6. Gen
Chapter 6
Gen
T his was supposed to be a professional trip. This event could make or break my business.
I keep reminding myself of that every time Sebastian’s hand grazes my lower back in passing, or his voice dips low in my earpiece and makes my knees threaten betrayal. I’m supposed to be focused on the final event rundown, not the memory of him bending me over his desk. Not the ache in my thighs and pussy. Not the very inconvenient truth that I haven’t stopped thinking about him since the moment he pulled me into his bed.
Or maybe it’s worse than that.
Maybe I haven’t wanted anyone else since the moment I saw him. Since he sat across from me in that conference room and looked at me like he already knew how I tasted.
Whatever it is, it’s ruining me.
We’ve barely had a full conversation since the last time he touched me, and I’m still flushed and wrecked under the surface. The man is everywhere—shaking hands with donors and industry moguls while finding ways to brush against me just enough to make my brain short-circuit.
He doesn’t even have to say anything anymore. One glance from across the lawn and my pulse kicks. One brush of his knuckles and I’m holding my breath. It’s embarrassing. Except I don’t feel embarrassed.
I feel…branded.
He keeps finding me. Pulling me into corners, catching my waist when I pass, murmuring filthy things in that impossibly sexy voice while I try to remember how to stand. His hands stay polite in public. Barely. But his mouth? That man knows exactly what he’s doing when he leans in close and whispers some quiet, completely unprofessional comment into my ear.
The worst part? I believe him. Every word. Every promise.
And I want more.
By the time the day finally winds down and the last guest is escorted back to their villa, I’m on the edge of losing it. My nerves are frayed. My thighs ache from more than just wearing my heels. I should be exhausted, but all I feel is restless.
I head to his suite just after ten for a final debrief. Clipboard in hand, professional face on, hair pulled back and twisted into a knot that says I am extremely competent and not at all distracted by how good your hands feel on my body.
I don't even have to knock before the door is opening and I’m being ushered inside. He really is unfairly good looking. I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man before—or any reaction, really. He’s unbuttoned his shirt at the collar and rolled his sleeves, and a glass of something dark in his hand. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes sweep down my body
His suite is the same sleek, glass-and-stone design as mine—except his view is better and the lighting’s warmer. There’s a folder already waiting on the table near the wet bar, and for one brief second, I convince myself this might actually be a work meeting.
Then his hand slips beneath the hem of my dress as he passes behind me and trails along the curve of my ass.
“You’re not making this easy,” I mutter, trying not to tremble.
“Wasn’t aware I was supposed to.”
I turn to face him. “We should go over the feedback. Final numbers. Vendor recaps. My report is almost finished. I’ll just need to fill in the final, final numbers tomorrow after the event is truly over.”
“You came to my suite to talk about spreadsheets?”
I square my shoulders, but it’s a losing battle. He walks toward me slowly, every step deliberate, until I’m backed against the edge of the counter and his mouth is hovering just above mine.
“You said you wanted to debrief,” I say, though it sounds weaker now.
“So, debrief me,” he says, mouth brushing my cheek. “Or take off your dress.”
The worst part is how much I want both.
But I’m already moving, already letting him tug the zipper down and peel the fabric away, already aching before he says the next thing.
“Hot tub,” he murmurs against my shoulder. “Now.”
It should feel ridiculous. It should feel cliché. But when he leads me out to the private terrace and sinks into the steaming water, knees wide, arms resting on the ledge behind him like a king on a throne, it doesn’t feel ridiculous at all.
I slip out of my bra and panties before I can overthink it, already flushed from the heat of being near him and the weight of his stare. He watches me the entire time. Unblinking. Devouring.
By the time I step into the hot tub, my legs feel unsteady.
He doesn’t speak, just reaches out and guides me onto his lap with hands that know exactly what they want. I settle over him, chest to chest, the water lapping against my shoulders as he pulls me in tighter.
“I should be resisting this,” I murmur, voice shaky.
“But you’re not.”
“No.”
His mouth brushes mine. “Good.”
And then he shifts—just slightly—but it’s enough. He slides inside me with one long, hard thrust. My breath leaves my lungs.
He groans low, deep in his chest, like this moment is undoing him, too.
He holds me there, buried deep, his hands locked on my hips, like he can’t decide whether to let me move or make me stay still and feel all of it. I’m stretched, already too full, already shaking, but I don’t want distance. I want more. I want all of it. All of him.
I start to move slowly, rocking my hips in shallow, aching rolls, and his breath stutters against my collarbone. His head falls forward, mouth grazing my skin. He doesn’t rush me or take over, but I can feel the restraint in him like a live current. His hands tremble where they grip me. His jaw locks. Every muscle is tight beneath my palms, his control sharp and coiled and barely intact.
The first time he took me, it felt overwhelming.
This time, it feels…dangerous.
Not because he’s rough or careless. Because he isn’t. He touches me like he knows exactly what I need—how to give it, how to drag it out. Something in the way he watches me now, with that devastating focus, makes it hard to breathe.
He says I’m his.
He keeps saying it.
And I know what he’s like. I’ve heard the rumors. The exes, the gossip, the clipped mentions in magazines about women who got too close and got shut out just as fast. Sebastian Wolfe doesn’t date. He doesn’t commit. He builds empires and keeps his distance and leaves people guessing.
Except right now, there’s nothing guarded in the way he touches me. Nothing distant in the way he holds me close, even as he thrusts up into me hard enough to take my breath away. My head falls back and he catches it with one hand, cradling my neck as his mouth finds mine again, all heat and possessiveness and something darker beneath it.
I kiss him back like I mean it. Because I do.
And that terrifies me.
I need to keep perspective. This is temporary. Physical. A product of high stress and proximity and the very real, very hard fact that I am not immune to a man who looks and touches and speaks the way he does. But there's something else happening here. Something I don’t want to name out loud because once I do, I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull it back.
I like the way he takes control of my body. That’s easy to admit. But I also like the way he looks at me when I’m speaking, even when I stumble. I like that he asks questions no one else bothers to. That he pushes. That he listens. I like the way he never lets anything slide, and the way he makes me feel like everything I do matters more than it should.
And God help me, I like the way he says my name.
The first time he groans it into my mouth, I shatter.
The orgasm hits hard and sudden, pulled from me like a secret I wasn’t ready to tell. My body clamps down around him and he lets out a strangled sound, one hand fisting in my hair as his hips jerk, rougher now, less controlled. He’s right there with me, cock pulsing inside me as he follows me over the edge, the heat of him spilling deep.
I don’t move.
I stay curled around him, forehead to his shoulder, thighs trembling. His hands stroke down my back, slower now, softer.
He doesn’t speak. Neither do I.
Because if I open my mouth, I might say something I can’t take back.
And I’m not sure he’s ready to hear it. I’m not sure I am either.
So, I rest against him instead, letting the water swirl around us, letting the weight of what just happened settle over me. Letting myself feel all the things I’m not supposed to feel for a man who doesn’t belong to anyone.
Even when he keeps calling me his.