Page 22

OLIVIA

S ebastian's gaze is locked on mine.

Dark. Searching. Still full of that storm that's always raging—only now, there’s no shield. No retreat. Just heat and hesitation, tangled tight behind his eyes like he’s waiting for one final reason to pull away.

I give him none.

I know I should care more than I do. About my job. The fallout. The line I’m about to cross.

But nothing about this feels wrong.

Not when he looks at me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to the edge of the cliff he’s been clinging to.

And not when every part of me is already falling.

“I want this,” I say quietly. No stammer. No shame. Just truth. “I want you .”

Something shifts in him.

Not all at once. Not loud or obvious. But I feel it—like gravity changing directions, like the air thickens with something hot and irreversible. His breath catches. His jaw flexes.Then his hands are on me. My waist. My back. My jaw. He leans in, and the kiss that finds me isn’t sweet.

It’s wrecked.

Starved and messy and everything we’ve been trying to avoid.

He reaches for the hem of his hoodie. Pulls it off in one clean motion.

The sight of him—bare skin, lean muscle, the sharp tension still etched in every line of his body—makes something deep in me tighten. I move into him on instinct, my hands splaying across his chest, fingers dragging across skin that’s warm and alive and trembling just slightly under my touch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, grabbing both my wrists and pinning them gently to his chest. “You’re killing me, Olivia.”

“You’ll recover.” A small smile tugs at my lips, his eyes just go darker with need.

I brush my mouth over his collarbone, tasting his skin.

His hands tremble, then slide to my waist, pulling me against him. There’s no mistaking the way his body responds—hot and thick against my stomach, straining through his jeans.

My fingers knot in his hair as his mouth claims mine again, all heat and scrape and hunger. He walks me backward, one slow step at a time, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the hotel bed.

When he lifts me, it’s without effort. And when he lays me down, it’s with a reverence edged in desperation.

He hovers above me, eyes dark, chest rising and falling like he’s fighting a war with himself.

I pull my blouse over my head, unclip my bra, and toss it on the floor.

His gaze drops to my chest, and a groan rumbles in his throat.

“Jesus, Olivia.”His eyes flicker across every inch of my skin like he’s memorizing it.

Then he lowers himself, one knee sinking into the mattress beside my hip. I feel his breath at my collarbone—warm, uneven, and intimate. He hesitates for a single, torturous beat before his hands are on me.

“Fucking perfect,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down my neck, my shoulder, my breast. I arch into him, panting. Fingers shaking, I slip beneath his waistband, desperate to feel more—every inch of him.

When I reach for his cock—bold and aching—he curses again and flips us so I’m straddling him.

I find his belt and work it open, slow and steady.

His gaze rakes over me, jaw clenched, muscles drawn tight, storm-dark eyes barely holding on.

I unbutton his jeans, drag the zipper down, and he helps me push them off.

His briefs go next, and when I free him, I hear his breath hitch—a sound so raw it makes my knees weak.

I wrap my hand around his cock—thick and hot, the weight of it heavy against my palm. He’s long, the kind of length that makes my thighs clench. A bead of cum glistens at the tip, catching the light as my thumb brushes over it, smearing the heat across velvet skin.

He groans, bucking slightly.

“Liv—”

“I want to taste you,” I whisper.

The words hang between us. Heavy. His throat works around a swallow, the rise and fall of his chest sharp with effort. And then I slide my palms down, over the sharp lines of his abdomen, until my knees sink to the floor between his.

It’s not just about him. Not just about pleasure. It’s about control. About need. About claiming something for myself—for once. I’ve spent so long holding everything together, being careful. Safe. But tonight, I want to take. I want to feel his body unravel because of me.

He leans back, eyes locked on mine.

It's slow. Intentional. I want to remember every sound he makes. Every time his control slips.

When he fists the sheets and grits out my name, I smile. But before he can lose himself, he grips my arms and hauls me back up.

“Not like that,” he rasps.

He lays me back against the pillows, eyes locked on mine as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my jeans.

He peels them down slowly, then follows with my thong, baring me completely.

His mouth trails kisses from my knees to the inside of my thighs.

His fingers part me, gentle and firm, and his mouth follows.

"Sebastian," I cry out, my hips lifting, his name a plea.

He takes his time. Every stroke of his tongue, every rasp of his stubble against sensitive skin winds me tighter, pulls me closer to the edge.

I’m trembling, gasping, nearly undone. He moves up and kisses me, his mouth on mine, his heavy cock pressed against my thigh, throbbing and hot.

His fingers curl in my hair, and he holds my gaze.

Waits.

“You're sure?”

“Yes,” I whimper.

He fills me slowly, every inch a stretch I feel in my spine. My hands find his back, drag down the curve of muscle, anchoring me to something real. Something alive. He groans into my skin like it costs him everything to hold back.

It’s deep. Intimate. Perfect.

I cling to his shoulders, fingers digging into hard muscle as he moves inside me.

Our eyes lock.

“God, you're fucking beautiful,” he whispers.

Every stroke is reverent. Every breath feels like it matters.

I don’t know who moves faster first—but soon we’re both unraveling. He thrusts harder. I meet him. My nails dig in. His name breaks from my lips.

He holds me tighter.

It builds fast—hot and wild and molten. Every stroke sinks deeper, driving sparks through my veins, until I’m shaking beneath him. My breath catches. My body coils.

And then?—

I come apart.

It crashes through me like a storm, stealing sound from my lungs and reason from my head. I cling to him, to the feel of his skin, the weight of his body, the raw, aching sweetness of it all.

His release tears through him, face buried in my neck, body trembling.

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t retreat like I half expected.

Instead, he holds me tight like he’s afraid I’ll vanish, fingers splayed across my lower back, thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles against my skin.

His breath is ragged in my ear. My heart hasn’t slowed.

My legs are still wrapped around him, like letting go would shatter this spell.

I’ve never felt anything like this. The depth of it is staggering. Terrifying.

Not just sex.

Connection. Surrender. A glimpse of something I thought I’d buried. And God help me, I want to do it all over again.

He finally rolls to his side, one hand still possessively splayed over my hip. Our legs remain tangled. My lips tingle, kiss-swollen and tender from his mouth, my chest still heaving. We don’t speak.

His arm slips around me. No words. Just warmth, breath, skin. His fingers settle low on my waist, anchoring me like he’s still not ready to let go.

My face settles into his chest, breathing him in. My body hums. My eyelids grow heavy.

I should be scared of what comes next—of everything I might lose.

My job. My boundaries. The last shred of control I’ve managed to hold onto.

But right now, none of that feels bigger than this.

And for the first time in forever I don’t feel alone.