31. Sabrina
31
Sabrina
W ell.
Today has been… a day. Lunch with Tatiana was simultaneously therapeutic and terrifying. Therapeutic because, well, Tatiana just gets it. The pressure, the absurdity, the feeling of being swept up in a billionaire tornado. She listened patiently while I stress-dumped about the tabloid leak, the move to Leo’s penthouse (Operation: Gilded Cage, as I’ve started mentally calling it), the whiplash-inducing shift from ‘client/baby daddy’ to ‘guy I apparently have mind-blowing sex with on office furniture.’
Her advice? Essentially: ‘He’s clearly into you, Mia adores him, and he hasn’t run screaming despite multiple opportunities. Maybe stop overthinking and see where it goes?’
Easy for her to say. Her accidental Vegas marriage somehow morphed into a functional, loving partnership with Dominic Rossi, complete with parenthood .
Meanwhile, my accidental Vegas conception led to twenty months of secret-keeping, culminating in public exposure and cohabitation with a man who is equal parts terrifying and tender.
Not exactly parallel trajectories.
Still, talking to Tati helped.
Mostly.
Then came the afternoon after I got back to the penthouse. A relentless barrage of media inquiries, damage control statements, calls with Leo’s increasingly nervous (and occasionally hostile, thanks to Luca) business associates.
All managed from the temporary command center Leo set up for me in his home office, while Leo himself oscillated between taking aggressive investor calls and… playing peek-a-boo with Mia like it was the most important funding round of his life.
But now… quiet. Mia is finally asleep in her ridiculously fancy nursery down the hall. I just finished the bedtime story ritual, which tonight featured Pat the Bunny... apparently a classic in the high-stakes world of infant literature.
This while Leo watched from the doorway. Watched me . Not just Mia.
His gaze was… intense. Like he was trying to decipher a complex algorithm instead of just observing basic parental routine.
It made my skin prickle, my cheeks flush.
Damn it, Sabrina, get a grip.
Now we’re standing awkwardly in the hallway outside the nursery. The silence stretches, filled only by the soft hum of the penthouse’s climate control system.
“Long day,” Leo says finally. He looks tired, too, leaning more heavily on his cane than he was this morning. Managing investors probably takes a toll, even for him.
“Understatement,” I agree, running a hand through my hair. I feel… grimy. Stressed. Like I’ve run a marathon fueled by Red Bull and anxiety alone. “Think I need about twelve hours of sleep and maybe a vat of coffee.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. The rare, genuine one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes my stomach do those stupid little flips again.
“Can’t help with the sleep yet, but… how about a shower? A long one? My bathroom’s… excessive. Might help you relax.” He gestures vaguely down the corridor towards his wing of the penthouse.
My first instinct is to refuse.
Boundaries. Professionalism. Don’t get comfortable.
But the thought of escaping into a cloud of steam, washing away the stress of the day, the lingering scent of stale coffee and baby powder… it’s incredibly tempting. His bathroom is probably bigger than my guest suite, let alone my entire apartment.
“Are you sure?” I ask, hesitating. “I don’t want to intrude…”
“Sabrina,” he says firmly, stepping closer so that his familiar ozone-and-fig scent curls around me. “You’re living here, temporarily at least. Using the damn shower isn’t intruding.” His gaze searches mine for a moment, then: “Go. Relax. You deserve it after today.”
The unexpected kindness chips away another brick from the wall.
“Okay,” I relent. “Okay, thanks. That actually sounds… amazing. I mean, the guest shower is fine, but if it’s not a big deal...”
“It’s not.” His smile widens. “Guest towels are in the linen closet inside. Fluffy ones on the left.” He turns, heading towards the main living area. “Take your time. I’ll just be… working.”
Right. Work. Because billionaires never really clock out.
His ensuite bathroom is, as predicted, excessive. And incredible. Marble everywhere, heated floors, a shower stall the size of a small European nation with more jets and nozzles than a jacuzzi. There’s even a built-in sound system.
