3. Romi

Chapter 3

Romi

Raising his hands in mock surrender, he steps back and flashes his freaking panty-melting grin again. "How about we start over?" There's a pause as if he's giving me the chance to reject his offer.

I narrow my eyes, trying to size him up. Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I acknowledge how tall he is, how his dark hair looks effortlessly tousled, and how that well-trimmed beard would feel rubbing against my inner thighs. Huh? When did I start having crazy thoughts like those? Oh, yeah. The moment the hot vampire with the roguish grin walked into Trick or Treat.

When he says, "I'm Sullivan Midnight," like it's his get-out-of-jail-free card, I groan to myself. Just freaking great. Because what else could add the proverbial cherry to my sundae of chaotic evenings than realizing he's one of those Midnights?

As in the family with their name stamped all over this town and a mansion larger than life sitting on the edge of it like a testament to their power and influence.

Quickly flipping through the mental file of 'Who's Who in Midnight Falls,' I can't help but paste a fake smile on my face. "Sullivan? It must have been a long, painful labor for your mother to come up with that one." Holy smokes. Did that really come out of my mouth? My mouth filter must've gotten fried along with my brain circuits when he walked into the bar.

His deep, genuine laughter shouldn't be as arousing as it is. "Funny, but I'm actually named after my Great Uncle Sullivan."

"Oh, right," I shoot back and tap my forefinger on my chin, remembering some of the town's illustrious past. "Was that the uncle who went crazy and thought he'd been abducted by aliens? I heard he ran through town with a tinfoil hat on his head and not much else."

His eyes crinkle with amusement, apparently enjoying this little exchange more than I anticipated. "No, that was Great Uncle Linus. Great Uncle Sullivan was the one who donated the land for the town library and paid for his brother's therapy."

Why the heck is he so darn intriguing? My stupid girly bits are singing halleluiahs while my heart beats in a funny rhythm.

I exhale, leaning back against the shelves for a modicum of support. It's a precarious fortress built on werewolf shot glasses and ceramic pumpkins. "Alright, Sullivan Midnight, what exactly do you want?"

"To get to know the woman who works in this delightful madhouse," he says, gesturing around as if to emphasize the bar's full-scale animated madness. "You could start by telling me your name."

"Why do you need to know my name?" What can I say? I was born to argue.

"Because I want to get to know you." The arrogant grin slips a little, and I'm pretty sure I heard his back teeth snap together.

"My name is Romi."

"Romi?" He blinks several times. "That's an unusual name. Is that short for something?"

"It's short for none of your business." I glare back at him, unwilling to give even an inch as the little voice in the back of my mind warns me my life will never be the same again.

The words hang in the air between us, mingling with the scent of spiced rum and the dusty nostalgia of faux cobwebs. "What if I want to make it my business?" He steps close enough for me to get a whiff of his yummy, spicy scent. My darn hussy girly bits melt into a pile of goo.

It's like we have an invisible force pulling us together. His arms wrap around me and I blink up in surprise as he leans down toward me. As his warm, soft lips cover mine, my freaking brain shuts down completely while my hussy girly parts run the show. Before I know it, I'm wrapped around him like a boa constrictor.

I return his kisses eagerly, and before I'm able to stop myself, I pull his white dress shirt free of his black pants and slide my hands under it. His back muscles ripple under my touch, encouraging me to continue my exploration.

"Goddamn," he growls against my lips. "I can't get enough of you."

"Then shut up and kiss me again." I can't believe I just ordered this man to keep kissing me in the work stockroom where anyone could walk in.

"Fucking hell." He lifts me up against his hard body and sets me down on the edge of the wooden counter.

There's something grounding about the solid firmness beneath me, juxtaposed with the absolute chaos he's causing within.

My legs spread a little wider, allowing him to step closer, to settle himself between them. It's a sensation both scandalous and perfectly natural. I forget all about the risk to my job and to my heart and fall headfirst into his kiss.

The world around us dissolves until it's just the two of us, caught up in a pulse of shared breath and beating hearts. His hands find a comfortable grip on my waist, and I can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin polyester fabric of my costume.

