Dreaming of Us

She wasn’t looking for love. If anything, Jelena had spent years building walls thick enough to keep even the most determined man out. She was a force—running her marketing firm in downtown Chicago, moving through life with the precision of a woman who refused to stumble. No distractions. No detours. Just her ambition and the fire that had carried her through every storm.

And then came Roman Saint-James.

Six foot one, the kind of man whose presence commanded a room without effort. His confidence wasn’t loud, but it was felt—a slow, rolling thunder in the way he carried himself. Charcoal-gray suit tailored to his frame, deep brown skin rich like aged mahogany, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes that disarmed her first. Deep-set, intelligent, with an intensity that told her he saw things most people missed.

Their first meeting was anything but love at first sight. He was a venture capitalist, looking to invest in small, high-potential firms. She was the woman in the power suit who met him across the table, arms folded, analyzing him with the same sharpness she used to dissect marketing strategies. She didn’t need saving. She didn’t need a man to fund her success.

“I’m not interested in a buyout,” she said, leaning back in her chair, watching for cracks in his perfect composure.

Roman had only smiled, slow and knowing. “Who said anything about buying you out? I think you and I could build something together.”

Something flickered in his voice, in the way he said together like it was something more. Something personal.

It started with meetings. Then coffee. Then dinner. She tried to keep it professional, tried to remind herself that men like Roman—men with money, power, and options—didn’t chase. But he did. Not in a way that was overbearing. No, Roman had patience, the kind that made her feel seen. He learned her before he tried to have her. Noticed how she bit her lip and tapped her nose when she was deep in thought, and how her left leg always bounced like it had a motor in it when she was fighting the urge to argue.

And slowly, he worked his way in.

It was the way he spoke to her, like every word had weight. The way he laughed at her sarcasm, never taking offense, always throwing it right back. The way he challenged her, respected her, made her feel something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years—safe.

Their first kiss wasn’t fireworks—it was gravity.

A slow, undeniable pull that neither of them could fight, even if they wanted to.

Jelena felt it the moment his hand grazed her jaw, his fingers featherlight yet firm, tilting her chin just enough so that their lips were a breath apart. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, her body betraying the carefully crafted walls she had built. He didn’t rush, didn’t take—he waited. Like a man who knew the taste of her was inevitable.

“Jelena…” Roman’s voice was low, and rich, teasing the edge of restraint.

She should’ve stopped this. Should’ve ignored the way his scent—dark spice and something uniquely him—had already wrapped around her like a vice. But when his thumb traced the curve of her bottom lip, her breath hitched.

That was all it took.

He leaned in, closing the space between them with agonizing slowness, his lips barely grazing hers. A tease. A question.

She answered by pressing forward, giving him everything he had been waiting for.

The kiss started soft—warm and unrushed, like the first sip of something forbidden. But when she sighed into him, melting against his chest, Roman exhaled sharply, his restraint snapping like a frayed thread. His hands—big, strong, possessive—slid to her waist, pulling her closer, anchoring her to him like she was something he had no intention of letting go.

Then, he deepened it.

The shift was subtle yet electric. His lips moved against hers with a purpose that sent heat rolling down her spine. He kissed her like he was memorizing her, as he had already decided that this moment—this exact moment—was going to be burned into his skin.

His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing, teasing. And when she let him in when their mouths met in a slow, sensual dance of want and need, a low growl rumbled from his chest.

Jelena felt her knees weaken.

Roman must have felt it too because his grip tightened, one hand sliding down to the small of her back, the other, slowly and purposefully sliding up her spine to the base of her neck where his thumb anchored itself at her chin, angling her just how he wanted. The kiss turned deeper, hotter—his lips slanting over hers like he was claiming her like he had waited lifetimes just to do this.

When they finally pulled apart, they were breathless.

Jelena’s lips were swollen, her chest rising and falling in sync with his. Roman’s forehead pressed against hers, his breathing uneven, his hands still holding her like he wasn’t ready to let her slip away.

