Chapter 17
Mia
Iwake up with my body on fire. The space between my legs pulses with an insistent, maddening ache that even my dreams couldn't satisfy.
Pressing my thighs together, a whimper escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth.
My hand twitches toward the waistband of my sleep shorts before I remember his command.
"Fuck you, Sebastian Walker," I mutter into my pillow, even as I obediently withdraw. The obedience infuriates me almost as much as the throbbing between my thighs. Since when do I follow orders like this? Since when does arrogance and domination turn me on instead of pissing me off?
Since Sebastian cornered me in that alley and kissed me like his life depended on it. Since he looked at me with those dark eyes and told me I wasn't allowed to come without him.
I flip onto my back, staring at the ceiling as my body continues its mutiny against my brain.
The rational part of me—the part that went to medical school and graduated top of her class and doesn't take shit from anybody—is screaming that this is ridiculous.
That I should get myself off just to spite him.
That I shouldn't be lying here aching for a man who's been nothing but cruel to me for days.
But the rest of me? The rest of me remembers the way his hand felt on my hip. The taste of whiskey on his tongue. The rough edge in his voice when he said he’d ruin me slowly.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
"Get it together, Mia," I tell myself, kicking off the sheets and forcing myself to sit up.
My nipples tighten against the thin fabric of my tank top as the cool morning air hits them.
Every nerve ending in my body feels raw and exposed, like my skin's been turned inside out.
Standing makes it worse. The seam of my sleep shorts rubs against me as I move, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
This is insane. I'm a grown woman, not some character in the romance novels stacked on my coffee table.
I don't take orders from anyone, especially not from men who look at me like I'm something they want to consume.
Except I am. And Sebastian did. And here I am, following his command like it's been hardwired into my DNA.
I stomp toward the bathroom, my movements stiff with frustrated desire. Splashing cold water on my face, I hope it might douse some of the fire running through my veins. It doesn't.
"Damn him," I mutter as I shuffle into my kitchen, needing coffee before I can process what the hell happened last night or why I'm obeying a command from a man who's been treating me like dirt all week.
While the coffee brews, I check my phone for the seventeenth time since getting out of bed five minutes ago. No messages. No calls. No Sebastian.
What were you expecting? I ask myself, tossing the phone onto the counter. An apology for leaving you wet and wanting would be a good start.
The coffee maker beeps as I answer myself, and I grab my favorite mug. The first sip burns my tongue, but I barely notice. I'm already burning everywhere else.
Caffeine in hand, I wander into my living room, where my collection of plants seems to be silently judging me.
Fitzwilliam the fern is drooping, clearly dehydrated.
The jade plant on the coffee table has shed leaves onto my stack of books.
The pothos hanging in the corner is stretching desperately toward the window, seeking light I've been too distracted to provide by opening the blinds.
"You too, huh?" I mutter to the plants. "Everyone's needs are being neglected around here."
I set down my coffee and grab the mister bottle from the windowsill, aggressively spraying Fitzwilliam until water drips from his fronds onto the hardwood floor. I don't bother wiping it up.
The spray bottle is almost empty by the time I reach the jade plant, so I head to the kitchen to refill it. My phone sits exactly where I left it, screen dark and silent. I glare at it before snatching it up, checking for notifications I know aren't there.
"This is pathetic," I inform the empty apartment.
But my body doesn't care about pathetic. My body only cares about the memory of Sebastian's hands, his mouth, his commanding voice. My body only cares about the emptiness between my legs that's becoming harder to ignore with each passing minute.
I slam the spray bottle down. My fingers twitch toward my phone again before I force them away. I need distraction. I need something, anything, to take my mind off the ache that's settled deep in my core.
Laundry. I'll do laundry. Nothing sexy about sorting underwear and folding socks.
Marching back to my bedroom, I’m determined to focus on mundane tasks rather than the phantom sensation of Sebastian's fingers tracing my inner thigh.
But as I pass my bed, the tangled sheets remind me of how I tossed and turned all night, caught between dreams of what might have happened if he hadn't stopped in that alley and the reality of waking up alone and unfulfilled.
