“Tell me how far I can go,” he murmurs against my throat, lips brushing the skin just beneath my ear. His voice is low, guttural, frayed at the edges in a way that makes my body clench.
The words send a shiver down my spine, but I don’t speak yet. Instead, I lean back slightly, letting my thighs open wider around him, letting the fabric ride up higher. My breath trembles as I feel the full weight of him press against me, hard and thick and barely contained by the damp linen that does little to hide what he wants.
“You already know,” I whisper, but it’s not teasing. It’s not even a challenge. It’s a confession.
He groans softly, his hand slipping up my inner thigh, fingers grazing dangerously close but never quite touching the place I ache for. The tension is unbearable. And perfect.
He presses his forehead to mine, our breaths mingling, his hand still resting just below the edge of my underthings like he’s daring me to beg. “You’re soaked,” he says against my mouth, like the observation is something sacred. “I haven’t even touched you, and you’re already fucking dripping.”
His words land like a spell, tightening every muscle in my body. I should be embarrassed, anyone else, I would be, butthis is Sebastian. He knows every inch of me. Every fault. Every sin. There’s nothing left to hide.
Then he does something wicked, he rocks his hips forward, slow and precise, dragging the thick length of him along the center of my clothed core. The fabric is soaked through, the pressure perfect. I gasp, hips twitching, and he does it again, this time slower. His cock grinds against my center, not inside me butclose, and the friction has my toes curling.
He doesn’t break the rhythm.
Doesn’t tear the fabric away.
He just keeps moving, keeps watching me fall apart under the weight of his restraint.
“You want to cum like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing my cheek now, dragging down to my neck. “Don’t you?”
I nod, too breathless to lie.
His fingers hook under the waistband of my underwear, dragging them slightly to the side, but not enough to enter me. Just enough to expose the slick mess he’s made of me. His cock glides against my bare folds now, the heat of him grazing my clit with every slow grind.
“I want to fuck you,” he groans, voice strained with barely restrained need. “But I want this more.”
I don’t ask whatthismeans, because I already know.
He wants control.
He wantsbuild.
He wants to take me apart without ever fully taking me, because the tension between us is its own kind of worship.
He kisses me again, mouth slow and consuming, while his hips keep rocking and my hands grip the edge of the desk behind me for leverage. My thighs are trembling. My skin is flushed. Every drag of his cock against me sends sparks behind my eyes.
And just when I think I can’t take it anymore, when thepressure starts to build so tightly I can hardly breathe, I whisper against his lips, “Don’t let me fall.”
His hand cups the back of my neck, steady, grounding.
“I won’t,” he breathes. “But I’m going to take you to the edge.”
And he does.
Sebastian doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t give me a chance to catch my breath.
He sinks to his knees before me with the kind of reverence reserved for altars and ancient gods. Not with urgency, not with shame, but with purpose. Like worship. Like this is something sacred. His fingers trace the outside of my thighs, the pads of them feather-light, dragging up until they hook beneath the silk hem of my nightgown. The material rides higher with each pass of his hands, baring more of me to the cool air and his hot gaze.
And still, he waits.
I should be the one telling him to stop. I should pull my nightgown down, smooth my legs together, slip out the door before anyone hears. But I don’t. I lean back onto my palms, legs slightly parted, trembling from the ghost of his breath already hovering far too close to where I ache for him most.
His mouth is unbearably close.
I can feel the heat of it, can see the way his lashes lower as his eyes lock on the slickness glistening between my thighs.
“Do you want me to stop?” he murmurs, voice deep, rough, already frayed.