Because of course there is.
I strip off my clothes, leaving the stressed PR consultant persona in a heap on the ridiculously plush bathmat, and step under the cascade of hot water.
I’m in heaven. Pure and unadulterated.
The tension starts to melt from my shoulders almost instantly.
I lean my forehead against the cool marble tiles, letting the water sluice over me, washing away the grime of the day, the lingering anxiety, the confusing residue of… Leo.
I stay under the water for a long time, shampooing my hair twice just because I can, letting the expensive, subtly scented body wash he keeps stocked lather my skin. It smells… expensive. Like him. Which is probably not helpful for maintaining boundaries, but damn, it smells good.
I feel a sudden warm ache between my legs when I think of him, and I can’t help but start touching myself.
The water cascades hot and relentless over my skin, steam curling like a lover’s breath against my neck.
My fingers massage my clit with a pressure that borders on cruel .
Him .
The memory of his mouth, his hands, the way he’d growled “Mine” fills my mind.
I press my forehead to the slick tile, my hips arching into my touch. I kiss the tiles, pretending the hard surface belongs to his lips. Or his cock.
I slip two fingers inside myself and violently circle my clit with my thumb.
Leo Leo Leo.
The ache builds inside me, a coil of fire tightening until my breath hitches and I’m biting my lip hard enough to taste blood.
“Leo,” I whisper as I cum, my knees buckling, my back arching.
The spray drowns my cry as the aftershocks ripple through me, and I barely stay on my feet.
A wave of contentment fills me.
Leo.
As the orgasmic pulses fade, I realize I haven’t even fully rinsed the conditioner out of my hair, so I straighten and start doing that.
Then the shower door rattles open. I whirl in shock, water and conditioner sluicing down my bare shoulders.
Leo stands there. Naked. Leaning slightly against the doorframe, his weight off his injured leg. Water droplets cling to his hair, his shoulders, his well-muscled chest that looks like it was sculpted by some ridiculously talented Renaissance artist with a penchant for perfection. The stark evidence of his Chamonix nightmare is there, too... a jagged line across his right shoulder, another snaking down his side and disappearing below his hip. One particularly nasty welt traces the line of his right ribcage.
His green eyes are fixed intensely on me. He’s hard already. His thick cock stands fully-erect, the head slicked faintly with pre-cum and twitching with need.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he drawls, his voice rough as gravel. A droplet slides down the scar bisecting his ribs, that jagged souvenir from Chamonix. My throat goes dry.
He pushes away from the doorframe, taking a hesitant step into the massive shower stall, leaving his cane propped just outside. He moves stiffly, carefully, but with undeniable purpose into the spray.
“Though next time,” he murmurs, his fingertips skimming the goosebumps on my arm, “let me hear you properly when you play.”
“I… I thought you were working,” I stammer, backing up instinctively until my bare back hits the cool marble tiles on the far side. The stall suddenly feels much, much smaller.
“Changed my mind,” he says, closing the distance between us. “When I saw you kissing the wall like those were my lips, I got jealous.” He shrugs.
He stops just inches away. The heat from his body mingles with the steam. Water streams over his shoulders, down his chest, catching in the groomed pubic hair that arrows down to his impressive erection. “Besides, this seemed like a much better use of my time.”
His gaze drops, sweeping over me, lingering on my breasts, my belly, the triangle of dark curls between my legs. My skin flushes hot under his scrutiny. All my post-baby body insecurities roar back to life.
He’s seeing everything. The softness, the stretch marks…
“Don’t,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking back up to meet mine, seeming to read my thoughts. He reaches out, his wet hand gently cupping my cheek.
“Don’t hide.” His thumb strokes my chin. “You’re beautiful, Sabrina. Fucking breathtaking. Always have been. From the moment I laid eyes on you.”
