Page 23

SEBASTIAN

M orning light cuts through the drapes, soft and golden, spilling across the tangled sheets.

Olivia’s pressed against me, warm and loose-limbed, her breath a slow exhale against my chest. One bare leg is draped over mine, skin to skin, the kind of closeness that lingers.

Her hair’s a mess of waves across the pillow.

One arm slung over my stomach, the other curled beneath her head.

Her fingers twitch, like she’s dreaming something light. Something safe.

And I’m fucking wrecked.

My cock’s hard. Has been since I woke up with her body draped over mine.

A soft moan slips from her lips as she presses tighter against me, her hips grinding just enough to make my jaw clench. Her eyes flutter open, lashes brushing her cheeks before she looks up at me.

"Morning," she says, voice husky, sleep-warm.

I study her face, searching for anything—regret, hesitation. But all I see is that same softness from last night. That same light that knocked the wind out of me.

"Hey," I murmur.

She lifts a hand, trails it down my chest, then lower.

Her fingers curl around my cock, and I groan, hips instinctively thrusting into her touch.

She grins. "Someone’s glad to see me."

I exhale hard, cupping her face and dragging her up for a kiss. Her mouth meets mine, unhurried, warm. She shifts to straddle me, bare thighs bracketing my hips, her hair falling around us like a curtain.

Every part of me responds to her—greedy, desperate, reverent.

She sinks down, slow and sure, taking me in inch by inch. I grip her hips, fingers bruising as I try to hold on, but it’s useless. She’s too much. Too good. Too real.

We move together, lazy and hot, like we’ve got nowhere else to be. Her lips find my neck, my collarbone, her breath stuttering every time I grind up just right. Her hands roam—my chest, my shoulders, my face, like she’s trying to memorize all of me.

I let her.

I let myself have this—her.

Her pace quickens, the tension coiling tighter in her body. I can feel her getting close. My name leaves her lips in a broken gasp and she shudders, falling forward, clutching my shoulders.

I roll us over, driving deeper, losing rhythm in the rush to follow her over the edge.

"Sebastian," she cries again, and it undoes me.

I bury myself in her and let go, her name a prayer on my lips.

After, I don’t move. I stay inside her, our skin sticky and warm, my forehead resting against hers.

She sighs, eyes closed, lips parted in the faintest smile.

I wrap my arms around her, pull her close, and breathe her in like she’s the only thing keeping me tethered to any semblance of sanity.

The room feels louder now that we’ve stopped moving. The tick of the thermostat. The faint sound of traffic, muffled by thick hotel curtains. My own pulse.

When she finally shifts, it’s minimal, just enough to turn her head, hair sticking to the sweat at her temple, whiskey colored eyes finding mine.

And then I see it.

The shift.

In the drag of her teeth across her bottom lip. The way her eyes narrow, not in anger, but like she’s trying to focus, trying to shut something out.

“No one needs to know about this,” I say, voice low.

Something flickers across her face, too quick to name, but I feel it like a drop in temperature.

“But we know. I know. ”

She pushes herself upright, dragging the sheet with her. Her shoulders are tense, not like before. Not lazy and loose from sleep and skin. Tight. Like armor sliding back into place.

I prop myself up on my elbows, watching her.

“I mean… this doesn’t have to mess with your job. We’ll keep it quiet. No one has to know.”My voice sounds rough. Too casual. Like I’m trying to bury the edge of panic curling up in my chest.

She doesn’t answer right away.

When she does, her voice is quiet, flat. “It’s not that easy.”

I sit up a little more, arms braced behind me. “So what? Talk to Coach? HR? Tell them we’re handling it—professionally.”

Her laugh is short. Not amused.

“Sebastian,” she says, finally turning toward me. “It’s not just league rules. It’s my license. My career.” She closes her eyes for a second. Presses her fingertips to her temples.

And it guts me.

She shifts away, just a little. Enough to feel like loss.

And it hits me.

I finally have her. Really have her.

And there’s already a part of her writing it off as a mistake.

My fingers curl into the sheet beneath me, tight enough my knuckles ache. I want to say something. Do something. But all I can do is sit here, naked and wrecked and watching the one good thing I’ve let myself have in years slip back into doubt.

I fucking hate it.

Hate that I’m the reason her shoulders are tense now. Hate that she’s over there trying to think her way out of this, because I put her in a position where she has to.

Her words replay in my head— It’s my license. My career.

All I hear is you’re not worth the fallout.

My jaw clenches. I can feel it—everything in me winding tight.

“I didn’t just fuck you, Olivia,” I say, voice low, almost a growl.

She looks over her shoulder, startled. But I don’t stop.

“You think this is some one-night lapse in judgment?” I shake my head. “You think I’m gonna forget the sound you made when I touched you, or how you looked at me like you actually saw me?”

Her eyes flash. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“No? Then what are you saying?”

She turns fully now, the sheet pulled tight across her chest. “I’m saying this matters. Which is the problem.”

My chest is pounding. I drag a hand down my face, forcing in a breath that doesn’t help.

“I know what I am,” I say finally, quieter now. “I know I’m the last person you should’ve let in. You’ve got rules. Standards. Shit to lose. I don’t.”

Her head snaps up. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what ?”

“Make it sound like you don’t matter.”

I meet her eyes, jaw tight. “Maybe I shouldn't.”

She flinches. Not much. But enough.

And fuck, I hate myself for saying it. For needing to say it.

Because I know she cares. I saw it in her eyes last night. Felt it in every damn breath, every touch. She let me in. Just for a moment.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.

“I don’t want to be a fucking regret,” I say, voice flat.

The words hang in the space between us. Heavy. Unanswered.

She looks away.

Doesn’t say a word.

And maybe that’s the answer I was afraid of.