His eyes trail down, slow and deliberate. Past my parted lips, my heaving chest, and lower, to where I’m still sprawled over the edge of the desk. My legs open, thighs trembling, skin flushed and slick from the way his mouth had kissed me like worship and violence all in one. I hadn’t even realized how soaked I’d become until the air hit me and made mefeelit, just how shamelessly I’d fallen apart beneath him.
“Say the word,” he murmurs.
His voice is gravel, thick and wrecked from holding back. There’s a tremor in his hands, and it isn’t from uncertainty, it’s from restraint.
“I’ll lock the door. I’ll take the towel off.” His eyes darken, and I swear I feel the promise of him slide into me even though he hasn’t moved. “I’ll lay you back and fuck you so slow the walls remember your name.”
My breath stutters.
The door. The risk. The shame I’ve carried all my life creeping in like a ghost. I should pull my legs closed. Cover myself. Say something that reminds him we’re not alone in this school. That someone could walk in and see me like this, ruined, bare, wanting.
But I don’t move.
Ican’tmove.
He sees that. And that’s what breaks him.
He steps between my legs, one hand gripping the back of my neck as he pulls me into a kiss that doesn’t ask, ittakes. His other hand snakes under my thigh and lifts me with one smooth motion, dragging my body against his chest like I weigh nothing.
My back slams against the wall as his mouth crashes over mine, his towel-clad hips grinding into my center. The thin, wet barrier of fabric presses against my soaked heat, the hardline of him obvious and pulsing beneath it. It’s torture. Perfect, brutal torture. I rock against it, chasing friction like I’ll die without it, and he groans deep into my mouth.
“Fuck, Harper,” he breathes. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, tongue sliding into my mouth with purpose, his hand gripping my thigh harder, holding me pinned against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, my slickness smearing across the rough cotton of his towel.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at me. His pupils are blown, chest rising in sharp, ragged heaves.
“Bed,” he says.
Before I can even respond, he’s carrying me there.
His towel clings for one more second as he lays me back against the mattress, and I swear I can see the tension in him as he tries to hold on to that last shred of control. The man who’d once hesitated to touch me is gone. What’s left is need, wild, raw, and breaking free.
He drops the towel.
And fuck.
Everything in me clenches.
He’s thick. Heavy. The tip already slick as it drags along my thigh, leaving a hot trail that makes my toes curl. He doesn’t rush, not yet. He just stares down at me, naked and spread across the bed, flushed and trembling, and I know he sees it all. Every silent plea in my eyes. Every twitch of my hips.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, hand trailing down to tease his fingers through my folds. “Dripping.”
I gasp as he slips two fingers inside, curling them with precision, hitting that spot that makes my legs jerk and my eyes roll back. He doesn’t tease anymore. He fucks me with his fingers like he already owns me, like I’m something to be claimedand carved into, his thumb circling my clit just enough to keep me begging, never enough to let me fall.
“I should make you wait,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “I should edge you until you’re crying for it.”
“You already are,” I pant, gripping the sheets.
He smirks. “Good.”
He slides down, mouth following the trail of his fingers, until his lips replace them entirely. His tongue works me open again, tasting me like he needs it, groaning as I writhe under him. I feel the orgasm building again, too fast, too soon, and when I cry out, his grip tightens on my hips.
“Not yet.”
“Sebastian-”
He shoves two fingers back inside while his mouth claims my clit, and I break, shattering on his tongue, thighs locking around his head, breath gone, body undone.
