Page 31

OLIVIA

T he car’s warm, but Olivia’s still shivering. Rain clings to her, soaking through her coat, dripping from her hair onto the collar of her shirt. I crank the heat higher, then lean over to angle the vents toward her legs.

“Any better?” I ask.

She rubs her arms. “Getting there.”

I glance over. Her knees are pulled close, fingers tucked into her sleeves. Damp lashes, flushed cheeks.

“You hungry?” I ask.

“A little.”

“I’ll order something when we get in. Any preferences?”

She shakes her head. “I’m good with anything. Just nothing with too much spice.”

“Noted,” I murmur. “Guess I’ll hold off on the vindaloo."

"I have no idea what that is."

"Not a fan of Indian food?"

She shrugs. "I like Butter Chicken, if that counts."

“It counts.”

“Then yeah,” she says. “I’m cultured as hell.”

I huff out something close to a laugh. Reach for the garage key fob as we pull up to my apartment.

"How about Sushi?"

She shrugs. “Honestly? I’ll eat anything. As long as it’s not expired and doesn’t set my mouth on fire.”

“Low bar.”

“I usually just have cereal for dinner.”

I glance at her. “Seriously?”

She nods. “Don’t judge.”

“I’m not judging. Just…surprised. You seem like someone who makes real food.”

“Yeah, well. Grief does weird things to your appetite.” The words come out casual, but there’s weight in them. She doesn’t look at me when she says it.

I don’t push.

Pull into the garage. Park in my spot near the elevator. Kill the engine.

By the time I round the hood, she’s already unbuckled. I open her door. She slides out—rain-soaked and flushed, coat clinging to her legs.

Our footsteps echo against the slick concrete as we cross to the elevator. The air is cool, damp, heavy with the kind of quiet that settles after something breaks open.

Inside, the elevator hums. I swipe my keycard and press the code. And as soon as the doors close, I reach for her.

No hesitation.

Hands at her waist, pulling her in. Her body meets mine—wet, chilled, and trembling against my chest. She exhales, sharp and quiet, and curls into me like it’s instinct.

Her fingers find the front of my shirt, and my palm slides to the small of her back.She tilts her face up—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, breath warm against my jaw.

I lean down.

Lips brushing, soft at first. Testing.

Then deeper.

She presses close with that quiet urgency that undoes every part of me.

My hand slides up her spine, fingers threading into her damp hair.She sighs into the kiss, a soft, broken sound that hits low, sharp.

And just like that, I’m hard.

No buildup. No warning. Just her mouth on mine, her body against me, and the way she sounds when she lets go.

I deepen the kiss, just enough to taste that edge of need. Her hands fist tighter in my shirt.

She pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips, “I’m gonna need some warm clothes.”

I breathe hard. Nod. “Yeah.”

She licks her bottom lip. Smiles. “And a hot shower.”

I groan.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to my place—wide windows, soft light spilling across marble tile. Sleek, spare, expensive. Quiet.

We step out, still touching.

My hand finds the small of her back again like it belongs there. Like I can’t not touch her now that I’ve started.

She takes a slow look around, eyes wide, mouth parting.

“Wow,” she breathes. “This place is…”

“Too much,” I mutter.

But she doesn’t disagree.

Just turns her face back to mine, a ghost of a smile still on her lips.

I don’t give her time to second-guess.

I take her hand and start walking. Long strides down the hall, past the dim kitchen and darkened living room, straight to the master.

“Where are we going?” she asks, half breathless.

“Shower,” I growl.

She huffs a laugh. “I was kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Her laughter softens into something else—something warm and intimate and a little wrecked.

“God, you’re serious,” she says, grinning now as I push open the bedroom door, and go straight to the bathroom.

I twist the shower knob, crank the heat. Steam billows almost immediately.

She’s still staring at me when I turn back. Her clothes are soaked. Jacket clinging, pants dark and dripping.

I step in, fully dressed, pulling her under the warm water with me.

She laughs. “Sebastian?—”

I grin down at her, my fingers go to her coat, peeling it back. Then the hem of her shirt. I pull it over her head slowly, letting my fingers trace her spine.

