24. Sabrina
24
Sabrina
H is lips are soft.
Questioning.
A stark contrast to Vegas... the rough, demanding possession fueled by GHB.
This is… sober Leo.
Conscious Leo.
Kissing me .
Sabrina Taylor.
Mother of his child.
The Leo I thought would never want me.
All the carefully constructed professional boundaries, the warnings I’ve been giving myself, the lectures about history repeating... they fizzle and die.
His mouth explores mine, a slow dance that sends sparks down to my toes, bypassing every logical checkpoint along the way.
He tastes like whiskey and... Leo. His cologne fills my senses. Black tea, fig, ozone.
My hand, the one I hesitantly placed on his chest, feels the frantic hammering of his heart beneath his shirt .
It matches my own frantic pulse beat for beat.
Okay, Sabrina. Potential PR implications of kissing the billionaire client whose reputation you’re supposed to be rehabilitating? Not good.
Risk of emotional fallout? Stratospheric.
Probability of repeating your mother’s history? Alarmingly non-zero.
But then his tongue traces my lower lip in a silent request for entry, and my analytical brain dissolves.
I open for him, a soft sigh escaping my lips, my fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of his shirt. He groans, and the kiss deepens, shifting from tentative exploration to something hungry. Familiar.
This part feels like Vegas. The raw need. The intensity that bypasses thought and goes straight for the gut.
His other hand comes up, framing my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone with surprising tenderness before tangling in my hair and tilting my head back slightly.
He controls the kiss now, deepening it further, staking a claim. And god help me, I let him.
I meet his intensity, kissing him back with a desperation that scares me, a longing I’ve kept locked down for twenty long, lonely months.
This is insane. I’m kissing Leo Maxwell in his sky palace while our daughter sleeps in the next room. The daughter conceived during a night like this that he doesn’t remember.
A night I remember with terrifying clarity, including the part where I felt completely out of my depth and devastatingly attracted to him.
I can’t believe I’m kissing him. I can’t believe this is real. But it is. It really is.
I thought this night would never come again .
He pulls back, only to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jawline, down the curve of my neck. My head falls back against the sofa cushions, exposing my throat to him. I feel goosebumps erupt.
“Sabrina,” he breathes against my skin, his voice rough with need. It’s the voice from Vegas, the one that’s haunted my dreams.
“Leo,” I whisper back.
My internal warning system is telling me to stop, but my body won’t listen. It remembers the intensity, the pleasure, the way he rocked my world...
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at me. His green eyes are dark, his pupils dilated, blazing with an intensity that’s both terrifying and exhilarating. He’s breathing heavily.
“This…” he starts, then stops, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear it. “This is… complicated.”
“Understatement,” I manage shakily.
“Fuck complicated,” he decides, his gaze dropping back to my mouth.
And then he’s kissing me again, harder this time, all pretense of tentativeness gone.
He stands abruptly, pulling me up with him. I stumble slightly, off balance. He steadies me, one hand strong on my waist, the other still tangled in my hair.
He reaches for the cane that leans against the sofa. Once he has it, he starts backing me up, slowly and deliberately, toward the windows.
Toward the glittering expanse of the Manhattan skyline.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
What is he doing?
My back hits the cool glass. I gasp, startled by the sensation.
He presses closer, trapping me between the window and his hard body. The size difference between us feels immense now, his larger frame pinning me easily. He’s all heat and muscle and that intoxicating scent.
He drops the cane. It clatters softly onto the thick rug, forgotten.
He braces one hand on the glass beside my head, and the other slides down my back, pulling my hips flush against his.
Oh god.
Even through our clothes, I can feel how hard he is. Like super, impossibly hard, his thick and insistent cock pressing against my belly.
A jolt of pure heat shoots through me, making my knees weak.
My core clenches involuntarily.
“Leo…” It’s meant to be a protest, a plea for sanity, but it comes out as a breathless sigh.