The raw sincerity in his voice, the heat in his eyes… it melts my insecurities like ice under the hot spray. He thinks I’m beautiful? Me? After the models, the actresses?
He leans down, capturing my mouth in a kiss that’s instantly deep, and demanding. The awkwardness vanishes, replaced by pure, undeniable chemistry.
I kiss him back, my arms winding around his neck, pressing my naked body against his. Skin on wet skin. Muscle against softer curves.
His hardness presses insistently against my belly.
God I want him so badly.
His hands slide down my back, cupping my ass, lifting me slightly. I gasp against his mouth as he positions himself, his cock nudging between my legs, finding my slick entrance.
“Want you,” he groans, breaking the kiss to trail wet kisses down my neck. “Need you inside me. Now.”
But his hands leave me abruptly, and the absence of his heat makes me shiver.
Leo steps back, and braces one palm against the shower frame, his biceps flexing as he leans out into the misty bathroom, his injured leg stiff but steady. Water sluices down the tense lines of his back, catching on the raised scars along his ribs. I watch, my breath ragged, as he reaches a corded arm to the sink drawer just outside. He yanks it open and produces a condom packet.
He tears it with his teeth, never breaking eye contact. He tosses the packet outside and shuts the shower door behind him.
His fingers skim down his cock and he sheathes himself in a single ruthless stroke. The latex clings like a second skin under the shower’s steam, and he steps back toward me, his free hand already reclaiming my ass.
His thumb digs into the softness there, possessively, as he lines himself up again.
“Did you miss me in the long time we were parted?” he teases.
“Yes,” I moan.
The groan that leaves him as he pushes inside me is feral. I feel every gorgeous ridge, every hot inch, until he’s buried to the hilt.
He feels… incredible. Thick, hot, perfect.
His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath hot against my neck. “Fuck. Should’ve grabbed two condoms. I’m going to need them.”
He braces one hand against the marble wall, the other finding my hip, and sets a slow, deliberate rhythm. His eyes hold mine, intense, searching, as he moves inside me. Water cascades over us, plastering my hair to my face, streaming down his back.
His thumb finds my clit, rubbing slow, exquisite circles even as he thrusts deeper.
“Yes yes yes,” I gasp, arching into his touch, into his cock. “Leo… oh god …”
One hand slides up my spine, calloused fingers skimming the nape of my neck. He massages the tense muscles there, his grip firm yet tender, and I melt into the duality... the dominance laced with care. The pressure sharpens suddenly as his palm settles against my throat. Not squeezing. Just… holding .
“Can I choke you?” he rasps against my ear.
Confusion flickers... choke me?
What is he…?
But my trust overrides my doubts.
I nod, my pulse hammering beneath his fingertips.
His thumb shifts, pressing gently into the side of my throat, his forefinger grazing the parallel ridge on the other side. My breath hitches as the world tilts, a dizzying rush flooding my veins. Not pain. Not fear. Just sensation ... hot, liquid, his touch narrowing the universe to the points where our bodies fuse.
“How’s that?” he growls, his thrusts slowing to a molten grind.
“ Nice ,” I whimper, tipping my head back further, offering him more. “Don’t… don’t stop.”
He hums approval, the vibration skittering down my spine. “Good girl. Keep breathing.”
His fingers tighten infinitesimally, and a fractured moan tears from me. Blood roars in my ears, my hips rolling desperately against him.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He tightens it again. Pounding harder. Faster. The pleasure seems suddenly unbearable. I’m seeing stars.
His grip loosens and the world of the shower rushes back, but the dizzy euphoria lingers. Every nerve feels electrified, hyper-aware of his cock inside me, his thumb on my clit, his fingers mapping the frantic rhythm of my pulse.
“Still with me?” he rumbles.
“ Yes ,” I say, clawing at his forearm.
“Good girl.” He adjusts the pressure on my neck again, testing, controlling , as his hips slap harder.
He rides the edge of my pleasure, drawing it out, making me whimper, making me beg. He whispers praise against my skin.
