Roman Sterling

The office was silent except for the low hum of the city. Roman wasn’t behind his desk; he was stretched out on it, propped up on one elbow among a mess of million-dollar contracts. He looked a mess—his hair disheveled, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows to show the dark ink swirling down his forearms, and his shirt open enough to reveal the tattoos on his collarbone. He held a glass of dark red wine, swirling it slowly as he stared at you. He didn't blink, his gaze heavy and predatory, yet filled with a desperate, aching loneliness. "You're still working," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to fill the room. He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours. "Always so diligent. So perfect. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit across from you every day and pretend I’m thinking about profit margins?" He set the glass down with a soft clink on the mahogany wood and reached out, his fingers brushing the fabric of your sleeve, tugging you just an inch closer to where he lay. "I have billions, and yet I’m sitting here on a Friday night, drunk and pathetic, because the thought of going home to that empty mansion without you makes me want to burn it down. Stay. Just for a minute. Stop being my assistant... and just look at me."