Chapter 46 Chapter Forty six
Lena’s POV
I wake to the bruised half-light of dawn sliding through the half-open blinds like spilled ink. The air is cool against my bare shoulders, but the sheets still hold the heat of him, cedar, warm skin, faint traces of last night’s scotch and sex. My body feels heavy, languid, every muscle humming with the memory of his weight pinning me down, his mouth on my throat, the way he’d groaned my name like it hurt.
His whispered confession loops, relentless.
“I shouldn’t want her.”
It had slipped out in the dark, voice cracked open, breath hot against my neck while he thought I was asleep. I wasn’t. I’d lain there, heart punching my ribs, pretending I didn’t hear.
Now the apartment is too quiet. No clink of a coffee spoon, no hiss of the shower, no low rumble of his voice on a call. Just the soft hum of the city far below and the thud of my pulse in my ears.
Barefoot, I pad into the living room.
He’s there.
On the couch, fully dressed in yesterday’s suit, tie knotted like armor, but the top button undone, like surrender sneaked in while he wasn’t looking. Elbows on his knees, phone dangling loose in one hand, the other buried in his hair, raked through so many times it’s started to rebel. He looks carved from exhaustion, shadows carved deep under his eyes, stubble darker, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitch.
The second he feels me, his head snaps up.
Our eyes lock.
The air turns solid, electric, impossible to breathe.
He clears his throat once, sharp, and tries for the CEO voice. “We have a long day ahead. I hope you slept well.”
The lie tastes like ash.
I hug my arms across my chest, the shirt swallowing me, hem brushing mid-thigh. “Yeah, I will just go freshen up”
His gaze drags over me, slow, helpless. Messy hair falling in my face, faint pillow crease on my cheek, bare legs, the way his shirt gapes at the collarbone. Something feral flickers across his face before he cages it.
“Lena,” he starts, voice gravel-rough from no sleep, “there’s nothing to talk about.”
I laugh, short, bitter, wounded. “You said you shouldn’t want me. That sounds like something.”
He flinches like I struck him.
He stands too fast, the movement sharp and predatory. “Lena… this can’t happen.”
“Then stop looking at me like you want it to.”
His control fractures. “You think I don’t want you?” The words rip out of him, low and furious. “That’s the damn problem.”
The room ignites.
He takes one step. Two. I back up until my spine meets the cool glass wall, city lights glittering behind me like a thousand watching eyes. He stops inches away, breathing hard, hands clenched at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back.
“I’ve tried to ignore it,” he whispers, voice shredded. “I can’t.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
He starts to turn, actually starts to walk away again, and something inside me snaps.
I grab his shirt. Fist the fabric over his heart. “Sebastian.”
He looks down at my hand, then at my lips.
That’s it.
He loses every ounce of restraint.
His mouth crashes into mine, desperate, starving, months of tension detonating all at once. It’s not gentle. It’s a collision of need. I yank him closer by his tie; he cages me against the glass with his whole body, one hand sliding into my hair, fingers tangling, tugging just hard enough to make me gasp into his mouth. The other hand grips my hip, thumb pressing into the hollow above the bone, branding me.
His tongue strokes mine, slow, deliberate, tasting, claiming. I melt against him, a soft, broken sound escaping my throat that makes him groan, deep and wrecked, the vibration rumbling through his chest into mine.
Hands everywhere. Mine tearing at his shirt buttons, desperate for skin. His sliding under the dress shirt, my shirt, palms gliding over bare thighs, up, up, until his thumb brushes the edge of lace and I shudder, thighs parting on instinct.
He lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist, the hard length of him pressing exactly where I ache. I roll my hips and he hisses against my mouth, teeth grazing my lower lip, tongue soothing the sting.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps, forehead pressed to mine, voice raw. “Please…”
I shake my head, nails scraping the nape of his neck. “Don’t stop.”
That’s the end of it.
He carries me to the bedroom, mouth never leaving mine, kicking the door shut. We fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and hunger. The shirt is gone in one tug, buttons scattering like hail. His mouth follows, hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat, tongue tracing the frantic beat of my pulse, teeth scraping the sensitive spot beneath my ear that makes me whimper.
He drags the shirt off my shoulders, lips following the path, collarbone, breast, the curve of my waist, like he’s mapping every inch he’s been starving for. He takes a nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling slow, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch off the bed with a broken moan.
His hands are everywhere, worshiping, memorizing. Sliding down my sides, gripping my thighs, spreading them so he can settle between them. I feel him, hard and heavy against me, velvet over steel, and I roll my hips again, needy, shameless.
He growls my name against my skin, teeth scraping the hollow beneath my ear. His fingers slip beneath lace, finding me already soaked, and he curses under his breath, reverent. One finger slides inside me, slow, deliberate, curling just right. Then two. I gasp, back bowing, clutching at his shoulders.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark velvet, watching my face like it’s the only thing that exists. “So ready for me.”
I reach for his belt, frantic, fingers fumbling. He helps, shoving fabric aside until there’s nothing between us. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.
He pushes inside me in one slow, devastating thrust.
We both still, breathing ragged. He’s thick, stretching me perfectly, filling me so completely I can’t think. I cling to him, nails digging into his back, and he drops his forehead to mine, trembling with restraint.
“Move,” I whisper, desperate.
He does.
Slow at first, deep, deliberate strokes that drag a moan from my throat with every slide. Then faster, harder, the bed creaking beneath us. I meet him thrust for thrust, legs locked around his waist, heels digging into his back. His mouth finds mine again, swallowing every sound, kissing me like he’s starving.
I come apart first, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes over me in waves. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep, groaning my name like a prayer as he spills inside me, body shaking with the force of it.
We collapse, tangled and breathless, sweat cooling on our skin.
The silence that follows is huge.
He stares at the ceiling, chest rising and falling too fast. I watch the muscle in his jaw tick, watch him try to rebuild the walls.
Then he whispers, voice raw and ruined:
“I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”
It sounds like damnation.
I reach out, fingertips brushing his arm, soft, careful.
He closes his eyes like my touch burns.
I lean in, lips barely grazing his ear.
“Then don’t.”
He turns his head slowly.
His eyes meet mine, desire, fear, longing, surrender, and for the first time, he doesn’t look away.