5. Gen
Chapter 5
Gen
I wake up sore.
And not the I-slept-weird-on-my-neck kind of sore. The other kind. The good kind. The oh wow, my thighs have definite thoughts about last night kind.
Sunlight cuts through the curtains, warm and soft against the ridiculously high-thread-count sheets. My head is buried in a down pillow that smells faintly of sandalwood…and sex. A lot of sex.
I have never been more thankful for Evie. Which, sure, is a weird thing to think after losing your virginity. But she was the one who refused to let me hit twenty-four without at least some sexual exploration. She bought me my first vibrator, gave me an entire lecture on clitoral self-awareness, and thanks to her…I’m not nearly as sore as I probably should be.
So, I will be throwing Evie a party once I return from this week in paradise.
My limbs are heavy, my skin still humming, and the space behind my eyelids is flooded with snapshots I probably shouldn’t be thinking about this early in the morning.
Sebastian Wolfe, hotel magnate and human embodiment of emotional unavailability, is asleep next to me, shirtless and gorgeous and entirely too composed for someone who absolutely wrecked me last night. I peek over at him—carefully—and immediately regret it. He’s still, in that way he always is—like his body forgot how to relax a long time ago and is just faking it.
I mean, really, who is that pretty? And masculine? And just… ungh .
I should probably be spiraling. I did just lose my virginity to my much older basically-boss last night.
I had sex with my client.
Loud, wall-rattling, no-going-back sex. It was…intense. Commanding. A little terrifying.
And I liked it.
Scratch that—I loved it.
So, instead, I just…lie here. Bare and basking in the morning-after afterglow.
My brain won’t stop replaying the way he spoke to me. The way he looked at me when I begged. The way I felt underneath him—anchored and undone at the same time.
I press my fingers to my mouth and close my eyes.
God, what was I thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the issue. For once, I didn’t overanalyze or spreadsheet my way through a decision. I didn’t worry about what anyone else would say or how it would look. I just wanted , and I let myself take it…him.
And now I’m lying in a billionaire’s bed with sore thighs and no regrets.
That’s the part my parents would choke on.
The St. Claires don’t make impulsive decisions. We don’t act on feeling. We act on legacy. Structure. Optics. My whole life has been one long lesson in how to be composed. How to be pleasing. How to be the version of myself that fits neatly into other people’s expectations.
It’s exhausting.
For years, I tried to make it work—tried to be the right kind of daughter, the right kind of student, the right kind of woman who doesn’t challenge or want anything too loudly. It wasn’t like I had much room for rebellion. My parents were controlling. Expectations were cemented early and reinforced often, wrapped in country club etiquette and the kind of subtle judgment that sounds polite but lands like a warning.
I went to the right school, joined the right sorority, dated the right boys. I played the part.
And then, somewhere between formal committee meetings and planning my third philanthropy gala, I realized I didn’t just enjoy event logistics—I craved them. The details, the drama, the way everything had to work in tandem to create a night worth remembering. It clicked. For the first time, something felt entirely mine.
I built Luxuria from scratch, fought for every client, every contract, every piece of credibility that didn’t come from a last name. And still, even with a successful company and a full calendar, I’ve spent the past three years wondering if I’m still performing. Still doing what’s expected—just in prettier clothes.
But last night wasn’t about image. It wasn’t about control.
It was about letting go.
I didn’t ask myself if it was smart or strategic. I didn’t check my calendar or run a cost-benefit analysis. I didn’t do anything except want—and take.
And I’m not sorry.
I just don’t know what happens next.
Shit. The event isn’t over; there are still days left. And I still have a full vendor meeting at eight a.m. to go over day three. If I don’t leave this bed now, I’m going to start panicking in a very real and probably audible way.
I move slowly, carefully peeling the sheet back. I’m half off the mattress before the arm behind me tightens around my waist.
“Going somewhere?” His voice is low, gravel-rough with sleep.
I freeze. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
His hand drags along my bare hip, leisurely, possessive. “You twitch, you breathe too fast, you overthink. You’re not exactly subtle, sweetheart.”
“I have things to do.” My voice is high and thin and very not in control of the situation. “People to coordinate. Vendors to wrangle. Your party to run.”
“Mmm. And, as your client, I’m saying that you’re not going anywhere. Not yet.”
The words land low, right in my stomach. A spark flares behind them—hot and unreasonably effective.
“I really should?—”
His grip tightens. The next thing I know, I’m on my back again, pinned beneath him, wrists caught and pressed gently but firmly above my head.
