Chapter 19 Harper #2
He still says nothing, but his eyes don’t leave mine. There’s no judgment in them, no smirk, no sharp retort. Just pure, quiet restraint, like he’s bracing himself against whatever I’m about to do.
I take his hands, gripping them between mine. They’re warm and solid and dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with magic. And everything to do with the way they’ve touched me in my dreams.
“Because you’re right,” I mutter, and my voice breaks on the admission. “I don’t want to be alone.”
A slow exhale leaves his chest. His fingers twitch in mine, like he’s waiting for permission. Or absolution.
“And I want you here,” I say, even quieter now, “for all the wrong reasons.”
I guide his hands to my chest.
The contact is instant and explosive. My breath hitches, my nipples tightening beneath the thin cotton of my wrap as his palms mold over the swell of me.
His eyes widen, gaze flickering between my face and where he’s touching me, like he can’t quite believe I’m letting him.
Like he doesn’t want to mess it up by moving too fast.
I can see the strain in his jaw. The pulse jumping in his throat. The sheer force of his willpower as he holds himself still.
“I’m tired of you using the rag,” I breathe, and it’s not just a confession, it’s a surrender.
That’s when something in him snaps.
His expression darkens instantly, like a switch has been thrown. One second he’s barely holding on. The next, he’s falling to his knees in front of me, and I feel the rush of heat surge between my thighs at the sight of him, kneeling, like he belongs there, like he’s meant to be at my feet.
His hands are on me before I can breathe again. They slide to the curve of my hips, gripping me hard as he presses his mouth to my stomach. Through the fabric. Just once. A kiss that feels more like a brand.
He doesn’t say a word as he finds the zipper of my skirt. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait.
He undoes me.
The soft sound of metal parting echoes louder than it should in the quiet room. His fingers are slow, reverent, dragging the zipper down with maddening precision. The fabric loosens around my waist, and then, with a careful tug, it falls.
The skirt slips to the floor, pooling around my knees like a silk offering.
I stand there in my underwear and wrap, trembling, while he looks up at me with something unholy in his eyes.
His hands trail up the backs of my thighs, fingertips brushing just beneath the edge of my panties. My breath stutters. My knees nearly buckle. His touch is light, teasing, but full of promise, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and he wants me to feel every second of it.
“Fuck,” he breathes, finally speaking. “Look at you.”
I do.
I look down and see him there, on his knees, hands splayed across my thighs, his mouth just inches from where I’m already soaked for him. His pupils are blown wide, jaw tight, lips parted. I’ve never seen him like this, utterly undone... maybe even ravenous.
His thumbs hook around the edges of my panties, and I brace myself for the inevitable drag of fabric, but he doesn’t move. He looks up at me instead, waiting.
Not for permission.
For want.
Because he knows I’m past consent. Past doubt.
I nod.
And just like that, he begins to worship me.
His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my panties with an unbearable kind of patience.
He doesn’t rush, he drags the fabric down, knuckles grazing the soft skin of my hips, then lower, until the cool air brushes between my thighs and the lace joins my skirt on the floor. I should feel exposed. But I don’t.
I feel wanted.
The way he looks at me, his eyes dark, lips parted, like he’s just seen something sacred, sets my skin on fire.
He exhales a low curse, head dipping forward, his forehead brushing the soft plane of my abdomen.
His palms spread along the outsides of my thighs, holding me steady.
Holding me in place. Like he needs a second to breathe me in before he forgets how to be gentle.
“Harper,” he rasps, his voice thick with heat, “if I start, if I taste you, I’m not stopping until you forget every goddamn reason you thought this was a mistake.”
A tremble rolls down my spine so sharp I have to brace myself on his shoulders. My knees are already weak. My core pulses, slick and aching, throbbing with every word he doesn’t say.
I thread my fingers into his hair, not pulling, just holding. Grounding myself in the warmth of him, the strength he’s offering without condition. And when he kisses the inside of my thigh, slow and reverent, tongue barely grazing the sensitive skin, I gasp, head tipping back.
He doesn’t stop.
He keeps working his way inward, alternating between gentle kisses and slow, open, mouthed drags of his tongue that tease but never satisfy. He’s taking his time. Torturing me with it.