“Damn,” he muttered, voice rough and raspy with need.

Jelena swallowed, her fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah.”

Roman chuckled, low and wicked, before his lips brushed the corner of her mouth, just once, just enough to make her shiver.

“I hope you know…” His thumb traced her jaw, eyes locked onto hers like he was making a silent vow. “I’m not done with you yet.”

She should’ve been scared. Should’ve pulled away before she lost herself in something she couldn’t control.

But as he leaned in again, as his lips met hers in another slow, devastating kiss…

She knew she was already his.

And then came the nights.

The long, breath-stealing nights where restraint unraveled like a thread pulled too tight. Where his touch became her addiction, his name, the only thing she could remember when the world melted away.

Roman was patient—but he wasn’t passive.

He kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, like he had studied the way she breathed, the way she needed, before ever laying a hand on her. And when he touched her—God, when he touched her—it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless. It was deliberate. A masterstroke of possession and tenderness, teasing and claiming in the same breath.

Jelena had always been in control. Always the one who set the rules, who dictated the terms. But Roman didn’t take control—he earned it. Seduced it from her, unraveled her inch by inch until she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began.

And when their bodies finally met, when he settled against her with a weight that claimed as much as it comforted, it wasn’t just lust. It was something deeper. Something dangerous.

Roman loved her thoroughly. With a patience that made her ache and a hunger that stole the breath from her lungs. Their rhythm was unspoken, their movements effortless, like their bodies had always known exactly how to fit together.

He took his time. Let her feel every stroke, every shiver, every whispered promise against her ear. His grip firm but reverent, his mouth wicked as he teased, explored, devoured.

Nights with him weren’t just pleasure.

They were a slow, exquisite destruction.

A fever that wouldn’t break.

And she had never, not once, wanted to be cured.

And afterward, when their breaths evened out and the world slowly came back into focus, he didn’t just roll away. He didn’t treat her like something momentary.

No, Roman held her like she was essential. Like letting go wasn’t an option.

And when he looked at her when those deep, knowing eyes met hers in the dark, she felt it—the truth settling low in her chest.

She wasn’t just his.

He was hers too.

“You scare me,” she admitted one night, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his chest.

Roman caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “Why?”

“Because this isn’t just sex. You see me.”

He turned her chin toward him, his gaze heavy with something deeper than lust. “I do. And I want all of you, Jelena.”

It wasn’t perfect. There were fights. There were moments when old wounds threatened to open. But the love? The love was the kind of thing people wrote about.

Epic. Consuming.

And then—

Jelena opened her eyes.

The world around her was off—too bright, too empty. The bed she was in wasn’t hers.

Her breath caught.

She turned her head—and there he was. Roman.

His brow furrowed as he blinked awake, confusion spreading across his face.

“…Jelena?” His voice was rough with sleep. “What’s—?”

But then he looked around. The same off feeling settled over him. He reached for her like he always did in the morning, but something shifted—like reality itself was slipping.

A heartbeat of silence.

And then—it hit them both at once.

This. Wasn’t. Real.

Everything—the love, the passion, the history—had been nothing but a shared dream.

Jelena’s hands flew to her lips, eyes wide with horror, grief, and loss. Roman’s breathing turned ragged as he gripped the sheets as if trying to ground himself in a reality that was crumbling around them.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, desperate. “No, this can’t—”

But the world around them was already fading, pulling them apart.

“Jelena!” Roman’s voice was raw, his hands reaching—

And then—

She woke up.

For real this time.

Alone.

No warmth beside her. No deep voice murmuring her name. No Roman.

Just an empty room and a hollow ache in her chest, like she had lost something she had never truly had.

And across the city—

Roman Saint-James sat up in his own bed, heart pounding, hands shaking.

He didn’t know who she was. Didn’t know why he felt like he had just lost the love of his life.

But deep down—somewhere—he knew she was real.

And he would find her.

Even if he had to chase a dream to do it.