Caitlyn
I don’t know when surrender happens.
One moment I’m standing in the suite, still trembling from the kiss that stole every breath from my lungs, and the next I’m on the bed, silk pooling around my hips, his hands everywhere.
The world narrows to heat and pressure and the terrifying certainty that I’ve stepped past a line I can’t ever uncross.
Sebastian’s touch is nothing like I expected. I thought he’d be rough, hurried, greedy. Instead, he’s deliberate, mapping me like I’m territory he intends to keep, not just conquer. His palm slides down my side, slow enough to make me shiver, then back up to cup my breast through the lace.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes my throat tight. Not a line. Not flattery. Just truth, raw and reverent.
My body arches into his touch before my mind can argue. A soft sound breaks from me, humiliatingly needy, but his eyes flare like I’ve given him the finest gift.
“No one’s touched you like this, have they?” he asks, voice low, rough.
Heat floods my cheeks. I shake my head. “No…not like this.”
His jaw tightens, and something fierce flickers in his gaze. “Good. Then I’ll be the first to show you what it feels like to be worshipped.”
The word worship sends a pulse of heat between my thighs.
He leans down, mouth trailing from my collarbone to the swell of my breast. Every kiss is slow, open-mouthed, as though he has all night to savor me. My nipples harden against lace, aching, and when his tongue circles one through the fabric, my back bows clean off the bed.
“Please,” I gasp, not even sure what I’m begging for.
He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against my skin. “Please what, little botanist?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, too shy to say it, but my body betrays me. My hips shift, thighs pressing together, desperate for friction.
“Ah,” he says, smug and tender all at once. His hand catches the mask still clinging to my face, tugging the ribbon loose. “This doesn’t belong here.”
My eyes fly open as he pulls it away, dropping it carelessly to the floor.
“There,” he murmurs, his gaze locking on mine, dark and consuming. “No more hiding. No more pretending. I want every part of you bare for me.”
Heat scorches my cheeks, but the intensity in his eyes roots me in place. I can’t look away. I don’t want to.
His hand slides down my stomach, pausing at the waistband of my panties. He looks at me, waiting, demanding trust without a word.
My breath trembles. I nod.
The first brush of his fingers over the damp cotton shatters me. I cry out, back arching, thighs falling open to welcome the pressure. He groans like the slick heat soaking through the lace is a victory he’s claimed.
“Already so wet for me,” he mutters, stroking slow circles that make my vision blur. “Do you have any idea how perfect this is? How perfect you are?”
I shake my head, incapable of words. Every nerve in my body is tuned to his touch.
He pushes the fabric aside and slides one finger over me, bare now, and I nearly sob. The sensation is too sharp, too much, too good. My hips buck, chasing it.
“Look at you,” he growls, watching my face intently. “Your body can’t lie. Every twitch, every gasp, you’re giving yourself to me without even meaning to. That’s what I crave. The truth of you.”
I want to hide, to bury my face in the pillows, but his gaze pins me in place. He wants me exposed, raw, ruined. And God help me, I want to give it to him.
When he pushes a finger inside me, slow but inexorable, I gasp so hard it hurts. The stretch is shocking, intimate, and yet my body clenches around him, greedy, desperate for more.
“So tight,” he hisses, teeth gritted as though holding back. “I’ll break you open on my cock soon, but not yet. First, I want to feel you come on my hand.”
The words alone nearly undo me.
His thumb circles my clit, firm and precise, and my body convulses. I clutch at his shoulders, nails digging, shameless cries spilling from my lips. The scientist in me wants to analyze, to categorize the intensity of sensation, but the woman is too busy falling apart.
“Let go,” he commands, voice rough with need. “Give it to me. Show me how perfect you are when you fall apart.”
And I do.
The orgasm slams into me like a tidal wave. My back arches, my thighs tremble violently, and a cry tears from my throat that I don’t recognize as my own. My walls clamp down around his fingers, spasming, milking, and he curses, watching me with hungry reverence.
“Yes,” he groans, stroking me through the aftershocks. “That’s it. That’s my girl. Precious and perfect and mine.”
Tears prick my eyes. I don’t even know why. Overstimulation, release, the sheer overwhelming reality of being seen. He notices instantly, dragging his mouth back up to kiss the salt from my cheeks.
“I’ll never hurt you,” he whispers fiercely. “I’ll only worship, only claim, only keep. You’re safe with me.”
The words settle deeper than the orgasm did. I cling to him, trembling, shattered, undone, and I realize with a jolt of terror and wonder that I’ve given him everything.
Not just my body. My trust.
My heart.