The Husband Hangover: Chapter Four - The Second First Time

Being "married" to Roman was supposed to be a business arrangement of mutual spite. But when the lights go out and the pretense drops, I’m starting to realize that Roman Vance has been playing a much longer game than I ever imagined.

Chapter Four

The Second First Time

Roman Vance

The drive back to the penthouse is silent, but it’s not the empty kind of silence. It’s the kind that’s thick with the scent of ozone before a storm breaks.

I keep my eyes on the road, but my peripheral vision is locked on Ivy. She’s staring out the window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The silk of her dress shifts with every breath, and I can see the way her pulse is jumping in the hollow of her throat.

She’s terrified. She should be. I just blew up her entire world for the second time in twenty-four hours, and this time, I didn’t leave her any rubble to hide under.

When we reach the penthouse, the doors slide shut behind us, sealing us away from the city and the wreckage of my family. Ivy doesn’t move past the foyer. She just stands there, looking at the floor, the silk making her look like a queen who just lost her kingdom. Or won a new one.

"You called me your wife," she says, her voice so quiet I almost miss it.

"Technically, that’s what you are." I toss my keys onto the marble console. "Unless you want to go back and tell Marcus it was all a big misunderstanding."

She winces, finally looking up at me. Her eyes are wide, glassy with unshed tears and a spark of that fire I’ve been chasing for three years. "You almost killed him, Roman."

"He called you a name he didn't have the right to think, let alone speak." I walk toward her, closing the distance slowly. I want her to run. I want her to stay. I want her to realize that the 'safe' brother was the one who hurt her, and the 'dangerous' one is the only one who will ever truly keep her. "I told you, Ivy. I don't play by the rules. Especially not when it comes to what’s mine."

"I’m not yours," she whispers, though she doesn't back away as I stop a breath away from her.

"The paperwork says otherwise. The ring on your finger says otherwise." I reach out, my fingers grazing the line of her jaw. Her skin is like heated velvet. She shivers, a long, slow tremor that goes straight to my gut. "And the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching? That says the most of all."

"I look at you because I’m trying to figure out if you're the hero or the villain in this story," she breathes.

"I can be both," I mutter, my thumb catching her bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to see the pink of her inner lip. "I can be whatever you need me to be to forget he ever touched you."

The tension snaps.

It’s not a gentle thing. It’s a collision. Ivy reaches out, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me down as she stands on her tiptoes. When our lips meet, it’s not the desperate, drunken mess of the night before. This is sharp. This is intentional. This is the sound of three years of repressed longing finally breaking through the ice.

She tastes like defiance. I groan into her mouth, my hands finding her waist and lifting her until her back is against the wall. The silk of her dress slides against the paint, and she wraps her legs around my hips, pulling me closer, deeper.

"Roman," she gasps against my mouth, her breath hot and ragged. "I don't... I don't remember everything about last night. I don't remember if it felt like this."

"It didn't," I growl, trailing my lips down the column of her throat to the spot where her pulse is frantic. "Last night nothing happened. Today is real. Everything about this is real."

I carry her toward the bedroom, never breaking the contact. The light in the room is soft, the afternoon sun dipping low, casting long, orange shadows across the bed. I set her down on the charcoal sheets, the creamy off-white silk glowing like a streak of moonlight against the dark fabric.

She looks up at me, her chest heaving, her eyes searching mine. There’s no more fear there. Just a raw, exposed hunger that mirrors my own.

"Show me," she whispers. "Show me what I need to know."

I don't need to be told twice. I strip out of my jacket and shirt, my eyes never leaving hers. I want her to see every scar, every inch of the man she married. When I reach for the delicate straps at her shoulders, my hands are steady. I’ve waited a lifetime for this. I’m not going to rush it.

The silk bunches and slides, revealing the pale, perfect curve of her shoulder, then the swell of her breasts as I guide the fabric down. She’s breathtaking. A masterpiece I’ve finally stolen to make my own.

When I touch her again, it’s reverent, but there’s a hunger beneath it that’s clawing to get out. My hands map the terrain of her body—the soft slope of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the heat of her inner thighs. I’m memorizing her for the first time, because even in the neon haze of last night, I didn't have this. I didn't have her awareness.

I want to know every sound she makes, every place that makes her breath hitch, every inch that belongs to me.

"Roman," she moans, her back arching off the charcoal sheets as my mouth finds the sensitive hollow behind her ear. Her hands aren't shy; they slide down my back, her nails dragging over my skin, leaving stinging white lines that feel like a benediction. Then she reaches lower, her fingers wrapping around my cock, squeezing with a desperation that nearly breaks my composure.

I’m thick and aching in her grip, a low growl vibrating in my chest. I move between her thighs, my hands bracing myself over her, my weight pinning her into the mattress. I want her to feel the sheer size of me, the reality of the man who finally stepped out of the shadows to take her.

"Look at me, Ivy," I command, my voice low and rough, vibrating with the effort to not just lose myself in her.

She opens her eyes, her pupils blown wide, her chest heaving against mine.

"I didn't marry you for the trust fund," I confess, the truth finally breaking through the walls I’ve built. "And I didn't marry you for revenge. I married you because I’ve been waiting for Marcus to fail you since the day he met you."

Her hands cup my face, her thumb brushing over my cheekbone, but her legs wind around my waist, pulling me flush against her heat. "So stop talking, Roman. Show me who you are. Show me why I’m here."

"I’ll show you exactly why," I growl.

I don't give her a choice but to feel it. I guide myself to her entrance and push, a slow, relentless intrusion. Ivy lets out a sharp, jagged gasp, her head falling back as I fill her completely. She’s tight, wrapping around me like she was made to hold me, and for a second, we both just breathe, locked together, the cheap gold ring on her hand digging into the back of my neck.

I start to move, deep and punishingly slow. Every thrust is a declaration. I’m erasing every memory of my brother’s touch, replacing it with the friction of skin on skin and the heavy, rhythmic thud of my heart against hers. She meets me stroke for stroke, her soft whimpers turning into wrecked cries of my name as she clutches me, her body beginning to coil for the fall.

The hangover is gone. There is no more past, no more Vance legacy. There is only the wet heat of her, the fire in my blood, and the final, crushing realization that she was always meant to be mine.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: December 2025

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