Emboldened, I let my hands drift to the button of his jeans. His abs tighten beneath my touch, and I feel a tremor run through him—the first real crack in that iron control.
"Can I?" I ask, fingers hovering at his waistband.
"Yes," he answers, the word rough with want. "Please."
That please, from a man who gives commands rather than requests, sends a fresh surge of heat between my legs. As I pop the button on his jeans and slowly lower the zipper, I realize something profound has shifted between us.
This isn't just about physical reciprocation anymore. It's about trust freely given on both sides. It's about vulnerability shared rather than exploited. It's about seeing and being seen, completely.
And as I slide my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, feeling him hot and hard against my palm, I understand that this is what he meant about control. Not taking but giving. Not restraining, but freeing.
He’s thick and hard, pulsing against my palm. He closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening as he fights for control. That visible struggle—the way his breathing catches, the flex of muscle beneath skin—is the most erotic thing I've ever seen. I've spent so long thinking of him as untouchable. To feel him physically respond to my touch, to see that perfect composure crack, sends a thrill of power straight to my core.
"Like this?" I ask, giving him a tentative stroke from base to tip.
His eyes open, darkened to nearly black. "Tighter," he grits out. "And slower."
I adjust my grip, watching his face carefully as I draw my hand up his length with more pressure. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and his hand comes up to cup the back of my neck.
"Just like that," he murmurs, the praise washing over me like warm honey. "You're a quick study, Dr. Phillips."
The formal title in such an intimate moment should sound ridiculous, but instead it sends another jolt of heat between my legs. I have to bite back a moan when I circle my thumb over the head of his cock and collect a bead of moisture to ease my movements.
"You're still wearing too many clothes," I tell him, suddenly impatient with the barriers between us.
He lifts his hips, allowing me to tug his jeans and boxers completely down his legs. I'm not graceful about it—there's an awkward moment where they catch on his shoes, which I'd forgotten about entirely—but then he's helping, kicking everything aside until he's completely naked before me.
And shit, he's gorgeous. All lean muscle and tanned skin, with dark hair trailing down from his navel to where his cock stands proud against his stomach. There's a coiled power in the way he holds himself, even spread out beneath me like this.
I take him in my hand again, more confident now. His breathing roughens as I establish a steady rhythm, twisting slightly on the upstroke in a way that makes his abs tighten.
"You're beautiful," I whisper, the words escaping before I can consider them.
Something flashes in his eyes as his hand slides from my neck to my cheek where his thumb brushes across my lower lip in a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache.
"Says the woman who's been driving me crazy from day one."
Before I can respond, he tugs me down for a kiss that's nothing like the calculated possession of before. This is messy, desperate, his tongue sweeping into my mouth as his free hand tangles in my hair. I keep stroking him through it all, feeling him grow impossibly harder against my palm.
When we break apart, both breathing fast, he finds my breast and circles my nipple until it pebbles beneath his touch. Even now, even as I work him toward his release, he can't stop touching me. It makes me feel some kind of freaking way.
"I need to taste you again," he growls, pulling me higher up his body until my breast hovers above his mouth.
The first hot, wet pull of his lips around my nipple makes me gasp and my hand falters in its rhythm. He growls against my skin, a warning to continue, and I obey instinctively, finding my pace again as he sucks and licks and uses the edge of his teeth just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting to my core.
We establish a feedback loop of pleasure—the harder I stroke him, the more intensely he sucks; the more he makes me gasp, the tighter my grip becomes. His free hand slides down my back, over the curve of my ass until his fingers can dip between my legs from behind.
"Fuck," I breathe as one long finger slides inside me, curling it just right.
"That's it," he encourages, releasing my nipple to watch my face as he works me. "Let me feel how much you want this."
My hips rock against his hand automatically, seeking more friction, even as my own hand continues its steady rhythm on his cock.
"Sebastian," I gasp, feeling the tension building again, impossibly fast.
His finger slides deeper, joined by a second that stretches me deliciously. "Give me one more," he demands, curling his fingers in a way that makes my vision blur at the edges. "I want to feel you come while you make me lose control."
The command, delivered in that rough, desperate voice, snaps the last thread of my restraint. "Yes," I gasp, rocking harder against his hand. "Yes, please."
