Chapter 62 Bare and Unafraid
When Roman turned to look at her, he realized her voice had gone quiet.
Evelyn was asleep.
Her lashes rested softly against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, body pliant in his arms. The bold, seductive woman from minutes ago had vanished—replaced by someone small and trusting.
A slow smile touched his mouth.
Carefully, he brushed the damp strands of hair away from her face. The sea still clung to their skin, salt drying in faint crystals. He moved gently, scooping water in his palm to rinse her clean before lifting her into his arms.
She stirred but didn’t wake.
Inside the villa, he laid her on the bed and returned with a warm towel. He cleaned her properly this time—reverently, drying her skin, tending to her with quiet attention before slipping one of his oversized shirts over her body.
She looked swallowed in it.
His throat tightened unexpectedly.
Only after making sure she was comfortable did he finally step away.
—
When Evelyn woke, the room was dark.
For a moment, her mind was blank, floating somewhere between dream and memory. A gentle breeze slipped through the open window, carrying the scent of salt and flowers.
She sat up slowly.
The moon hung bright over the Mediterranean, silver light spilling across the water. The little lake at the side shimmered softly, framed by the villa’s garden and the quiet outline of cliffs.
It was breathtaking.
Evelyn pushed herself up and walked to the window on unsteady legs, leaning her elbows on the sill. The air kissed her skin, and she breathed it in, a small, involuntary smile curving her lips.
That was when she noticed the sleeves.
She blinked.
Slowly, she looked down. An oversized button-down shirt hung loose on her shoulders, the cuffs falling past her wrists, the hem brushing her thighs.
Definitely not hers.
The familiar masculine scent of Roman rose from the fabric.
Her eyes widened.
All the memories came crashing down on her, all at once.
The water. The marks she left on his neck. Her mouth on his skin. Her mouth on him. The way she'd rocked against him, taken what she wanted, told him exactly what she needed.
The way she'd looked at her work and whispered mine.
Her entire body flushed.
“Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
She was still standing there, frozen in horror. As if on cue, the door opened behind her.
She spun around.
Roman stepped in, holding a cup of tea. He’d changed into a simple brown T-shirt and casual pants, hair slightly tousled.
The low light caught the sharp planes of his face, the warmth in his dark eyes made him look relaxed, and effortlessly handsome.
He looked at her in his shirt, backlit by moonlight, her hair a wild mess around her flaming face, and something soft passed through his expression.
Evelyn stared at him for two seconds too long, before panic overtook her.
She made a sound like a wounded animal, before bolting for the bed.
She dove under the duvet, pulling it over her head, and curled into the tightest ball humanly possible.
‘If I can concentrate hard enough, maybe the earth would swallow me whole. Maybe the villa would collapse. Maybe I could simply cease to exist.’
She thought, holding the blanket even tighter.
The mattress dipped.
"What's this?" Roman's warm and amused voice sounded.
She felt him settle beside her, felt the gentle tug as he tried to pry the duvet from her death grip.
"Did a dog eat all that courage you had this afternoon?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her face was pressed into the mattress, and she was fairly certain she'd never speak again.
‘I gave him a blow job. I put that—I actually put that in my mouth. I acted like a—like some kind of—’
Her eyes flew wide beneath the covers as the full, uncensored replay scrolled through her brain.
‘Oh no. Oh no no no. I swallowed. I actually—’
She buried her face deeper into the mattress.
Roman’s laughter echoed warmly through the room.
She squeezed her eyes shut and made a strangled sound of pure mortification.
“What?” he teased. “You don’t want to look at your husband after marking him up like that?”
“Go away,” she mumbled.
The duvet was suddenly ripped away.
Roman loomed over her, one hand still gripping the fabric, his expression caught somewhere between concern and barely suppressed laughter.
He dropped the fabric, and gave her a light playful swat on the hip. “Sit up, and have this before your head starts punishing you.”
Evelyn didn’t budge.
His brow arched.
He leaned closer and gently pulled her upright, with one hand.
“You’ll suffocate,” he said softly.
Evelyn kept her gaze fixed on his chest. Specifically, at the dark bruise blooming just above his collarbone.
‘I did that. I marked him. Like some kind of feral cat.’
She couldn't look at his face. If she looked at his face, she would actually die.
"I promise," she blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in their rush to escape, "I'm not—I don't normally—I'm not like that. I'm not a slut."
Roman went very still.
"It was the alcohol," she continued desperately, her voice rising. "Definitely the alcohol. Didn't you say I got wild on your father's white wine too? It's a pattern. I only watched, like, one video with Lena in college. Maybe two. Possibly three. But that was just for educational purposes! I don't normally watch—I don't normally do—I just—I don't know why I—”
The words died in her throat.
Because Roman was staring at her.
Not with amusement. Not with the teasing heat she'd grown accustomed to. Something else entirely.
Her breath caught in her throat.
There was a softness in his eyes, a new kind of warmth she hadn't seen before.
Almost overwhelming. Like he was seeing something precious.
The sharp edges of his face seemed gentler, and there was this light in his eyes.
Her heart skipped a beat.
"Roman...?" Her voice came out barely a whisper.
Slowly, his hand came up to her face. He tucked the wild strands of hair behind her ear with impossible tenderness, his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. His palm settled against her neck, thumb stroking over her pulse point, and she felt it kick into a gallop beneath his touch.
“You,” he said quietly, “don’t need alcohol to be brave.”
Her heart stuttered.
“I liked that you weren’t hiding,” he continued. “I liked that you wanted me. That you weren’t afraid to show it.”
Her throat tightened.
“You think I’d judge you for that?”
She blinked.
He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
“You could never disgust me,” he murmured. “You could only drive me insane.”
He pulled away gently, staring at her eyes, as if searching her soul
"You're my whore. Only mine" he murmured, low and reverent, "and I wouldn't have it any other way.”
Her heart stopped. Then slammed against her ribs.
The last words were crude. The way he said them was anything but. His voice carried no mockery, no degradation. Only want. A quiet, overwhelming kind of want.
Evelyn couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
He gently pressed the cup into her numb hands. "Drink. Hangover tea. I won't have you suffering because of my cocktails.”
She lifted the cup mechanically and drank. The tea was warm, herbal, with a lingering sweetness that coated her tongue.
Roman watched her swallow with satisfaction, then reached out and caught a stray drop on her lower lip with his thumb. He held her gaze as he brought it to his own mouth, tasting.
Her stomach flipped.
"Now," he said, his voice dropping back to that familiar, teasing register, "let's get some food in you. You'll need your strength."
He stood and offered her his hand.
Evelyn stared at it. At him. At the dark marks scattered across his neck, down to his covered chest.
She took his hand.
He pulled her up gently, and she swayed into him. His arm caught her waist, steadying, and for a moment they just stood there in the moonlight, her in his shirt, him looking at her like she was the most precious thing in the world.
"And maybe," he added, his lips brushing her ear, "I'll have you for dessert.”
The blush that flooded her cheeks was violent, helpless, and entirely insufficient to cool the liquid heat pooling low in her belly.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't want to.