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In my life.

In my body.

I squirmed at the thought. I could almost still feel his cock…there. The phantom sensation of fullness, of stretching, of pain melting into pleasure. I'd never experienced anything like that in my life.

It was as if he'd completely possessed me.

There was just something far more intimate and soul-consuming about allowing him to fuck me there.

Although, if I had truly not wanted to, even someone as domineering as Sebastian would have stopped.

I knew that in my heart.

So why hadn't I stopped him?

Sebastian returned, having showered and changed into a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants that hung low on his narrow hips, the fabric draping in a way that left little to the imagination.

Fuck him.

There was no fucking way the whole men-wearing-gray-sweatpants thing was only an American phenomenon. He knew what he was doing.

I stared again into the fire, letting the cracks and pops of the logs soothe me. The flames slowly consumed the wood, but I refused to give symbolic meaning to the obvious metaphor of my own consumption.

The only other sound in the room was the clink of silverware against china as he fixed himself a plate. The arancini he bit into made a satisfying crunch, the sound triggering an involuntary swallow.

He then returned to where I sat.

Feeling peevish, I deliberately stretched out my legs, taking up all the seats on the sofa. The blanket rode up, exposing my ankles to the cool air.

He chuckled and sat on the floor, leaning his back against the sofa, directly in front of me.

I was so close I could reach out and stroke his hair, the thick black waves still damp at the temples. The nape of his neck was exposed, vulnerable in a way I rarely saw him.

The rich, buttery scent of the risotto reached me as he started to eat. The mushrooms released their earthy perfume, complemented by the subtle tang of aged Parmigiano-Reggiano.

My mouth watered.

I tightened my abdominal muscles to keep my stomach from growling, clenching against the emptiness.

He spooned another creamy bite into his mouth and then moaned, the sound nearly identical to ones I'd heard in the opera box. "So good."

Dipping his spoon into the risotto again, he turned his head to look at me, his profile strong and sharp against the backdrop of dancing flames. "Are you sure you don't want a bite?"

"Fine." I reached for the spoon, my pride dissolving under the assault of hunger.

He held it back and raised it close to my mouth.

I turned my head, refusing the intimacy of being fed.

He shrugged and forced me to watch him slip the spoon into his own mouth, moaning again, the sound vibrating through me in places that had no business responding.

He then spooned another bite and once again held it up to my mouth.

We stared at one another for several heartbeats.

His eyes weren't just dark—they were fathomless, capable of drowning me more thoroughly than any bathtub.

Finally, I opened my mouth.