My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps into my throat as I rush to see who it is.
Laney: You alive? Did you escape with a hot stranger?
I type out a quick response, fingers clumsy with disappointment.
Me: Long story. Call you later.
I toss the phone onto my bed, not wanting to explain that the hot stranger was Sebastian Walker, that he kissed me senseless against a wall and then left me hanging, that I'm now obeying his command not to touch myself like some sex-crazed puppet whose strings he's pulling from afar.
Damn, I need a shower. A cold one. And if my hand happens to wander while I'm soaping up? Well, Sebastian will never know.
But even as I head toward the bathroom, stripping off my tank top as I go, I know I won't do it.
Not because I'm afraid of his consequences, whatever those might be.
But because some part of me—some traitorous, masochistic part—wants to see where this goes.
Wants to feel the full force of this desire, this need, this hunger that's growing with each hour that passes.
Maybe I’m possessed? Maybe Sebastian Walker has cast some spell on me, turning me into the kind of woman who follows commands and aches for men who look at her like she's something to be devoured.
Or maybe this is who I've always been and Sebastian just saw it first.
Either way, as I step under the spray of the shower, careful to keep the water lukewarm so it doesn't feed the fire already burning inside me, I know one thing for certain. I'm in serious fucking trouble.
By noon, I've reorganized my entire bookshelf by color, scrubbed the bathroom until even the grout is gleaming, and watered my plants to the point where I'm worried about root rot.
My skin feels too tight, like I've outgrown my own body overnight.
The throbbing between my legs hasn't subsided, if anything, it's gotten worse.
"This is stupid," I mutter, viciously spraying glass cleaner on my already spotless coffee table. He's probably at the hospital, terrorizing interns and looking at patient files like last night never happened.
The thought makes me scrub harder, the microfiber cloth squeaking against the glass.
My movements are erratic, fueled by a frustration that cleaning can't even begin to touch.
I've never been this wound up in my life.
Not during finals week of med school. Not during my thirty-six-hour shifts in the ER.
Not even that time Laney set me up with the yoga instructor who could hold his breath for four minutes.
I've just started reorganizing my medical journals by publication date when I realize my plants are literally drowning.
Water pools beneath Fitzwilliam's pot, and the soil in my jade plant is so saturated it's turned to mud.
I grab a handful of paper towels and start mopping up the mess, muttering apologies to the greenery.
"Sorry, guys. Didn't mean to drown you while trying to forget about Dr. Frosty and his magical hands."
The plants don't respond, but the smallest succulent seems to be listing to one side, either from overwatering or judgment.
I can't tell which. I’ve only just sorted out the mess when my phone pings from somewhere in the kitchen.
The sound sends my heart into my throat, and I nearly trip over my own feet in my rush to get to it.
Unknown: Still behaving, Trouble?
My fingers go numb, and for a second I think I might actually drop the phone. There's only one person who could be texting me that. Heat floods my cheeks, spreads down my neck, pools between my legs where the ache instantly intensifies.
Sebastian.
How did he get my number? I don't remember giving it to him. But then again, he's my boss. He probably has access to my personnel file with all my contact information.
I stare at the message, reading it over and over. As if I'm a child who needs supervision. As if he has any right to check whether I've followed his command. The arrogance is breathtaking. Infuriating.
Arousing.
My nipples tighten beneath my t-shirt, and I press my thighs together, seeking pressure that doesn't relieve anything. Ugh, what is wrong with me? I should tell him to fuck off.
I type and delete three different responses before settling on one.
Me: Define behaving.
Not exactly telling him where to shove it but not rolling over either. I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then watch the screen like it holds the secrets of the universe. Three dots appear immediately. My heart hammers against my ribs.
Sebastian: I'm not above punishing you for disobeying.
The response sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the images suddenly flooding my mind. Sebastian punishing me. Those large hands holding me in place as he tells me I can't come until he says so.