Right now, I'm convinced that Sullivan Midnight might just be the most dangerous kind of drug in existence. The type who redefines reality, leaving you floating somewhere between fantasy and delirium and completely freaking addicted. All he's done is kiss me, but somehow, that simple act feels more profound than any spell, potion, or séance.

For a second, I genuinely forget how to breathe. Like, I'm pretty sure air is meant to be a fundamental part of continuing to live, but when he kisses me like this, those silly bodily essentials become secondary to Sullivan's magic.

I focus everything on him—the nuances of how each contact of our lips changes and the way he tastes like something smoky like the most expensive whiskey. My hands are clutching his shoulders, perhaps holding on a bit too tightly, but the way he emits a growly pleased rumble in response only encourages me to continue.

When he finally pulls back, I blink up at him, dazed and breathless. His eyes, those brilliant sapphires, are locked onto mine with an intensity that could rival any candlelit confession. "Well, fuck," he murmurs, shock coloring his voice.

"You can say that again," I manage to say, though it comes out sounding a tad airy. I feel like I'm one of those cartoon characters with birds flying around their heads.

He laughs softly, a sound that seems to wrap around me like a comforting blanket, equal parts warmth and desire. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Sullivan counters, his forehead leaning gently against mine. "I'm glad we're on the same goddamn page."

"Same page? We might be on the same paragraph or sentence," I respond, without considering what I'm saying. "Though I'm a little fuzzy on the punctuation."

"Well, semicolons are for when you're not quite sure what else to use," he jokes, his fingers caressing small soothing circles into my hips, keeping me tethered to the moment.

He kisses me again, softer this time, and my legs curl gently around him, pulling him closer. I feel the hardness of his cock pressed against my girly parts and nearly self-combust on the spot.

Every good sense I've ever had is drowning in the intoxicating pull of Sullivan's kiss. He's standing between my spread legs, drawing me closer like gravity is a practical joke the universe is playing on us both.

Our shared oxygen is a tangible thread, weaving us together in this quiet corner of the world that's momentarily ours. My fingers knot in his hair, dragging his lips impossibly closer. I'm pretty sure my heart's forgotten every beat that isn't in sync with his.

Like a record scratching to a halt, there's a noise in the hallway outside the stockroom. It's nothing more than a clatter, probably just Shane grabbing bottles of liquor, but it's jarring enough to yank me from the magic of the moment.

Reality crashes through me, and panic jolts through my veins.

Abruptly, I pull away from Sullivan. His lips are warm and inviting, so it takes an enormous effort to break the connection. He's left blinking at me with those mesmerizing, blazing blue eyes, a layer of confusion quickly warming them.

"Romi..." His voice trails off as he sees the horror written all over my face.

"I'm… I'm sorry," I stammer, the words tumbling out before they solidify in my brain. Somewhere, deep down, there's worry about jeopardizing my job, my carefully guarded heart, and every other precious thing I've arranged in this precarious balance.

Before he can react, I slide off the counter and cast Sullivan a hasty, apologetic glance before darting out of the stockroom, leaving him standing there, probably as bewildered as I feel.

My mind is an electric storm of thoughts, each bolt striking with enough power to split the precariously balanced composure I'm clinging to. The hallway is a blur as I race down it toward my office, frantically praying I don't run into my boss or anyone else.

I slip inside and shut the door behind me, leaning my back against its sturdy reassurance. It's a small space filled with the comforting chaos of ledgers, order forms, and an old chair that squeaks its indignation at every slight move. Here, I'm safe from the pull of Sullivan's allure and those damnable kisses that threaten to unravel me like a spool of thread spinning wildly out of control.

I dive headfirst into spreadsheets and schedules, anything to keep my mind from spinning back to his lips and hands. And the hardness that both scared and excited my girly parts.

Stop thinking about him, I order myself as numbers jumble and distort. The busier I stay, the less chance there is for memories to overtake me.

I imagine Sullivan out there somewhere in the bar looking for me, trying to piece together the reasons for my hasty retreat.

A part of me wants him to storm in here, demanding to know what the hell just happened, and a more terrifying part of me knows I'd probably make a fool of myself if he did.