He’s definitely awake now. Fully.
“Did I say you could leave my bed?”
My heart skips. “Sebastian?—”
“You gave yourself to me last night.” His mouth grazes my jaw. “And now I’m going to take what’s mine. Again.”
My breath catches. I should protest. Set boundaries. Ask questions.
Instead, I nod, feeling my pussy start to clench with anticipation.
His grip shifts slightly, one hand slipping from my wrist to the bedside drawer. He pulls out something sleek and black—soft leather cuffs
Of course. Who doesn’t just keep a set of restraints lying around in their hotel room?
“You’re going to lie there and behave,” he says, fastening one cuff around my wrist, then the other, attaching them both to the padded bar beneath the headboard. “No squirming. No begging. You’ll take what I give you.”
The restraint makes my pulse spike. I test it—barely. It’s not tight. Not painful. But the message is clear.
He’s not going to let me go.
And that, somehow, makes me feel safe.
He moves down my body, mouth grazing every sensitive inch he finds. He takes his time, coaxing, tasting, letting me melt beneath him until I’m already shaking, and he hasn’t even touched me where I need him most.
When his mouth finally closes over my breast and one palm slides between my legs, I cry out. Arch. Strain against the cuffs.
He chuckles darkly against my skin. “I said no squirming.”
I whimper. “Then don’t tease.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, sliding a finger through the slickness between my thighs. “That’s the fun part.”
I gasp when he strokes over my clit with maddening slowness. His touch is featherlight, almost nothing, and somehow, it’s worse than too much. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t press harder. He just watches me squirm, his mouth dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses along my ribs as I fight against the restraints and lose.
My legs tremble. My hips roll. I’m chasing friction and that’s exactly what he wants.
“Sebastian,” I breathe. “Please?—”
His finger slips inside me with a deliberate thrust that cuts off the rest of my plea.
“You don’t get to rush this,” he says, voice steady. “You begged for this mouth. This cock. This control. Now you’re going to take it.”
The second finger stretches me more, the rhythm just right—firm and deep, with the pad of his thumb circling, slow and tight. I want to scream. Or cry. Or explode. Possibly all three.
Every nerve in my body is strung too tight. The cuffs bite into my wrists just enough to remind me who’s in charge. And God help me, I don’t want that to change.
He kisses down my stomach, lips dragging with purpose, until his mouth replaces his hand. The first pass of his tongue makes my back arch off the bed. The second has me sobbing his name.
He holds my thighs open, broad palms anchoring me, licking me like he has all morning to unravel me—long, thorough strokes that build and build until I’m nothing but sensation. I strain against the cuffs again, crying out, but he just groans against me and keeps on going.
“I can’t,” I gasp. “I need—Sebastian, please?—”
His tongue flicks hard and fast over my clit, and the pressure detonates.
I come so hard I can’t breathe.
It rips through me without warning, so vicious it has my muscles locking and trembling, my head thrown back, my vision white-hot. I feel it everywhere—my core, my fingers, all the way down to my toes. It’s sharp and deep and all-consuming.
He doesn’t let me go.
He stays between my thighs as I shake, tongue still lapping, dragging out every pulse of pleasure until I’m wrung out and gasping.
When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is slick and his expression is feral.
“Still want to get back to work?” he asks with a cocky grin, already settling between my thighs again.
I don’t have the energy to form words. I shake my head. It’s all I can manage.
“Good girl.”
He releases the cuffs with quick, practiced ease and catches me before I can even think about moving. My limbs are jelly. My thighs ache. My brain’s barely back in my body, but when he rolls me onto my stomach and pulls my hips up, I don’t protest. I want more. My body is already bending to his will and loving every second of it.
The sharp crack of his palm on my ass makes me yelp—and moan. He does it again, hand smoothing over the sting.
“Oh, Ms. St. Claire, I have such plans for you.”
Another spank. Another moan.
My head falls forward, cheek pressed to the mattress. I’ve lost control of my voice, my body, everything except this desperate, aching need for him. He reaches for something else. When I hear the tearing of foil, I know what’s coming next.
“Yes?” he asks, dragging the head of his cock over my entrance.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He thrusts into me without hesitation, one smooth, hard stroke that fills me all over again.
And then he ruins me—exactly the way I asked him to.
* * *
I’m trying to be professional. Really. I’ve gone full Type-A mode. Lists, timelines, final confirmations, a thirty-second stare down with the bakery delivery guy who dared to show up without the edible gold topper. Every task is another brick in the mental wall I’m building between my body and what it clearly wants.
