"You're not allowed to go home and touch yourself," he says, his voice low and commanding.
I blink at him, certain I've misheard. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His eyes drift down my body again, lingering on where my dress is once more riding up my thighs. "No getting yourself off tonight. No fingers, no toys, nothing. That pleasure belongs to me now."
The audacity—the sheer arrogance of the statement—should infuriate me. Should have me delivering a scathing lecture about bodily autonomy and how he doesn't own me. Instead, it sends a jolt of heat so intense through my core that I have to press my thighs together to keep from whimpering.
"And if I do?" I challenge, lifting my chin despite the flush I can feel spreading across my cheeks.
His smile is slow, deliberate, and oh-so-dangerous. "Then I'll know. And the consequences will make tonight's frustration seem like nothing." He reaches out, his thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch so brief I might have imagined it. "I want you desperate for me, Mia. Want you thinking about me every second until I see you again. Want you wet and aching and knowing that only I can give you what you need."
With that, he steps back completely, his hands dropping to his sides. The loss of contact is physical pain, my body protesting the sudden abandonment. I'm struck speechless, my mouth opening and closing without producing sound. Did he just... forbid me from touching myself? And did my body just respond with eager, traitorous enthusiasm to that command?
"You can't be serious," I finally manage, voice embarrassingly breathy.
"I've never been more serious about anything." Sebastian adjusts his shirt collar, the only sign that he's affected by what just happened between us. Otherwise, he looks frustratingly composed while I'm still trembling against the brick wall. "I'm dropping you at your place. My car is around the corner."
"I can get my own ride," I protest, though it lacks conviction. The thought of being confined in a car with him, the scent of him surrounding me while my body is still humming with unresolved desire, is both terrifying and irresistible.
"That wasn't a question." He offers his hand, and I stare at it for a long moment, understanding that taking it meanssomething. Means surrender to whatever game he's playing. Means acknowledging that whatever this is between us has shifted into something I can't control.
I take his hand.
The walk to his car is silent, my legs still unsteady beneath me. The night air cools my heated skin but does nothing for the ache between my thighs. Sebastian keeps me close, his hand at the small of my back, possessive in a way that should offend my feminist sensibilities but instead sends another pulse of want through me.
His car is sleek and black, of course. Expensive without being flashy. I slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool against my bare legs. He closes my door with a decisive click that sounds like finality.
When he gets in, the space immediately feels smaller. His scent fills the confined area—sandalwood, a hint of whiskey, and something uniquely him.
He starts the engine, and the car purrs to life beneath us.
"I should be furious with you," I say after several blocks of charged silence. "After how you've treated me this week."
His jaw tightens, but his eyes remain fixed on the road. "Yes, you should."
"You were deliberately cruel."
"Yes." No excuses. No justifications. Just simple acknowledgment.
"And you're sorry?" I ask, needing to hear him say it again.
"More than I can express." His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "It was... a defense mechanism. I was trying to keep my distance."
I laugh without humor. "By being an absolute jerk?"
"By being what I thought I needed to be." He glances at me briefly, then back at the road. "Professional. Detached. Notthinking about how your voice makes my heart race or how I can't focus when you're in the room."
The confession sends warmth blooming in my chest. I turn to look out the window, watching the city lights blur past, afraid my expression might reveal too much.
"That's still not an excuse," I say, though my voice lacks the conviction I'd like.
"No, it's not," he agrees. "And I'll spend as long as it takes making it up to you."
The promise in his words makes my skin tingle. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs to alleviate some of the pressure still building between them. Sebastian notices, of course he notices, and his mouth curves into that infuriating half-smile.
"Having trouble sitting still, Dr. Phillips?"
"Don't," I warn, though there's no heat behind it. "Don't you dare gloat."
