Chapter 27 I Want You The rain started just as we stepped out of the club, fat droplets splashing against the pavement, the smell of wet asphalt rising up like steam. He grabbed my wrist, jaw tight, and pulled me toward the parking lot. Roman didn’t say a word as he guided me out of the club, one hand on the small of my back, the other clenched at his side like if he let go of his rage, he might burn the whole place down. Not my problem if Chloe doesn't come get her pervert fiancé. We had barely made it to the car before he was unlocking the door and shoving it open. I slipped into the passenger seat silently, still trembling in my heels and dress. His jaw was locked. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The air was thick with something feral. The moment the doors shut, silence swallowed us. Then the car roared to life. His foot slammed the gas. We peeled out of the driveway, tires shrieking like the night needed to hear his fury. Like Roman needed to make his rage shown. The silence in the car was deafening. Not a word had passed between us since Roman pulled me away from Dean’s grabby hands like he was one wrong move from murder. Streetlights blurred past in violent flashes. His chest rose and fell like he’d just left a battlefield—and maybe he had. “Roman—” “Don’t.” His voice was low. Controlled. But beneath it was something raw. Dangerous. I looked down at my thighs. They were still bare, trembling slightly. My skin was flushed, buzzing from fear… and something between want and desire. His knuckles flexed around the wheel again. His grip on the steering wheel was a warning. As if he was trying to keep something in. Knuckles white. Jaw clenched. Eyes locked ahead but seeing nothing. I didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. I was still shaken, still burning, and not just from shame. But from want. “You should’ve told me he did shit like that,” he finally said, voice low and feral. “I didn’t know he would.” My voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I was taken by surprise, Roman.” He scoffed, “Taken by surprise.” He repeated it as if it sounded absurd. He sped up. Then he spoke again. “You were half-naked,” he bit out, not looking at me. “Vulnerable. And that fucker thought he could corner you? Put his hands on you? I should kill him.” I turned sharply, my eyes checking to see if he was joking or not. He looked dead serious. Jaw clenched. Eyes blazing. Veins popping. In that moment, Roman looked like a killer. He looked nothing like the golden boy with the perfect smile who charmed companies and sealed deals. He looked like a man who was out for blood. I swallowed. “I didn’t think he’d—” He slammed the brakes. The tires screeched against asphalt as he swerved the car violently to the side of the road, pulling into a dark shoulder off the road— an empty stretch lit only by the dull amber of a flickering streetlamp and the faint glow of flickering city lights in the distance. Roman threw the gear into park, breathing like a man on the edge. The silence was louder than the engine had been. Only the sound of our breathing was heard. “Why did you stop?” He turned to me, his eyes black. “He wanted to fuck you. And you think I could just drive like that didn’t happen?” “He was drunk and disgusting. Dean is not that kind of person. I know him.” “You think that makes it better?” he barked. “You think that's an excuse?” I didn’t flinch. I met his gaze, just as sharp. “You think I wanted that? I slapped him. I told him no. What's the fucking problem?” Roman’s chest heaved. “You shouldn’t have had to. That's the fucking problem.” We sat there—heaving, burning, staring. The windows fogged with tension neither of us could control as the rain landed against the window in fat, heavy droplets. Then I said the dumbest thing I could’ve said. “Stop acting like you're my boyfriend.” He clenched his fists. “I'm your fucking fiancé.” “Fake.” I corrected him, “Fake fiancé, Roman. Don't get it twisted.” Rage flashed before his eyes. Hot and burning. His knuckles turned white from clenching so hard. Not a word was exchanged between us. We just stared at each other as if we were both waiting for the other person to speak first. I rubbed my sweaty palms down my bare thighs, his eyes followed the movement intensely. I licked my lips, “Look, Roman—” “This doesn't feel fake anymore.” His voice broke at the end. I looked away, biting my lip in frustration. “Roman, don't.” He didn’t speak. Instead, his seatbelt snapped off and he lunged. His mouth crashed onto mine—hot, angry, wild. His hands tangled in my hair, his tongue demanding entry, and I gave it. I gave everything. I clawed at his shirt, moaned into the kiss like I needed it to survive. No No No. Savannah, this is wrong. We shouldn't be doing this. I stepped back immediately, turning away. He pulled me in again. I broke the kiss and shook my head. “No. We shouldn't...” His eyes were hooded with lust, his breath coming out in pants. “Tell me why.” I shook my head, “There's no audience… Let's not, Roman.” “I don't need a fucking audience… I want you.” He let out a low growl, then reached across the console, grabbing the back of my neck and pulling me into a kiss that wasn’t sweet or soft—it was war. And fuck, I kissed him back like I was starving. Like it'd hurt if I didn't. Like my entire life depended on it. It was intense. A war of teeth and tongue, breathless groans were swallowed between us. My body arched toward him like it belonged there. God, what am I doing? What are we doing?