His eyes darken. The towel shifts slightly at his hips.
“Harper,” he murmurs, my name like smoke on his tongue.
I tilt my head. “Sebastian.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re still locked on me. Hungry. Dangerous. Like he’s considering whether to close the space between us or let it burn him alive.
My gaze drops again. This time I don’t pretend it’s innocent.
The presence between his legs is unmistakable now. Heavy. Stiff. Pushing against the linen, the wet cloth darkening where his arousal grows. My thighs clench involuntarily. My breath catches. And Iknowhe sees it, the way I react to the sight of him. The way I always have.
We’ve never had time. Never had space. Never had silence.
Until now.
Sebastian takes a step toward me, slow and deliberate. His hand lifts to my arm, bare, exposed, and his fingers trail along the inside of my wrist. It’s barely a touch. A whisper. But my skin lights up beneath it like spell fire.
“If you stay,” he says, voice hoarse, “I’m not going to behave.”
“Have you ever?” I whisper.
He laughs softly, shaking his head, and takes another step. The heat coming off of him is dizzying, his towel now barely holding on.
He’s close enough now that I can smell the mix of soap and something distinctlyhim, pine, fresh ink, and the faintmetallic note of magic lingering in the air. My knees weaken at the scent, at the way he’s looking at me like he’s been waiting to do this foryears.
Then, Voices. Again.
Closer this time. Directly outside his door.
We both freeze, breath caught in our throats. I hear the jingle of someone’s keys. A shoe scraping the floor. A muffled conversation about potions class, laughter trailing away into the next hallway.
But the illusion is gone.
The risk is real again.
Sebastian’s eyes never leave mine.
He steps back. Just slightly. His hand lingers on my waist. His thumb presses into the silk of my gown.
Then, quietly, like it’s the only truth he’s ever been sure of, he whispers:
“Stay.”
His voice dips, rough with barely restrained want.
“Just stay, Whitlock.”
And I do.
Because he’s never said my name like that before.
And I’ve never wanted todisobey the rulesmore than I do right now.
His hand glides to my waist, warm and certain, fingers slipping beneath the edge of my nightgown with maddening precision. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t push. But the intent in his touch is undeniable.
His lips find mine again, this time with no hesitation, no trembling restraint. It’s claiming, slow and hot, filled with the kind of need that’s been buried for far too long. I open beneath him instinctively, hands moving to his shoulders, his skin still damp beneath my fingertips. The kiss deepens, mouth parting, his tongue sliding against mine with lazy,devastating control. It isn’t rushed. It isn’t hungry. It’s indulgent. Like he’s been starving for years but now has all the time in the world to taste every piece of me.
When he lifts me onto the edge of his desk, my legs part for him without thought. The silk of my nightgown drapes loosely around my thighs, cool against my heated skin, but it’s what’s beneath that fabric, what’s pressed flush against him, that draws the first real groan from his throat. His hips slide between mine, the only barrier between us the soaked linen of my underwear and the tortured strain of the towel still somehow clinging to his hips.
