Chapter 47 Chapter Forty-Seven
Lena’s POV
The room still reeks of sex.
Salt and skin and the sharp, unmistakable scent of what we did when the sky was barely pink. The sheets are half on the floor, pillows scattered like casualties. My thighs still tremble if I think too hard about how many times he made me come before the sun was fully up.
I’m staring at the ceiling, trying to find my bones again, when the bathroom door opens.
Sebastian steps out.
One towel. One very low, very precarious towel.
Water clings to the grooves of his abs, races down the deep V that disappears beneath white cotton. His hair is slicked back, a few wet strands falling over his forehead, and the look he gives me is pure, unfiltered hunger.
He stops dead in the doorway.
I sit up too fast; the sheet slips, baring my breasts. His pupils blow wide.
The towel tents. Instantly. Shamelessly.
“Sebastian…”
His name is barely a breath, but it breaks something in him.
He crosses the room in three strides and drops to his knees beside the bed like a man about to pray.
Both hands slide into my hair, gripping, tilting my head back. His mouth crashes into mine, no hesitation, no gentleness left. Tongue stroking deep, tasting me like he owns me. I moan into him and he swallows the sound, growling low in his throat.
He breaks the kiss only to rasp against my lips, “Lie back. Now.”
I fall back onto the pillows.
The sheet is gone in one impatient yank.
Cool air hits my skin; his gaze is hotter.
He spreads my thighs wide, shoulders forcing them farther apart until I’m completely open to him. I’m already slick (embarrassingly, dripping) from this morning and from the way he’s looking at me now.
He makes a rough sound, almost pained.
“Jesus, Lena. Look at you.”
His first lick is slow, deliberate, dragging from my entrance to my clit in one long, filthy stroke. My hips buck hard. He pins them down with one forearm across my pelvis, the other hand spreading me open with two fingers so he can see everything.
Then he feasts.
No teasing. No mercy.
His tongue circles my clit, flicks it, sucks it between his lips and pulls just hard enough to make me sob. Two fingers push inside me without warning, thick and perfect, curling instantly to stroke that spot that turns my spine to liquid.
I fist the sheets and arch.
He adds a third finger, stretching me, pumping slow and deep while his mouth works my clit in tight, relentless circles. The wet sounds are obscene, echoing in the quiet suite. I should be embarrassed. I’m not.
“Sebastian—fuck—please—”
He hums against me, the vibration ripping a cry from my throat. He speeds up, fingers fucking me harder, tongue lashing faster, and I’m climbing so fast my vision starts to blur at the edges.
I reach down blindly, fingers tangling in his wet hair.
He growls in approval and sucks my clit hard.
I shatter.
The orgasm slams into me so violently my thighs clamp around his head. I’m shaking, pulsing around his fingers, riding his face shamelessly while he keeps licking, keeps stroking, drawing it out until I’m begging—actually begging—for him to stop because I can’t take any more.
Only then does he pull back.
His lips are swollen, shiny with me. His eyes are black with lust.
He crawls up my body like a predator, licking his lips slow and deliberate, making sure I see.
When he reaches my mouth he kisses me deep, filthy, letting me taste exactly how much he wanted this. I moan into him, licking into his mouth, desperate for more of it.
My hands drop to the towel.
He catches my wrists, pins them above my head with one hand.
“Not yet,” he says, voice wrecked. “I just needed my mouth on you again. Needed to feel you come on my tongue one more time before I have to act like a civilized human being downstairs.”
I whimper.
He releases my wrists only to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone almost tenderly.
“I’m addicted,” he mutters against my lips. “To the way you taste when you fall apart.”
My heart flips over in my chest.
He kisses me once more—soft, reverent—then stands.
The towel is straining so hard I can see the outline of him perfectly. A wet spot darkens the fabric where he’s leaking.
I lick my lips without thinking.
His jaw clenches.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he warns, voice gravel. “Or I’ll cancel the entire fucking day and keep you in this bed until neither of us can walk.”
The threat sends a fresh rush of heat between my thighs.
He sees it. His nostrils flare.
He turns away fast, like he doesn’t trust himself, and disappears into the walk-in closet.
I collapse back onto the pillows, chest heaving, thighs still trembling.
Twenty minutes later I’m somehow dressed and vertical.
He’s in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly composed except for the faint flush high on his cheekbones and the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth.
The elevator ride is torture.
He stands behind me, one hand barely grazing the small of my back. Every time the car shifts, his fingers press a little harder.
The hostess asks, “Table for two? A couple?”
I wait for the denial.
It never comes.
“Yes,” he says simply. “Somewhere quiet.”
She beams like she’s personally responsible for whatever’s happening between us.
He pulls my chair out. His fingers brush the back of my neck as he pushes it in—deliberate, lingering.
Under the table his knee finds mine and stays there.
When the waiter makes me laugh, Sebastian’s hand slides over my bare thigh beneath the tablecloth. Higher. Slowly. Until his thumb traces the edge of my panties.
I choke on my mimosa.
He smirks, withdraws his hand, and calmly butters his toast like he didn’t just make me throb in public.
After breakfast, we walk to the beach.
The private beach is deserted.
We walk barefoot, waves licking our ankles.
He stops suddenly, turns me to face him.
The wind catches my hair; before I can move, his hand is there, tucking it behind my ear, fingers lingering.
His thumb traces my lower lip.
“I can still taste you,” he says, so low only I can hear.
My breath catches.
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Every time I swallow, it’s you.”
I sway toward him.
He steadies me with both hands on my waist, thumbs stroking just under the hem of my shirt, grazing bare skin.
“I don’t know what this is,” he admits, voice rough. “But I know I’m not letting it go.”
Then he kisses me—slow, deep, right there on the open beach where anyone could see if they walked far enough.
I don’t care.
Back at the suite, he has an investor call in twenty minutes.
We stand in front of the private elevator.
"I should go with you."
He hits the button, then crowds me against the wall.
Both hands cage me in. His mouth finds my neck, sucking a small mark just below my jaw.
"No, I can handle it on my own. I'll be back by four,” he says against my skin.
I nod, speechless.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
“This isn’t just sex, Lena.”
His voice is raw, almost angry, like admitting it hurts.
“I know,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine for a long, breathless moment.
Then he kisses me—hard, claiming, pouring everything he can’t say into it.
The elevator dings.
He steps inside, backs to the wall, eyes locked on mine until the doors close.
I stand there, fingers pressed to my swollen lips, pulse roaring in my ears.
This isn’t just sex.
And that scares me more than anything else in the world.