Chapter 67 Eyes On The Mirror An hour later, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at a stranger. The emerald green dress hugged me in all the right places, the daring neckline daring gravity to humiliate me before the wedding even began. My face was a mask of glamor. Makeup flawless, lashes long, lips coated in bright red. I looked different. Too polished. Too put together. Not me. I tugged at the neckline nervously, muttering about nip slips when I caught it—his scent. That sharp, intoxicating cologne that always gave him away before his touch did. Then I felt his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back into the solid heat of his body. His nose buried in my hair, his breath fanning my ear. “You look absolutely breathtaking, my love,” Roman murmured, spinning me gently to face him. My fists clenched at my sides, the reminder of everything he’d done this morning flaring up again. He had threatened me to get ready. Fought for the wedding to happen. Practically betrayed me thirty times this morning and yet, here he was, looking into my eyes like I was the most exquisite thing to ever exist. It made me want to scream. Or stab him. Or both. So I did the next best thing. I raised my silver stiletto and brought it down hard on his foot. I expected a curse, a wince, something. Instead, his chuckle rumbled through his chest, eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re one vindictive woman, Sav.” “And you’re an asshole!” I hissed, shoving at his chest but he didn’t move an inch. “That’s fair,” he grinned, clearly unbothered. I turned back to the mirror, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my gaze. “I’m really mad at you, Roman.” “I know.” His voice softened, dangerous in its gentleness, as he pressed closer, molding his body to mine, making it impossible to ignore what was pressing insistently against me. “You’re distracting me.” My protest slipped out as more of a whimper than a complaint. Because God help me—I could feel him. Every ridge, every line, pressing into me like a brand. My body wasn’t aligned with my fury. My body wanted him. “That’s the plan,” he whispered, teeth grazing my earlobe before catching it in a feather-light graze that sent fire straight through my core. I groaned, “Roman—” My head fell forward against the mirror as heat surged through me. “We’re going to be late.” His palm flattened against the glass above my head, caging me in. “I’m not doing anything. Yet. Unless…” his voice dropped to a sinful murmur, “you want me to.” Outside the door, the world was chaos. Bridesmaids hurried past, footsteps echoing down the hall. Doors opened, laughter erupted, someone called out for missing shoes. The whole house was buzzing with wedding frenzy. Inside the room, there was only him. Only me. Only the tension that wrapped itself around my lungs and squeezed. “Roman…” my breath fogged the mirror, “what’s the worst that could happen?” He checked his watch with infuriating calm. “We arrive twenty minutes late. And the maid of honor can’t catch her breath.” I bit my lip, fighting a grin. Then something inside me snapped. “Fuck it. Fuck the wedding. Fuck Dean and Chloe.” My eyes met his in the reflection. “And fuck you too, Roman. I’m still mad at you.”His laugh was deep, head tipping back, before his hand slid beneath the hem of my dress, dragging it slowly upward. “God, I love you.” The words slammed into me harder than his touch. My heart tripped, somersaulted, begged me not to read too much into them. Best friends love each other. That’s all it was. Right? But his gaze in the mirror said otherwise. He was watching me like he knew exactly what I was thinking. His eyes burned with possession, not friendship. “Well?” I breathed, pulse hammering. “Are you going to fuck me or not?” His answering chuckle was low and wicked. With deliberate slowness, he peeled my dress up and over my ass, his palm smoothing over the curve like he was memorizing it. “So beautiful,” he murmured. I widened my stance, bracing myself. Anticipation coiled tight inside me when I heard his belt unbuckle and his zipper slide. He fisted himself once, twice, before rubbing the length of his cock against the thin barrier of my thong. A moan slipped free. “Roman—please.” “When I first saw this dress, I never imagined I'd be fucking you in it.” He admitted slowly. “Well I never imagined a lot of things as well, but here we are.” I turned to the side. “Are you putting it in or not?” With a smirk, he hooked the thong aside and pushed forward, sliding in with one deep thrust that knocked the breath from my lungs. The impact shoved me into the mirror, and I would’ve cracked my skull if not for his iron grip on my waist. “Fuck, that feels good,” he groaned, eyes closing as he set a brutal rhythm. I clung to the edge of the vanity, my nails digging into wood, every nerve screaming with the effort to muffle my sounds. But each thrust drove deeper, battering the breath from my chest, making silence impossible. “As if I don’t know you,” Roman snarled in my ear, his hand slipping between my thighs, rubbing mercilessly. “Don’t you dare hold back, Savannah.” A cry tore from me, raw and desperate. Then another. Soon I was begging, panting, unraveling beneath his touch. “Yes! Roman, don’t stop!” “Eyes on the mirror.” His command was a growl.I obeyed. And what I saw nearly undid me. Roman, immaculate in his suit, nothing out of place but his undone belt. His expression feral, brows drawn tight with pleasure, lips parted as he pounded into me. His arm locked around my waist, holding me upright as my legs trembled dangerously in my heels. Our gazes locked. His power over me seared hotter than his touch, burning away the last of my resistance. “Roman…” I whimpered, teetering on the edge. His thrusts grew faster, deeper, and relentless. My release ripped through me, my body going limp in his hold as my climax crashed like a wave. He didn’t slow down, and neither did he falter. He kept driving into me until his own groan broke free, and he stilled, burying himself deep as he spilled inside me. “Fuck…” his voice was hoarse, reverent, as he pressed soft, lingering kisses along my spine, my shoulder, my neck. Each bite followed by a tender kiss, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to devour me or worship me. I was still panting when he murmured, “You okay?” I let out a shaky laugh, still breathless. “Of course. I feel incredible.”He pulled out carefully, cleaned us both with a wet wipe, then tucked himself back into his pants with maddening composure before he smoothed my dress back down, as if nothing had happened. But his fingers lingered just long enough to remind me what he’d done. Then it was gone. Then, with his lips curving into a smirk, he offered his hand as if we were about to waltz into a ballroom. “Now, shall we ruin a wedding?” I stared at him, caught between wanting to slap him and wanting to kiss him. Maybe both. Maybe at the same time. Because the truth was, even as fury burned through me, even as guilt for what we’d just done on someone else’s wedding day whispered in my ear, I couldn’t deny it. I would always, always want him.