“I needed this,” he growls, his mouth finding mine again, kissing me with bruising intensity. “I needed… you . Since Vegas. How could I not remember this … fuck.”
His ragged confession, torn from him, lowers my remaining defenses.
He needed me?
Not just any woman, but me ?
His hands are suddenly everywhere. Not gentle, not exploring, but mapping, claiming.
One hand slips under my sweater, finding the bare skin of my back, his fingers tracing my spine and sending trembles down my body despite the heat building between us .
The other hand slides down, cupping my ass, pulling me harder against his huge erection. I gasp into his mouth.
My own hands find their way under his shirt, exploring the hard planes of his back, the ridges of muscle. His skin is hot, smooth. He groans when my fingers dig in slightly.
Then his hand slides around, between our bodies, fumbling with the button of my pants.
Panic flickers, cold and sharp, through the haze of desire.
My body.
It’s not the same as it was pre-Mia. It’s softer. With faded stretch marks still present on my hips and belly.
He’s used to supermodels. Flawless bodies. That Jen bitch with her rock-hard abs.
What will he think when he sees me?
Will he be repulsed?
Will this whole fragile connection shatter the second he sees the reality of my post-baby body?
He gets the button undone, the zipper sliding down with a soft rasp. His fingers dip inside, brushing against the waistband of my panties. I flinch instinctively, trying to press myself back against the glass, wanting to hide.
But he seems to misunderstand my hesitation. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. His eyes blaze down at me with admiration.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he says, pressing his lips against mine.
I am?
“What a fucking sexy goddess you are,” he rasps. “Tell me you want it, Sabrina. Tell me you want this. Want me .”
Do I?
Yes.
God, yes.
The memory of Vegas pulses through me, a dangerous, undeniable craving. But still, I’m hesitant.
“Leo, I…”
He cuts me off with another devastating kiss, one hand sliding down definitively, pushing past the lace of my panties, his fingers finding my core.
Wet.
Slick.
And ready.
He groans, a low, guttural sound against my lips. “Fuck, yes you do.”
His fingers dip inside me, just one, then two, stretching me slightly, moving with a confidence that steals my breath. It’s not the rough intrusion of Vegas, but it’s not tentative either. It’s possessive.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, how to make my body obey him.
I cry out, arching against his hand, against the cool glass at my back.
He pulls back from the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine.
“Condom,” he bites out, the word sounding like a command issued to himself.
He breaks away for only a second, turning toward a low side table near the window. I watch breathlessly as he limps to the table and yanks open a drawer.
Of course he keeps them handy, scattered at strategic locations throughout his penthouse, probably.
He retrieves a small foil packet and rips it open with his teeth.
The momentary pause gives my panic a chance to resurface .
This is crazy.
He’s my client.
He’s Mia’s father.
He’s… Leo Maxwell.
But then he turns back, the condom slicked and ready in his hand, that intense green gaze locking onto mine again, filled with undisguised hunger.
And my reservations evaporate just like that.
He limps to me, and pushes my leggings and panties down impatiently, just enough to free my hips. I kick them further down my legs with clumsy feet.
His fingers fumble with the zipper of his trousers, the sound sharp and urgent in the quiet. His pants drop, then his briefs, and there he is... all hard, hungry heat, thick and straining.
My breath hitches as he sheathes himself with the condom, slowly and deliberately, his gaze locked hungrily on my face.
Then he’s positioning himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against my wet folds.
“Lift,” he commands, his voice rough.
My brain barely processes the command before instinct takes over.
I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs automatically winding around his waist. He grunts, adjusting his grip, his strong arms easily taking my weight despite his injury.
I see a flicker of pain cross his face, quickly masked, as he braces himself, using the window frame for leverage.
His determination, his sheer refusal to let his physical limitations stop him right now, is almost as intoxicating as his touch.
He aligns himself again, the head of his cock nudging, seeking entry.
I gasp in anticipation.
Then he thrusts. Hard. Deep.
