Nothing’s sexier than a man who’s good at what he’s doing. Bonus points if he has the body of a Greek god, and an ass that could shame Apollo.
“We make a great team,” I say, running a hand through my unbound hair.
“Clearly. Winning teams are the best teams.” His voice is warm and rich. And maybe a bit indulgent.
I adore this side of him. It reminds me of our meeting in Paris, when he was so sweet to me.
If I were a little more romantic and idealistic, I might consider us soul mates. Still, what happened today gives me hope that our marriage, despite its rocky start, might progress well. There are relationships that are worse than ours, built on lies and selfish desires without giving anything back. I should know—two of my most significant relationships collapsed because of that. Even when they don’t crumble, like Mom and Roderick, they remain toxic, poisoning the couple and those around them. To this date, I wonder if Mom truly didn’t know about Roderick’s infidelity or if she just wanted to pretend she didn’t so she could keep him.
Sebastian speeds up, although not so fast that we get pulled over. We arrive home in no time. He drives past the gates, along the winding road through the lush garden and flowering lavender, and parks in front of the covered rotunda.
I climb out and wait for him to pop the trunk so I can grab my racket, but he takes my hand. I tilt my head, wondering what it’s about. Before I can say a word, his mouth is on mine, and his arms are wrapping around me.
He ravages my mouth like a victorious Viking taking what’s his. I tunnel my fingers into his silky hair and plunder him, too, the win still sizzling in my veins. Our lips are crushed, tongues reaching aggressively. He tastes so good, like confidence, elation and male.
His hands run along my sides, leaving goosebumps behind. I press into him and feel his erection against my lower belly. Electric shock crackles along my spine, reaching all the way to my clit, which starts to throb.
He picks me up, his mouth fused to mine, and moves us inside. Whenever he carries me so effortlessly, my hormones do cartwheels and I just want to burrow into him. When he has me in his arms and displays his strength, I feel protected…like it’s okay if I let my guard down a little, because he’s here for me.
“Your room or mine?” he says between uneven breaths.
“Whichever’s closest,” I rasp, unable to think. I start to pull away, but he only tightens his hold, cupping my ass harder.
My hands still in his hair, I tighten my legs around his waist. His body is hard with muscle, and he smells so good, all hot and masculine with a hint of the eucalyptus juniper body wash and shampoo we used at Tilden. I never thought the scent was sexy until he was wearing it. I bury my nose in the crook of his neck and inhale, shivering as need pulses through me.
He takes me up the stairs. If he means to torture me with barely there touches, he’s doing a great job. Every cell in my body is quivering with anticipation as he rubs against me with each step.
He doesn’t take us to one of bedrooms, but to a guest room, nearest the staircase. I rock against him, hating every layer of clothing between us. Although I did my best to appear cool and unaffected, I watched him work out in the gym on Friday. He moved effortlessly in ways that require a lot of strength and flexibility, and that can only come from years of consistent effort. And I saw the power and grace of his body again on the court.
I want to experience the muscularity and grandeur of his body without anything covering it.
He presses me against the wall by the door. His palm glides along my hip and thigh, then puts a gentle pressure until I lower the leg. I drop the other one, too, until I’m standing on my feet.
“Take off your clothes,” I order him breathlessly, my hand on his shoulder.
A look of light mischief crosses his face as he smiles. “Whatever my winner wants.”
Crossing his arms, he pulls his shirt up. The taut muscles along his sides and abs stand out, not an ounce of fat covering them. My mouth dries at the sight. His lats flare out as he pulls the shirt higher and throws it to the side unceremoniously.
“You should never work out with your shirt on,” I breathe out softly.
He laughs. The sound dies when I run my fingers along the grooves of his torso. My fingertips tingle as I trace the stunningly proportioned, masculine lines. He’s a work of art.
“You make François’s statues look…ordinary,” I whisper.
“Mmm.” His mouth is on the side of my neck, licking and nibbling. The touch is affectionate, although no less heated. He has the power to make me feel desired. The shivers that quiver along my body are just as hot as before, but sweeter now. I reach for the waistband of his shorts, slip my hands underneath and feel his taut butt. Even there, he’s perfect.
His lips still trailing kisses along the sensitive tendon on my neck, he gets rid of his shoes and socks, then drags his shorts and underwear down and kicks them off. Finally, he’s fully nude.
His cock juts out, the head almost grazing his abs. I extend my hand down to grab it, run the pad of my thumb along the tip, but he wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls me away.
“Later.” He slips a hand under my skirt. His fingers loop around the thin string of my thong. “Is this your favorite?” he asks, exerting pressure. If I say no, he’s going to rip it off.
“Yes,” I say, half honest, half bratty. I don’t care if he shreds it.
But he respects my response and pulls the underwear down my legs. “Step out.”
I do, then look at him, anticipation pulsing like the sweetest torture. He drops to his knees. He tilts his head, his dark eyes glitter with hot need, a corner of his mouth tipping upward. Pushing my skirt out of the way, he breathes over me.
