to my toes, then back up again.

  One thing Roman was good at was eliciting information using few words. Right now, he was testing how much I’d say. Seeing if I’d broach the subject of us not “sleeping” together, as I had earlier.

  Instead, I took the opportunity to practice my method of “showing,” rather than “telling.”

  “We are going to talk now,” I informed him. Yeah, informed. The idea made me giggle internally a little.

  He raised a brow. “Are we?”

  I nodded, keeping my casual stance.

  “And what would you like to talk about, Miss Underwood?”

  “This afternoon and what you said.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, making them look even wider and his sexy hips delectable. No one pulled off business casual like Governor Reese. His button-down had white cuffs and collar, while the rest was the same blue as the French Polynesian coastline. The color made his tan skin pop and his dark eyes shine.

  I swallowed hard and adjusted my footing. Sensible heels or not, my simple dress suddenly felt too hot and constricting. Or maybe it was my skin.

  “I said a lot of things. Including my thoughts on dessert.”

  “You asked for blueberry pie.”

  His gaze was hot. “I did. But I didn’t enjoy it the way I wanted.”

  My breath stuck in my chest like cotton candy. If I didn’t try now, I’d miss my chance, and I didn’t think I could ward off Roman any longer. I was aching for him. But there was one thing we had to clear up first. One thing that he’d said that I couldn’t let him go on believing.

  “I just want to talk about what you said earlier. About you not being a good man. You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”

  “You have brought out certain traits that I’m forced to acknowledge.”

  Even though the house was quiet and we were alone, I knew there was no way Roman would let me talk about the arrangement. Once again, I had to speak like the girlfriend.

  “What traits
? After we had sex the first night, you changed. You said that you hadn’t meant to hurt me. Was it something I did?”

  He didn’t say anything. Deny or defend. So I cast a wider net, looking for anything I could think of that may have caused his different reactions.

  “Is it because of my experience level?” Or lack thereof. “Is it because of my panic attack? Do you think you have to handle me a certain way or something?”

  His nostrils flared, and he pushed off the wall to stand up straight. “No.”

  “Then explain it to me.” I tried to keep my voice level. “Please.”

  Though his arms were crossed, I could see his fists clench. His upper lip jerked up slightly, as if holding back a snarl. He was on the brink of admitting the truth. It was something I was desperate for, so I pushed a little harder.

  “It doesn’t make sense, Roman. You don’t make sense. I won’t just take your word for things, especially when you’ll barely discuss them. Admit it. You think I’m some sad weakling who can’t handle life or sex or something.”

  “No,” he said between gritted teeth.

  “Then what? What do you expect me to think if not that?”

  “I wanted to kill him, Amy!” he snapped, and stepped toward me. “The moment I saw the effect that son of a bitch Cunningham was having on you—all the color drained from your face while he smiled and watched.” Roman’s dark eyes were like those of a wolf, and I’d never heard a more deadly voice than his when he said, “It took everything I had not to end him right there.”

  “What?” I breathed, unable to form any other word, much less thought.

  Roman took another step toward me. There was so much more to him than he let anyone see. This whole time he’d been thinking of me? My welfare? He had used the word “concern” before, but that had been in a different context. I’d never tied it together this way.

  “You think I enjoy staying away from you? You think it’s easy?” He closed the remaining distance, crowding me, and when I arched my neck to look up at him, my chin skimmed across his sternum.