By the time his mouth finds the slick heat of me, I’m already trembling.
The first stroke of his tongue, deliberate and filthy, has me moaning so loud I slap a hand over my mouth. He groans in response, low and satisfied, as if my reaction feeds something hungry in him.
His hands slide up the backs of my thighs to cup my ass, pulling me closer against his mouth as he begins to devour me in slow, devastating motions. Every flick of his tongue, every press of his lips, is calculated to unravel. And it works.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe. My hips jerk against his face without meaning to, but he just growls and presses me harder into him, tongue fucking me in deep, slow strokes that build and build until I’m panting his name between gasps and half-sobs.
“S-Sebastian-” I choke out, and his grip tightens, tongue circling my clit in a way that sends stars sparking behind my eyes.
It’s too much. Not enough. It’s everything.
When he sucks me into his mouth, softly at first and then deeper, darker, like he wants to own the way I come undone, my thighs clamp around his head. My entire body clenches, heat coiling tight in my gut, pleasure burning so hot I feel like I might shatter.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Please, don’t-”
He doesn’t.
His mouth stays locked on me, tongue flicking and curling until I can’t hold it back anymore. The orgasm crashes over me like a wave, hot and all-consuming. My back arches. My hand fists in his hair. My hips buck against his mouth as I come with a cry that tears straight from my throat.
He groans like he’s starving for it. Like the taste of me is something he’s been craving for weeks.
And only when I’m trembling does he finally slow.
He kisses the inside of my thigh again, tender, reverent, and rests his forehead against my hip as I come back to myself. My heart is pounding. My body feels boneless.
And he’s still on his knees.
Still holding me like I’m breakable. Like I’m precious.
I look down at him, breathless, shattered in the best way.
And all I can say is, “Why do you look at me like that?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His lips graze my skin.
Then, quietly:
“Because I’ve never wanted to worship something I couldn’t keep.”
And fuck, that breaks something open inside me all over again.
Lowering myself to my knees, the wood is cool beneath my skin, but I barely register it.
My thighs still tremble, my body buzzing with aftershocks, but I need to see him.
Need to look him in the eye and understand why this doesn’t feel like a mistake, why it feels like surrendering to something I’ve been running from for far too long.
His eyes meet mine.
And fuck, he’s beautiful like this.
Flushed. Breathless. His lips shine with the mess of me, and when I catch sight of the glistening release smeared along his jaw, something inside me snaps. Not with shame. Not with fear.
With want.
“I suppose that makes two of us,” I murmur, voice barely steady.
Then I lean forward and drag my tongue across his lips.
He groans, low and broken, and the sound of it vibrates through me, straight down to where I’m still sore and soaked. His hands grip my hips like he’s barely holding on, pulling me into him until there’s no space left between us. Our chests collide, breath tangled, skin burning.
I claw at his shirt like a woman possessed, frantic to feel more of him, to rip through every barrier he’s still hiding behind. He doesn’t stop me. If anything, he offers himself to me, leaning in, teeth scraping across my lower lip, holding me in place while his hands ghost up my spine.
He finds the scars. The ones no one touches.
His fingers trace them with such devastating gentleness I nearly break apart all over again. It’s not pity, it’s reverence. His palms are warm, calloused, steady as they map the marks like they’re just another part of me he’s ready to learn by heart.
My fingers tear the fabric of his shirt open at the seam, and the second my hands meet bare skin, I gasp. Solid muscle greets me, heat and power and raw restraint trembling beneath my touch. He leans into it, letting me explore him the way he did me.
He captures my lip between his teeth and holds me there, breathing harsh and uneven, our foreheads pressed together like we’re trying to survive the gravity of this moment.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
And without thinking, I whisper, “Stand up.”
His eyes flicker, heat igniting all over again. Not confusion. Not hesitation. Just barely restrained obedience.
He stands.
Towering above me now, chest heaving, his pants still undone and tented, soaked through with the stain of my desire. My knees spread slightly, breath catching as I look up at him, utterly wrecked, still dripping, and completely at my mercy now.
But I’m not done yet.
Because if he worshipped me…
Now it’s my turn to devour him.
He doesn’t say a word.
But I feel him watching me.