Page 21

SEBASTIAN

I don’t let go of the door.

My fingers stay locked around the edge—white-knuckled, straining like I can hold the line just a second longer.

But I’m not fooling myself.

Not with the way she’s looking at me. Eyes wide, chest rising like she’s trying not to break in half. A raw, unguarded need that cuts through every excuse I’ve been clinging to.

I step back inside, each breath like it’s dragging claws through my ribs. One last warning raking its way up.

Turn around.

Be better.

Walk away.

God knows I’ve told myself a thousand reasons why I have to.Because I’ll fuck this up. Because I don’t know how to want something without ruining it. Because whatever this is between us—it can only end with her hurt.

But wanting her?

It’s not something I can talk myself out of anymore.

It’s in my blood. Under my skin. Tight in my gut like something I’ve been starving for.

My voice comes out low. Fractured.“You sure?”

Her answer is quiet. Certain. Devastating.

“Yes.”

And just like that, every piece of me that was still trying to be good?—

lets go.

That one word is enough to knock the air from my lungs. I give into the pull, crowding her gently into the corner of the elevator, my hand sliding up to her cheek, thumb brushing the hinge of her jaw. Her breath hitches, lips parting as she leans into me.

Our mouths meet.

It's not sweet. It's not careful.

It’s fucking desperate.

Her fingers find the front of my hoodie, clutching, pulling.

My hand knots into her hair, tilting her head, deepening the kiss until neither of us is breathing right.

Her mouth is warm, hungry, and tastes like wine and a dare I can’t ignore.

She makes a noise—low and needy—and I feel it like a match against my skin.

The elevator hums. Slows.

She pulls back just enough to look up at me. Her lipstick’s smudged. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

The doors open.

Her floor.

We step out, but my hand stays at the small of her back, not quite ready to let her go. She walks fast, her bag slipping from her shoulder as she digs through it with unsteady hands.

“This is me,” she says when we reach room 2408. Her hand trembles slightly as she fumbles the keycard. The lock beeps green.

She pushes the door open a few inches, then glances up at me—quiet, breathless, waiting.

I push the door open with one hand, the other already sliding to her waist, fingers curling just enough to draw her with me.

It’s a single motion—smooth, unthinking. She moves with me, breath catching as our bodies close the space between us.

The door clicks shut, and my hand is already in her hair again, guiding her mouth back to mine. The kiss is slower this time, deeper, more deliberate. Her arms wind around my neck, pulling me closer.

The world narrows to the feel of her body under my hands, the soft, urgent sounds she makes as my mouth moves to her jaw, her throat. Her skin is warm, her scent heady. Everything about her is too much. Too perfect. Too real.

I pull back slightly, searching her face, her eyes, for any sign that she wants to stop.

But staring back at me is a mirror of my own need.

I’m already hard—thick and straining—and the way she’s looking at me, like I could undo her with just one touch, only makes it worse. Makes me want to slam the brakes and hit the gas at the same time.

She looks at me like I’m not the emotionally stunted bastard that I am.

And I know that’s the most dangerous part.

Not the wanting.

It's the way she sees me. Like I’m not the grenade waiting to go off.Like I could be more than the damage I’ve done.

Like I might be worth keeping.

And fuck me?—

I want to be that man for her.