Filling me completely in one powerful stroke.
A cry rips from my throat, muffled against his shoulder. It’s… overwhelming. Like Vegas. But also, just right.
He stretches me, fills that hollow ache I didn’t even realize I had. He feels… huge. Solid.
Real.
Mine.
At least for this moment.
He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t give me time to adjust or think or panic further.
He starts moving immediately, pulling back almost completely before slamming into me anew, setting a frantic, driving rhythm.
It’s not the almost violent intensity I confessed to earlier, the one fueled by drugs, but it’s close. It’s raw, primal need.
Our bodies slap together, the sound echoing slightly in the cavernous room.
The cool glass presses against my back, a counterpoint to the friction building between my legs at the apex where his thick cock drives into my pussy.
His breath comes in harsh pants against my ear. His hands grip my ass, tilting my hips, deepening the angle, hitting a spot that makes me see stars behind my closed eyelids.
“Fuck, Sabrina,” he groans.
I cling to him, meeting his thrusts, my own body moving with a desperate need that matches his.
I suddenly remember that I’m up against the glass of his penthouse window, with the curtains open and the lights on. Exposed for anyone in Central Park to see. Like we’re putting on a show .
The thought sends another illicit thrill through me.
He shifts slightly, his cock hitting that perfect angle again, scraping my G-spot.
A broken sob escapes me.
Closer.
So close.
“Leo,” I gasp, burying my face against his neck, biting back another cry as the pleasure sharpens, threatening to shatter me.
His thrusts become more frantic, deeper, faster.
He throws his head back, a guttural roar tearing from his throat.
“SAbrINA.”
I feel his cock pulse deep inside me, hot spurts releasing against the latex barrier.
His release triggers my own. My world dissolves into blinding white light. My body clenches around him, milking him, riding the wave as it crashes over me, leaving me trembling and utterly spent in his arms.
We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together against the glass, the only sounds our ragged breathing. His heart hammers against my cheek. My legs feel shaky, threatening to unwrap from his waist.
I listen intently, waiting for the telltale wail to come from the baby monitor, worried that our frantic lovemaking woke Mia.
But the monitor remains silent.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers me until my feet find the floor again. My legs almost buckle, but he steadies me, his hands strong on my hips.
We’re both breathing hard, slick with sweat.
The adrenaline high fades, leaving behind the inevitable aftermath. Vulnerability. Uncertainty.
The stark reality of what just happened comes crashing down.
I just had incredibly intense, possibly life-altering sex against a window overlooking Central Park. With my client. With my daughter’s father. The man I swore I’d keep at arm’s length.
Well done, Sabrina.
Stellar boundary maintenance and PR work.
I look up at him.
His eyes are dark, still dilated, searching my face.
What is he thinking? Regret? Satisfaction? Just another conquest?
He reaches up, his thumb gently brushing a stray curl from my cheek. His touch is surprisingly tender.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice still rough.
Am I okay? Define okay. Physically? Spent but tingling. Emotionally? A complete fucking train wreck teetering on the brink of a panic attack.
“Yeah,” I lie, pulling away slightly, suddenly needing space, even though I have clothes currently tangled around my ankles. I start tugging my leggings back up, my cheeks flaming again. I reflexively avoid eye contact. Self-protection. “I’m fine.”
He watches me,and I see his expression shift, shuttering closed in response to my retreat.The vulnerability I glimpsed earlier is gone.
My pulling back did this. I know it did. But I can’t help it.
Letting him see the emotional chaos churning inside me feels too dangerous. As does lettinganyonethat close.
Especially him.
My heart is not up for grabs, no matter how good the sex was.
And I thought he’d ruined me before.. .
What have I done?
“Can you show me...” I swallow. “Can you show me to the guest suite, please?”
“Of course,” he replies icily. He rips off the condom, tosses it into a nearby wastebasket.
Then he pulls up his pants and retrieves his cane, the New York Leo back in full force.