Her hands find my waist, shirt clinging to my skin as she helps me strip it off.

I unhook her bra. Let it fall.

She tugs at the drawstring of my sweats, knuckles grazing bare skin. I help, fingers brushing hers as I shove them down my hips, the fabric sliding easy over my thighs. She looks—really looks—and lets out a soft sound that curls heat low in my gut.

Fuck.

Her pants cling to every curve, soaked and stubborn where the fabric grips her thighs.

She peels them down slowly, hips shifting, body twisting in a way that makes me groan under my breath.

“ Jesus ,” I mutter, voice barely there.

She bites her bottom lip. “Little help?”

I kneel in front of her, hands firm on her hips. She steadies herself on my shoulders as I drag her pants down, inch by inch, reluctant to let go. Then shoes. socks.

My palms graze her skin—damp, warm, already rising in goosebumps.

I press a kiss to the soft skin just above her knee, another kiss to the inside of her thigh. Then higher. She whimper, andbraces one hand on the wall, the other curling tight in my hair.

Her body trembles, as I hook my fingers into the sides of her thong and slide it down.

I kiss the inside of her thigh again, lifting one leg and bracing it on my shoulder, thenlower my head and drag my tongue across her clit—slow, deliberate, teasing just enough to make her moan.

God, that sound. It goes straight to my cock.

She tastes like sin. Like surrender. Like something I’ll crave for the rest of my fucking life.

“Sebastian,” she gasps. Barely a word. More like a plea.

My tongue finds her again—licking, tasting, learning every way she falls apart.

I glance up once, and the look on her face fucking wrecks me—flushed, vulnerable, wanting.

She starts to shake.Her fingers yank at my hair, pulling me in like she needs more, like she’s on the edge of shattering.

I groan into her, let her grind against my mouth. Let her ride that edge.

And when she comes, it’s wild.

Her cry echoes against the tile, her whole body going tense, then trembling as she jerks against me. Her hips buck, nails dragging down my shoulders, leg locking around me.

I don’t stop until I’ve felt every last wave of it—until she’s panting, wrecked, slumped forward, whispering my name like it’s the only thing holding her together.

Then I rise.

Her eyes flutter open, glassy and dazed. Her mouth parts, but no words come out.

I kiss her.

Deep. Slow. Letting her taste herself on my lips as her arms wind around my neck and pull me in like she never wants me to leave.

The friction is brutal—my cock hard, throbbing against her belly, every muscle in my body tight with want I can’t hold back anymore. Her fingers slide down, wrapping around me, and the groan I let out isn’t controlled—it’s desperate.

“I need you,” she whispers.

My jaw clenches. “You have me.”

Our lips meet again, slow and deep. Her hands splay over my chest, then my back, dragging down muscle and spine like she’s memorizing me.

I kiss her neck. Her shoulder. The curve of her breast.

She gasps.

I lift her. She wraps around me. Arms. Legs. Trust.

One thrust, deep and slow, and she cries out.

It’s not just fucking—it’s something deeper, something... devastating . Every move feels like the first, like nothing before this ever counted. Every drag of her nails down my back. Every whimper in my ear. Every desperate kiss... she undoes me .

My hand cradles her head. Her forehead presses to mine. We breathe the same broken air.

I’m too far gone to hold back.

She pulses around me, crying out as she falls apart again. Her body convulses. Shakes.

And I lose it.

I follow her over the edge, groaning against her skin, face buried in her shoulder, as release shatters through me.

We stay like that.

Panting. Pressed together. Her body trembling in my arms. The shower still runs hot, washing away the cold—but not the ache.

Not the craving.

Because I’ve never felt like this. Not with anyone.

This thing with Olivia?—

It’s not sex. It’s not lust.

It’s possession. Longing. A need so deep it scares the hell out of me.

And if this ruins me—if it ruins her—I don’t know how I’ll come back from it.

But right now, I’d burn everything just to keep holding her like this.

Because for the first time in years, I don’t feel empty.

I feel alive.