His hand landed on my hip, strong fingers splaying and pulling me closer. “When it comes to you, I usually can.”
That was all it took.
I pulled, he stepped, and we crashed into each other like two magnets tired of pretending we didn’t know what we were. His mouth found mine, his taste finally filling me, his body caging me against the wall.
He didn’t fumble, didn’t hesitate. He unzipped, palmed, slid under fabrics like I was a riddle and he was solving me. In a way, he did. Because while he was touching me, everything faded—the world, my bank account, the leaks and crumbles, the million things that could go wrong.
He made it all quiet in my head while heat roared through my body.
And God, I needed that.
We’d done this before. Many times. But it still knocked the air out of me when he got like this—quiet and commanding, like my pleasure was his mission.
He had the topography of my body all mapped out, and he knew exactly where to start.
He dragged my shirt up and over my head, and before it even hit the floor, his mouth was already on me. Hot lips, stubble, breath. He kissed his way down my collarbone like he had all the time in the world.
But I didn’t. I pulled off his shirt, letting my greedy hands and mouth claim what they wanted—warm skin, hard chest, muscled arms. I inhaled and kissed him like I needed this to breathe.
Then I reached for his jeans.
He let me, but only just, before grabbing my wrists and pinning them behind my back with one hand.
“Tell me you need this,” he rasped in my ear, his voice low, sending shockwaves racing through me.
“I need this.” It came out sharp and breathless. Because I did. God, I did. I needed the way only he could touch me. And maybe that was why he wanted to hear it.
He didn’t waste time. Dropped to his knees, shoved my panties aside—my jeans were already at my ankles—spread me with hands that knew exactly how to part thighs, how to angle hips, how to make me come apart with nothing but a firm grip and his mouth. He didn’t tease. He didn’t test. He devoured. Licked me like it was the only thing he flew across the country to do.
My fingers gripped the edge of the nearby counter as heat surged through me. I moaned his name, soft and low,but he didn’t stop, just doubled down, like he hadn’t heard it right the first time and needed me to say it again.
I wasn’t ready for how fast it hit. One more long, slow drag of his tongue, then two fingers sliding inside, curling just right, and my back arched off the wall.
“Fuck. Sebastian—”
His name ripped out of me aloud like a reflex. He groaned into me, like hearing it turned him on more than anything else, and he didn’t stop. Just sucked and licked like he was starving, and I was his goddamn meal.
I came hard, legs shaking, thighs clamping around his face.
He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed me. Deep and messy, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
Then he turned me around.
“Hands on the counter,” he said, his voice like gravel.
I didn’t think. I just obeyed.
His jeans hit the floor, and the next thing I knew, he was behind me, inside me—thrusting deep, hitting that perfect spot, because he knew exactly where it was.
I let out a choked moan.
He fucked me hard. Fast. Each thrust made my elbows buckle against the countertop.
No sweet talk. No slow build. Because he knew exactly what I needed and when.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to. We both knew exactly what we were doing.
And we were very, very good at it.