But it’s a losing battle.
Because every time I see him—across the lawn, near the sound booth, half-shadowed in conversation with a billionaire investor—my thighs clench. My skin feels feverish. I remember exactly how he looked this morning, sprawled between my legs, eyes dark, voice rough. I can still feel the palm landing on my ass, the brutal way he took me—twice—before he finally allowed me to go to work.
He’s keeping his distance. Sebastian Wolfe doesn’t hover. He doesn’t follow. But I feel his eyes. They track me. Measure me. I’ll be mid-conversation with a vendor, and I’ll feel the heat of his stare like a hand sliding under my skirt.
The worst part? I like it. No, that’s a lie. I love it.
I like knowing he’s watching. I like knowing what he’s probably remembering. I like that my body responds before my brain knows what’s happening.
Late afternoon sunlight spills through the grand foyer as I pass the west wing hallway. He’s there—impossibly put-together in a dark shirt and open collar, phone in one hand, expression unreadable. Our eyes meet. My breath stutters.
He ends the call.
Walks toward me.
Doesn’t stop.
As he passes, his mouth dips to my ear. “My office. Five minutes.”
Then he’s gone.
No explanation. No smile. Just a command.
My stomach flips so violently I nearly drop my clipboard.
Five minutes later, I knock on the heavy door to his private office and barely step inside before it slams shut behind me. I don’t even register the lock before his mouth is on mine.
There’s no build-up. No soft kiss hello. His lips crash into mine with bruising intensity, tongue demanding, hands already dragging up my skirt. I gasp and stumble back into the door, caught between cold wood and his body pressing into mine.
“Thought about this all day,” he growls against my mouth. “Every time I saw you. Every time you acted like nothing happened. Like I didn’t fuck you so hard you couldn’t see straight.”
His hips thrust against mine and I feel him—hard, thick, straining against his slacks. My legs nearly give out.
“I was working,” I breathe, nails digging into his shoulders.
He grips my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek. “And now you’re not.”
His mouth returns to mine as his hands push my skirt higher. He spins me before I can react, palms flat on my lower back, bending me forward over the massive oak desk. My chest hits the cool wood. My breathing stutters. He yanks my panties down with no preamble, baring me completely, and the sudden rush of air makes me shiver.
“Look at you,” he says, voice low and cruel. “Already wet. Just from the thought of being used like this.”
I want to deny it. I don’t. It would be a lie.
He spreads me with both hands, thumbs dragging along the slick heat between my thighs. “You didn’t even ask what I wanted to discuss.”
I manage a breath. “What do you want to discuss?”
He unzips his pants. The sound makes my mouth go dry.
“Fucking you,” he says simply. “Raw.”
My body jolts.
“No condom this time.” He notches the head of his cock at my entrance, slow, deliberate, not yet pushing in. “I want to feel all of you. You going to let me?”
“I’m not on anything,” I whisper. “But I know my cycle. It’s safe.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He thrusts in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
My scream is muffled by my own palm. I’m stretched too far, filled to the edge, every nerve ending lit up like a live wire.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so I’m arched for him, open, owned.
“You’ll take it,” he grits. “Every inch. Every thrust. And when I come inside you, you’ll feel it dripping down your thighs while you walk around the rest of the day trying to pretend you’re still in control.”
He slams into me again. And again.
The desk rattles under me. My hips bruise against the edge. He fucks me without restraint, without hesitation, like this was inevitable from the second we met. And I take it.
I push back into every thrust, soaked and swollen, my body trembling from the pressure, the stretch, the sheer domination of it all.
His hand slips around my throat, not choking, just holding. Possessive. Anchoring.
“You’re mine,” he says, his voice a growl. “Every time you come, it’s for me. You understand?”
“Yes,” I sob. “Yes—please—Sebastian?—”
I come fast and hard, muscles locking, stars exploding behind my eyelids. He follows with a vicious groan, hips stuttering, cock twitching deep as he empties himself inside me without hesitation.
Neither of us moves for a moment.
The only sound is our breathing—harsh, uneven.
Then he pulls out.
I feel it immediately—the slick, warm aftermath of him spilling inside me. It slides down the inside of my thighs as I brace against the desk. I feel boneless, so dazed I can barely think.
He drags my skirt back down, then turns me in his arms and kisses me—slower this time. Deeper. His hands cradle my face like he hasn’t just ruined me, like he wants to do it again.
And I let him.
Because I’m already his.