My orgasm crashes over me with surprising intensity as waves of pleasure ripple outward. My hand tightens instinctively around his cock, my rhythm faltering again as I ride out the aftershocks.
That's what pushes him over the edge—my uncontrolled response, my complete surrender to the pleasure he's giving me even as I try to pleasure him. With a guttural groan, he comes, hot pulses coating my hand and his stomach as his entire body goes rigid beneath me.
I watch, mesmerized, as his face transforms, as his careful control gives way to raw, unfiltered pleasure. It's beautiful, seeing him like this. Vulnerable and mine, in a way I never thought possible.
As the last tremors fade, he releases its grip on my hip and pulls me down to collapse against his chest. We lie there, both breathing hard, skin sticking together with sweat and other evidence of our shared pleasure.
"So," I murmur when I can finally form words again. "Does this mean you'll stop being an asshole to me at work?"
For a moment there's silence, and I worry I've ruined the moment. Then I feel the rumble start in his chest that quickly becomes a full, rich laugh. The sound is so unexpected, so genuine, that I raise my head to look at him in wonder.
"No promises," he says, but his eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners in a way I've never seen before. He brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with unexpected tenderness. "But I'll try."
Settling back against his chest, a smile tugs at my lips. "I guess that's a start."
His arms tighten around me, and I feel the press of his lips against the top of my head. We should clean up. We should talk about what this means for us professionally.
But for now, I'm content to lie here in this bubble of aftermath, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. For now, this strange new ground between us feels less like quicksand and more like a foundation being laid, stone by careful stone.
And for now, that's enough.
Chapter 21
Sebastian
When I wake, my arm instinctively reaches across sheets. But instead of Mia’s body, my fingers find nothing but rumpled cotton. For a moment, a strange panic seizes my chest until I hear the distinctive sound of metal clanging against metal followed by creative cursing from somewhere beyond the bedroom door. The corner of my mouth twitches upward. Of course she’d be chaos incarnate before I've even opened my eyes.
"Motherfucking piece of shit spatula," her voice carries through the apartment, followed by another clang.
A slow smile stretches across my face as I roll onto my back and stare at her ceiling. My body feels loose, satisfied in a way that goes beyond the physical release. I can still smell her on my skin, that citrusy floral scent now mixed with us. It should disgust me, this human mess, this evidence of need and want and desperation. Instead, I breathe it in deeper, letting it fill my lungs.
"Son of a bitch!" Another crash comes from the kitchen, followed by the distinct smell of something burning.
I swing my legs over the side of her bed, my bare feet connecting with the cool hardwood. Her floor is cluttered with discarded clothes and my boxers are nowhere to be seen, but at least I spot my jeans half-under the bed.
Tugging them on, I don't bother with the button or zipper, letting them hang low on my hips—I'm not planning to keep them on for long anyway. My chest remains bare, goosebumps rising on my skin in the morning air. It's strange, this casual state of undress in an unfamiliar space. I've always been careful about my nakedness, my vulnerability. But here, padding through Mia's apartment, I feel oddly at ease.
Another crash comes from the kitchen, and I move toward the sound. I stop when reach the doorway, completely arrested by the sight.
Mia stands with her back to me, wearing nothing but my button-down shirt from yesterday. The hem barely covers the curve of her ass, revealing miles of legs that look even longer without the barrier of clothing. Her wild red curls are a tangled mess, falling loose around her shoulders in a way that makes my fingers itch to bury themselves in those strands. She's wielding a spatula like a weapon, jabbing at something smoking in a pan while muttering a steady stream of creative profanity.
"I will end you," she threatens the stovetop. "I will dismantle you piece by piece and sell you for scrap."
She's magnificent—a warrior goddess waging war on breakfast, wrapped in my shirt like it's armor.
I lean against the doorframe, content to watch this private performance for a moment longer. There's something deeply satisfying about seeing her like this—unguarded, uncomposed, and completely herself. No carefully constructed professional facade. No defensive humor. Just Mia, fighting with eggs and losing spectacularly.
"Need reinforcements?" I finally ask.
She startles so violently that the spatula goes flying, clattering against the far wall before landing on the linoleum with a sad plastic thud. Spinning around, she clutches a hand to her chest, eyes wide and cheeks flushed pink.
"Holy shit, you scared me." She pushes her hair from her face with the back of her wrist, leaving a smear of something that might be pancake batter across her forehead. "I was trying to… I mean, I thought I'd surprise you with… " She gestures helplessly at the smoking pan behind her. "Breakfast. But it turns out I can diagnose a rare autoimmune disorder faster than I can fry a damn egg."
Unable to resist her a second longer, I cross the kitchen in three strides. Her eyes widen as I approach, tracking my movements with a mixture of surprise and heat. When I cup her face between my palms, her breath hitches and her lips part on an inhale that I swallow as I claim her mouth with mine.
The kiss is slow, deep, and thorough. A proper good morning after a night of discoveries. She tastes like coffee and something distinctly mine. I’m unable to contain my groan as my tongue explores her mouth, relearning terrain I mapped last night.
When we finally break apart, she's breathless, eyes glazed and lips swollen. I brush my thumb across that smear of batter on her forehead, wiping it away with gentle pressure.
