Chapter 20
Mia
Ifloat somewhere between reality and bliss, my body humming with aftershocks from Sebastian's very skillful mouth. My world has narrowed to this—his arms around me, his scent filling my lungs, and the lingering taste of his lips on mine. I've never felt so completely undone, so utterly claimed.
His breathing is steady against my temple, but there's tension in the way he holds himself.
Like he's keeping himself carefully controlled, even now.
My nerve endings still spark with phantom sensations—the cold shock of ice followed by the heat of his mouth, the relentless precision of his tongue, the way he edged me to the brink and then pulled back, only to send me flying higher than I've ever been.
"You okay?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble I feel against my skin more than hear.
I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet. My hand rests on his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt.
That's when awareness fully penetrates my pleasure-soaked brain.
Sebastian is still wearing everything—his button-down, his jeans, even his shoes.
The only sign of dishevelment is where my fingers clutched his hair, leaving it standing in appealing disarray.
While I lie here completely bare, he remains armored.
And beneath that armor, beneath the careful control of his breathing, I can feel the hard line of his erection pressing against my hip.
He gave me everything and took nothing for himself.
The realization sends a different kind of heat flooding through me. Not the desperate, clawing need from before, but something warmer. Something that makes me want to peel back those layers he's still hiding behind.
I shift against him, deliberately pressing closer to that hardness. His breath catches—a hitch so subtle I might have missed it if I weren't listening for it.
"Sebastian," I whisper, finding my voice at last. "You didn't..."
His hand slides up my bare back, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across my skin. "This wasn't about me."
The words twist something inside me. He's held me at arm's length for so long, pushed me away for a week, only to pull me close and give me the most intense pleasure of my life without asking for anything in return.
It doesn't compute. It doesn't fit with the arrogant, dominant man who told me I wasn't allowed to touch myself, who controlled my pleasure with terrifying precision.
"I want to touch you," I admit, the words slipping out before I can analyze them. Then, more hesitantly, because shit if I understand what the hell I’d just gotten myself into. "Is that... allowed?"
His body goes still against mine, and for a moment I worry I've said the wrong thing.
But then he pulls back just enough to look at me, dark eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
There's hunger there, raw and barely contained, but something else too.
Something that looks almost like tenderness.
"Mia," he murmurs. “I know what you’re thinking. But what’s between us is not about rules or permission. I’m not trying to control you.”
Lifting his hand, he brushes my hair back with slow, deliberate care. “I need the control sometimes, yeah. But not because I want to own you. It’s about trust. About letting go of everything else and knowing the person with you won’t run.”
My throat tightens. He sees more of me than I thought possible, and yet he’s still giving me room to choose.
“And if touching me is what you want?” His voice drops lower. “Then that’s not just allowed. It’s wanted.” Leaning in, he presses his forehead against mine. “You don’t have to ask. You already have me.”
Pushing myself up until I’m half-sitting, I reach for his shirt. The first button slips free under my fingers, revealing a triangle of tanned skin and the hollow of his throat. The second exposes more, and I watch, fascinated, as his chest rises and falls with increasingly unsteady breaths.
Button by button, I reveal his broad chest dusted with dark hair, the defined planes of his abs, and a thin scar just beneath his left collarbone that I immediately want to trace with my tongue. When the shirt hangs open, I push it from his shoulders.
He's magnificent—all hard planes and lean muscle that flex beneath my touch. When I trace a small, raised scar on his side, he inhales sharply.
"What's this from?" I ask, circling the mark gently.
"Barbed wire fence," he says, something distant in his eyes for a moment. "Back on the ranch. Long time ago."
Lowering my head, I press my lips to the scar. His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head while those long fingers tangle in my hair.
"Fuck, Mia," he breathes.
Emboldened, I let my hands drift to the button of his jeans. His abs tighten beneath my touch, and I feel a tremor run through him—the first real crack in that iron control.
"Can I?" I ask, fingers hovering at his waistband.
"Yes," he answers, the word rough with want. "Please."
That please, from a man who gives commands rather than requests, sends a fresh surge of heat between my legs. As I pop the button on his jeans and slowly lower the zipper, I realize something profound has shifted between us.
This isn't just about physical reciprocation anymore. It's about trust freely given on both sides. It's about vulnerability shared rather than exploited. It's about seeing and being seen, completely.
And as I slide my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, feeling him hot and hard against my palm, I understand that this is what he meant about control. Not taking but giving. Not restraining, but freeing.
He’s thick and hard, pulsing against my palm.
He closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening as he fights for control.
That visible struggle—the way his breathing catches, the flex of muscle beneath skin—is the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
I've spent so long thinking of him as untouchable.
To feel him physically respond to my touch, to see that perfect composure crack, sends a thrill of power straight to my core.