‘Good girl.’
‘Fuck, you feel amazing.’
‘Take it all.’
The triple stimulation is unbearable... the steady chokehold of pleasure at my throat, the relentless friction below, the praise. “Leo, I’m… I’m gonna—”
“I know,” he interrupts, his voice fraying.
His fingers ease just as my climax detonates, the release so violent I nearly collapse, my vision whiting out for a second. He catches me, his hand sliding from my neck to brace my chest, his other still working my clit through the convulsions.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “Let go.”
“Leo!” I cry out, my body convulsing around his cock. He groans, thrusting deeper, faster, his own control snapping.
A faint, salty wetness slicks my inner thighs. And it’s not water.
Did I just…? Oh god.
“Fuck , Sabrina, you squirted —”
He groans loudly, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he spills inside the condom. I feel him pulsing, his release triggering smaller aftershocks of my own pleasure.
“So fucking hot ,” he moans.
Finally he collapses against me, resting his forehead on mine, his body trembling slightly, his breathing ragged against my ear.
We stand there, tangled together under the hot spray, the water sluicing over us, the only sounds our harsh breaths and the drumming of the water against the tiles .
Vulnerable.
Sated.
And completely confused.
After a long moment, he pulls back slightly, his hands framing my face. He looks… wrecked. The usual mask completely gone.
“Wow,” he breathes, a look of dazed wonder in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I whisper back, feeling ridiculously shy suddenly.
He kisses me again, softly this time beneath the spray. A lingering tenderness that feels more intimate than the sex itself.
He slips off the condom and tosses it outside the shower.
We eventually manage to rinse off, the silence between us charged but no longer awkward. He turns off the water, retrieves the ridiculously fluffy towels. We dry each other off slowly, hesitantly, the simple act feeling loaded with unspoken meaning.
Wrapped in a towel, leaning against the vanity while he does the same, the vulnerability lingers. He avoids my eyes for a moment, staring at his reflection in the steam-fogged mirror.
“My mother called yesterday,” he says abruptly, the words dropping into the quiet intimacy like stones.
My head snaps up. “Your mother?”
He nods, the guarded look returning. “Yeah. Saw the news reports. Knows about Mia.” He lets out a harsh breath. “Wants to meet her. Wants to… be involved.” The bitterness is back in his voice.
My stomach clenches with a different kind of dread now. His mother. The woman whose emotional absence, whose enabling of his father’s alcoholism, clearly left deep scars. Scars he’s still carrying.
“What did you say?” I ask quietly.
“Told her fuck no, basically,” he mutters. “Told her Mia deserves better than… than Maxwell family dysfunction.”
I recognize the pain behind the anger. The same defensive walls I throw up myself. Protect the child. Avoid repeating history.
“Leo,” I say softly, hesitantly reaching out to place a hand on his arm. His skin is warm, damp. “I get it. Believe me, I get the fear. My mother… she practically accused you of being my father reincarnated.”
A humorless smile twists his lips. “Sounds about right.”
“But…” I choose my words carefully. “Maybe… maybe she deserves a chance? Just like I gave you a chance?”
He looks down at me, his green eyes searching mine. He’s obviously conflicted. The anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but so is a flicker of the vulnerability he showed me earlier.
“You think I should?” he asks. “Give her a chance? After everything?”
“I think…” I take a deep breath. This feels hypocritical, given my own history, my own fears. But maybe breaking cycles means taking risks. “I think Mia deserves every chance at having family who loves her. Even complicated family. Maybe your mother has changed? Maybe seeing Mia… maybe it could heal something? For both of you?”
He stares at me for a long moment. I see the internal battle raging in his eyes. The old pain warring with this new, fragile possibility .
“Maybe,” he says finally. He looks away, towards the steam clearing from the mirror.
He hasn’t decided.
But he hasn’t slammed the door shut, either.
That’s progress.
I think.