Chapter 16
Sebastian
The ceiling of my bedroom has exactly thirty-seven tiny cracks in the paint.
I've counted them fourteen times in the past three hours, a futile attempt to focus on anything other than the relentless ache between my legs.
My cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing in time with my heartbeat, begging for a relief I refuse to give.
The sheets—fifteen hundred thread count Egyptian cotton that usually feels like sliding into liquid silk—are twisted around my legs, damp with sweat and as confining as restraints.
I could free myself. Could wrap my hand around my cock and find release in seconds.
But I won't. That's the whole fucking point.
The digital clock on my nightstand glares at me, its red numbers accusing. Almost five hours since I left Mia. Five hours of lying here, gripping these expensive sheets like they're the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity. My knuckles ache from the strain.
I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't make my erection press painfully against the mattress. The sheets slide against my bare skin, the friction alone almost enough to push me over the edge. I grit my teeth, jaw clenching so hard I can feel the muscle jump beneath my skin.
"Fuck," I whisper to the darkness.
Behind my closed eyelids, Mia's face appears with perfect clarity.
Those green eyes, pupils blown wide with desire.
The flush spreading across her freckled cheeks.
The way her lips parted on a gasp when my fingers traced the edge of her underwear.
But most of all, I remember her voice, that breathless, desperate "Please, Sebastian, please" that nearly broke my control right there in that filthy alley.
My cock twitches at the memory, and I tangle my fingers deeper into the sheets. No touching. That was the rule I set for her, and it applies to me too. If she's suffering tonight—and fuck me, I hope she is—then I'll suffer right alongside her.
There's a certain power in the suffering, though. A control that goes beyond the physical. It's not just about denying release; it's about choosing the denial. About mastering my own desire even as it threatens to consume me.
I wonder if she understands that yet. If she realizes that what's happening between us isn't just about sex or attraction or even the forbidden thrill of crossing professional boundaries. It's about surrender and control. About finding the perfect balance between giving and taking. About trust.
Trust I haven't earned yet. Not after a week of treating her like she was invisible.
Another shift in position, another sharp intake of breath as the head of my cock brushes against the sheet.
My thighs tense involuntarily, my body fighting against the restraint I'm imposing on it.
The dull ache in my balls is becoming harder to ignore, a constant reminder of how easy it would be to give in.
One stroke. That's all it would take. One quick, rough stroke and I could find relief. Could finally let go of this tension that's been building since I first saw her in that club, that green dress clinging to every curve I've been trying to forget.
But where's the victory in that? Where's the satisfaction?
No, the real prize is in the waiting. In the anticipation. In knowing that when I finally allow myself—allow us both—to have what we want, it will be even more intense for having been denied.
My phone sits on the nightstand, its dark screen a temptation almost as strong as the one between my legs. I reach for it before I can stop myself. The screen illuminates at my touch.
Three taps and I'm looking at her contact information. I took her number from her personnel file after that night at her apartment, telling myself it was for professional reasons. A lie I didn't even believe as I was saying it.
My thumb hovers over the messaging icon, aching to make contact just like every other part of me. Instead, I set the phone down before I do something stupid. Like call her. Like tell her to come over. Like beg her to put us both out of this misery.
That's not how this works.
I close my eyes again, surrendering to the memories that refuse to leave me alone. Mia's body pressed between mine and the brick wall. The heat of her skin beneath my palms. The way she arched into my touch, seeking more contact. The soft, desperate sounds she made when I teased her.
My cock throbs painfully in response, and I turn onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle a groan.
The pressure of the mattress against my erection is both torture and relief, and for a moment, I consider rocking my hips, seeking friction without technically breaking my self-imposed rule.
But that would be cheating. And I don't cheat. Not when the stakes are this high.
Instead, I roll onto my back again, kick off the tangled sheets, and let the cool air of the bedroom wash over my overheated skin.
My cock stands rigid against my stomach, a bead of pre-cum glistening in the dim light.
I stare at it, at the physical manifestation of my desire for her, and find a perverse satisfaction in my own suffering.
This is the price I'm willing to pay for what's to come. For the moment when I finally have her beneath me, when I finally taste her, finally feel her body yield to mine. When I watch her come undone under my control.
It will be worth it. This sleepless night. This ache that seems to reach into my very bones. This torture of my own making.
Tomorrow, I'll text her. Tomorrow, I'll set the next stage of this game in motion. But tonight? Tonight is about the wait. About the want. About the exquisite agony of anticipation.
Hours to go until dawn. Until I can reasonably claim this night of self-inflicted torment is over. Until I can move forward with whatever this is becoming between Mia and me.
I can wait. I can suffer. I can control this hunger that threatens to devour me from the inside out.
Because when I finally give in it will be perfect. It will be earned. It will be exactly what we both need.
And that, more than any momentary pleasure, is worth the wait.