"Like this?" I ask, giving him a tentative stroke from base to tip.
His eyes open, darkened to nearly black. "Tighter," he grits out. "And slower."
I adjust my grip, watching his face carefully as I draw my hand up his length with more pressure. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and his hand comes up to cup the back of my neck.
"Just like that," he murmurs, the praise washing over me like warm honey. "You're a quick study, Dr. Phillips."
The formal title in such an intimate moment should sound ridiculous, but instead it sends another jolt of heat between my legs. I have to bite back a moan when I circle my thumb over the head of his cock and collect a bead of moisture to ease my movements.
"You're still wearing too many clothes," I tell him, suddenly impatient with the barriers between us.
He lifts his hips, allowing me to tug his jeans and boxers completely down his legs. I'm not graceful about it—there's an awkward moment where they catch on his shoes, which I'd forgotten about entirely—but then he's helping, kicking everything aside until he's completely naked before me.
And shit, he's gorgeous. All lean muscle and tanned skin, with dark hair trailing down from his navel to where his cock stands proud against his stomach. There's a coiled power in the way he holds himself, even spread out beneath me like this.
I take him in my hand again, more confident now. His breathing roughens as I establish a steady rhythm, twisting slightly on the upstroke in a way that makes his abs tighten.
"You're beautiful," I whisper, the words escaping before I can consider them.
Something flashes in his eyes as his hand slides from my neck to my cheek where his thumb brushes across my lower lip in a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache.
"Says the woman who's been driving me crazy from day one."
Before I can respond, he tugs me down for a kiss that's nothing like the calculated possession of before. This is messy, desperate, his tongue sweeping into my mouth as his free hand tangles in my hair. I keep stroking him through it all, feeling him grow impossibly harder against my palm.
When we break apart, both breathing fast, he finds my breast and circles my nipple until it pebbles beneath his touch. Even now, even as I work him toward his release, he can't stop touching me. It makes me feel some kind of freaking way.
"I need to taste you again," he growls, pulling me higher up his body until my breast hovers above his mouth.
The first hot, wet pull of his lips around my nipple makes me gasp and my hand falters in its rhythm.
He growls against my skin, a warning to continue, and I obey instinctively, finding my pace again as he sucks and licks and uses the edge of his teeth just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting to my core.
We establish a feedback loop of pleasure—the harder I stroke him, the more intensely he sucks; the more he makes me gasp, the tighter my grip becomes. His free hand slides down my back, over the curve of my ass until his fingers can dip between my legs from behind.
"Fuck," I breathe as one long finger slides inside me, curling it just right.
"That's it," he encourages, releasing my nipple to watch my face as he works me. "Let me feel how much you want this."
My hips rock against his hand automatically, seeking more friction, even as my own hand continues its steady rhythm on his cock.
"Sebastian," I gasp, feeling the tension building again, impossibly fast.
His finger slides deeper, joined by a second that stretches me deliciously. "Give me one more," he demands, curling his fingers in a way that makes my vision blur at the edges. "I want to feel you come while you make me lose control."
The command, delivered in that rough, desperate voice, snaps the last thread of my restraint. "Yes," I gasp, rocking harder against his hand. "Yes, please."
My orgasm crashes over me with surprising intensity as waves of pleasure ripple outward. My hand tightens instinctively around his cock, my rhythm faltering again as I ride out the aftershocks.
That's what pushes him over the edge—my uncontrolled response, my complete surrender to the pleasure he's giving me even as I try to pleasure him. With a guttural groan, he comes, hot pulses coating my hand and his stomach as his entire body goes rigid beneath me.
I watch, mesmerized, as his face transforms, as his careful control gives way to raw, unfiltered pleasure. It's beautiful, seeing him like this. Vulnerable and mine, in a way I never thought possible.
As the last tremors fade, he releases its grip on my hip and pulls me down to collapse against his chest. We lie there, both breathing hard, skin sticking together with sweat and other evidence of our shared pleasure.
"So," I murmur when I can finally form words again. "Does this mean you'll stop being an asshole to me at work?"
For a moment there's silence, and I worry I've ruined the moment. Then I feel the rumble start in his chest that quickly becomes a full, rich laugh. The sound is so unexpected, so genuine, that I raise my head to look at him in wonder.
"No promises," he says, but his eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners in a way I've never seen before. He brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with unexpected tenderness. "But I'll try."
Settling back against his chest, a smile tugs at my lips. "I guess that's a start."
His arms tighten around me, and I feel the press of his lips against the top of my head. We should clean up. We should talk about what this means for us professionally.
But for now, I'm content to lie here in this bubble of aftermath, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. For now, this strange new ground between us feels less like quicksand and more like a foundation being laid, stone by careful stone.
And for now, that's enough.