"Holy shit," I whisper, pressing the cool screen of my phone against my flushed cheek. When did I become this person? When did the thought of being punished become the hottest thing I could imagine?
Since Sebastian Walker pushed me against a wall and made me feel more in five minutes than I've felt with any other man, ever.
I nibble my lower lip, contemplating my next move. This is uncharted territory. My gaze flicks to the romance novels on my shelf. What would their heroines do in this situation? Probably something bold. Something that takes back a little of the control.
Something like...
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull my t-shirt down to expose my collarbone, where a small, purplish mark blooms against my skin. Sebastian's mark, left there by his mouth last night when he kissed and nipped his way down my neck.
Angling the camera just right, I capture the mark clearly while also showing just enough bare skin to be tantalizing. A hint of my shoulder, the curve where my neck meets my collarbone, the edge of my jaw. Nothing explicit. But suggestive enough to make my point.
I attach it to a new message.
Me: If this is behaving, I can’t wait to see what breaking the rules looks like.
I stare at the screen, waiting for those three dots to appear. My heart races, a mix of excitement and anxiety making my palms sweat.
One minute passes. Then two. Then five. Then twenty. No response. No dots. No Sebastian.
I pick up the phone again, checking to make sure the message actually sent. It did. With read receipts showing Sebastian saw it seventeen minutes ago.
"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, staring at the screen like I can will a response into existence. "He's leaving me on read?"
The audacity is almost impressive. Almost. Mostly it's infuriating.
Plonking down on the couch, I toss the phone next to me and turn on the TV. Maybe after a few episodes of that new vampire show I won’t care anymore.
Three episodes in and I’m still eyeing my phone willing it to life.
At first, I was smug. Bold, even. Sending that photo felt like taking back some control in whatever this is between us. I imagined him seeing it, those dark eyes widening, and his perfect composure cracking just a little.
That smugness lasted about fifteen minutes before uncertainty crept in. Was the photo too much? Not enough? Did I misread this entire situation? Is he laughing at me?
Uncertainty gave way to humiliation around the one-hour mark. The kind that burns hot in your cheeks and makes your stomach clench.
And now? Now I'm just pissed.
“I’m going to fucking murder him,” I vow to Fitzwilliam.
My declaration would be more convincing if my body wasn't still humming with awareness, still aching for his touch. If I hadn't spent the entire day obeying his command not to touch myself.
"I need a shower," I decide abruptly. "A cold one. Cold enough to freeze these feelings right out of me."
I head toward the bathroom, already reaching for the hem of my shirt, when my phone chimes from the coffee table. The sound stops me in my tracks, heart suddenly pounding against my ribs.
I know it's him. I know it with a certainty that makes my stomach flip.
Turning back, I reach for the device with the same caution one might approach a bomb.
Sebastian: Open the door.
I stare at the words, not comprehending at first. Open my door? Why would I—
A sharp knock cuts through the silence of my apartment, so sudden and loud I actually jump.
No. He can't be. He wouldn't dare.
The knock comes again, more insistent this time. Three quick raps that somehow manage to sound commanding.
My heart is in my throat, pounding so hard I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, between my legs where the ache suddenly intensifies to near-painful levels. I stand frozen, staring at my front door like it might burst into flames at any moment.
He's here. Sebastian is here. At my apartment. After hours of silence, after leaving me on read, after driving me half-insane with frustration and fury and want.
The absolute audacity of this man.
Another knock, this one harder.
I take two steps toward the door, then stop. No. I'm not just going to answer like an obedient puppy when he calls. So, I grab my phone and type out a response instead.
Me: Why should I?
The reply comes instantly.
Sebastian: Because if you don't, I'll leave. And we both know that's not what you want.
Bastard.
Arrogant, presumptuous bastard. He's right, of course. I don't want him to leave. I want...well, I'm not entirely sure what I want, besides his hands on me and his mouth against mine and the release he's been denying me for what feels like forever.
Another knock, this one almost gentle compared to the others.
"Mia." His voice carries through the wood, that deep timbre that somehow turns my name into something between a caress and a command. "Open the door."