Her eyes are still closed, her lips parted as she catches her breath.
"You did so well," I murmur, brushing damp curls from her forehead. "So perfect for me, Mia."
Her eyes flutter open at that, still dazed but seeking mine. The vulnerability there makes my chest ache. I gather her close and press a kiss to her temple.
"You gave me your trust," I tell her softly, solemnly. "And I won't break it. Not ever."
Chapter 20
Mia
Ifloat somewhere between reality and bliss, my body humming with aftershocks from Sebastian's very skillful mouth. My world has narrowed to this—his arms around me, his scent filling my lungs, and the lingering taste of his lips on mine. I've never felt so completely undone, so utterly claimed.
His breathing is steady against my temple, but there's tension in the way he holds himself. Like he's keeping himself carefully controlled, even now. My nerve endings still spark with phantom sensations—the cold shock of ice followed by the heat of his mouth, the relentless precision of his tongue, the way he edged me to the brink and then pulled back, only to send me flying higher than I've ever been.
"You okay?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble I feel against my skin more than hear.
I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet. My hand rests on his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt.
That's when awareness fully penetrates my pleasure-soaked brain. Sebastian is still wearing everything—his button-down,his jeans, even his shoes. The only sign of dishevelment is where my fingers clutched his hair, leaving it standing in appealing disarray. While I lie here completely bare, he remains armored. And beneath that armor, beneath the careful control of his breathing, I can feel the hard line of his erection pressing against my hip.
He gave me everything and took nothing for himself.
The realization sends a different kind of heat flooding through me. Not the desperate, clawing need from before, but something warmer. Something that makes me want to peel back those layers he's still hiding behind.
I shift against him, deliberately pressing closer to that hardness. His breath catches—a hitch so subtle I might have missed it if I weren't listening for it.
"Sebastian," I whisper, finding my voice at last. "You didn't..."
His hand slides up my bare back, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across my skin. "This wasn't about me."
The words twist something inside me. He's held me at arm's length for so long, pushed me away for a week, only to pull me close and give me the most intense pleasure of my life without asking for anything in return. It doesn't compute. It doesn't fit with the arrogant, dominant man who told me I wasn't allowed to touch myself, who controlled my pleasure with terrifying precision.
"I want to touch you," I admit, the words slipping out before I can analyze them. Then, more hesitantly, because shit if I understand what the hell I’d just gotten myself into. "Is that... allowed?"
His body goes still against mine, and for a moment I worry I've said the wrong thing. But then he pulls back just enough to look at me, dark eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. There's hunger there, raw and barelycontained, but something else too. Something that looks almost like tenderness.
"Mia," he murmurs. “I know what you’re thinking. But what’s between us is not about rules or permission. I’m not trying to controlyou.”
Lifting his hand, he brushes my hair back with slow, deliberate care. “I need the control sometimes, yeah. But not because I want to own you. It’s about trust. About letting go of everything else and knowing the person with you won’t run.”
My throat tightens. He sees more of me than I thought possible, and yet he’s still giving me room to choose.
“And if touching me is what you want?” His voice drops lower. “Then that’s not just allowed. It’swanted.” Leaning in, he presses his forehead against mine. “You don’t have to ask. You already have me.”
Pushing myself up until I’m half-sitting, I reach for his shirt. The first button slips free under my fingers, revealing a triangle of tanned skin and the hollow of his throat. The second exposes more, and I watch, fascinated, as his chest rises and falls with increasingly unsteady breaths.
Button by button, I reveal his broad chest dusted with dark hair, the defined planes of his abs, and a thin scar just beneath his left collarbone that I immediately want to trace with my tongue. When the shirt hangs open, I push it from his shoulders.
He's magnificent—all hard planes and lean muscle that flex beneath my touch. When I trace a small, raised scar on his side, he inhales sharply.
"What's this from?" I ask, circling the mark gently.
"Barbed wire fence," he says, something distant in his eyes for a moment. "Back on the ranch. Long time ago."
Lowering my head, I press my lips to the scar. His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head while those long fingers tangle in my hair.
"Fuck, Mia," he breathes.
