Chapter 8 Sebastian #2
The timer beeps. She runs a hand through my hair before pushing me away. I stare at the way her hips sway as she heads to the oven. I shove my fist in my mouth when she bends over and opens the door. Heat billows out, and I’m sweating as I watch her.
Her movements are efficient as she plates the food. She carries mine to me with a smile.
“Here you go, sweetie.”
I open my mouth, ready to snap that I’m not her sweetie, but she bats her long lashes before spinning, moving toward the cabinet. “I bought some of that white wine you like.”
Her scent mixes with dinner, short-circuiting the neurons in my brain.
That’s the only explanation for this.
She pours a glass, still chattering on. I grab my fork, the aroma of perfectly cooked steak, rosemary potatoes, and steamed veggies calling to me like a siren’s song. I groan as I put a bite in my mouth and chew.
“That’s the sound I like to hear.” She winks—winks—and gives me a salacious smile.
And now I’m imagining her pink lipstick staining my aching cock.
Dammit.
I’m stronger than this.
She slides into the chair beside me, chattering about the weather. The town’s Facebook page. Two squirrels running up a tree.
I hear the words, but don’t process them. Not when I’m drunk from her food and the sight of her. Hell, I haven’t even sipped my wine, but it feels like I drank half the bottle.
Danger. Danger. My brain tries to warn me.
“Oh. You need some more.” She stands and leans over, grabbing my plate. Her boobs are too close.
“I’ll be right back.” She licks her bottom lip, and damn if a growl doesn’t escape.
Her hips swing as she heads to the stove and scoops some more food onto the plate. I sip my wine unconsciously, watching them move side to side as she begins humming.
I loosen my tie. This needs to stop.
“Ivy, really. You don’t need to take care of me.”
She spins with the plate and carries it over. “We’ve already been through this.” Her fingers glide over my stubble before her lips lightly press against mine. “I enjoy it.”
She returns to her seat, humming again as she picks up her fork.
But my brain is thinking thoughts it shouldn’t. Like why did the word ‘enjoy’ make me… so damn horny?
While I finish eating, she makes small talk, scrubbing the used pots and pans.
I remain silent, thinking I’m so screwed over and over.
When I’m finished, she puts the leftovers away and loads the dishwasher.
She leaves when I ask. Eventually.
I’m grateful she didn’t wrap her hand around my cock again. I probably would’ve asked her to spend the night.
I groan, hitting my head against the wall before heading upstairs for a cold shower.
I’m an idiot.
A horny one.
The following week, I stop pretending I don’t expect her. She makes my coffee every morning. Cooks breakfast and cleans the kitchen while I get ready to leave for work. She’s there after every run or late night returning home from the office, cooking dinner.
My house is spotless. She picks up my clothing from the floor. My flannel pajama bottoms are folded on the chair in my bedroom, ready for me to slip them on. I turn on my electric fireplace and sit in the chair, staring at the flames every night before bed.
I’m not stupid. I know she’s been climbing my balcony and coming inside my bedroom when I lock the patio door. I started leaving it unlocked because it’s safer for her to climb the deck railing and come inside the first floor than to climb the second-floor balcony.
Either way, there’s no keeping her out of my life.
Or so I tell myself.
By the end of the month, I’m used to her being here.
She shows up after my runs. Sometimes she’s already sitting on the patio. Other times, she’s already inside, leaning against the counter like she’s been there for hours instead of minutes. Once, when I came in wet from the snow, she handed me a towel before I could even reach for one.
“You left the lights on upstairs,” she says mildly. “I turned them off.”
I tell myself she’s just observant. That I could stop this anytime.
But I don’t.
A week later, I find food in my fridge that I didn’t buy.
Chicken. Vegetables. Actual meals. Not the sad, protein-heavy approximation of food I usually survive on. I stand there longer than necessary, staring at it like it might explain itself.
The house smells different, too. Cleaner. Warmer. Less empty.
Another night, I walk into my bedroom and stop short.
My laundry is folded.
Not the way I do it. This laundry is too neat, sleeves tucked in just so, stacks separated with quiet logic I don’t understand. It should bother me. Someone touching my things usually does.
Instead, it makes my chest feel… steady.
Two days later, she’s standing over a laundry basket. I tell her not to fold my clothing. That I can do it.
She smiles, nods, and folds a shirt.
Arguing with Ivy doesn’t work. She gives a perky, “Okay,” then keeps popping up and doing things for me.
I start noticing the gaps she fills without asking.
Dinner appears when I’m stressed.
Silence settles instead of pressing in.
The house doesn’t echo anymore.
And the worst part?
I like it.
I don’t say that out loud. I don’t even admit it to myself. I keep my explanations tidy and logical.
She lives nearby.
She’s harmless.
She leaves when I ask. Mostly.
I should set boundaries.
Lock the patio door. Tell her she can’t come over unannounced. Stop letting this become normal.
I will.
Just not tonight.
Tonight, I sit on my couch, listening to Ivy move around my kitchen, humming softly while she rearranges things that didn’t need rearranging.
And for the first time since I moved into this house, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy.
It feels… occupied.
I’m staring at a movie without actually watching it, completely unaware she’s behind me until her hands are on my shoulders.
“You’re tense,” she whispers in my ear, already massaging my shoulders.
“You shouldn’t,” I whisper back, closing my eyes as she works on a knot that’s been bothering me.
“You always say that.” Her hands move to the hem of my tee. “Sit up.”
I obey like a well-trained dog, letting her pull it over my head.
“Lie down.”
Again, I obey.
And then, she’s sitting on my ass, warm hands rubbing my skin. I hear the click of a lid popping open. The smell of coconut hits me before she rubs it into my back. I groan as she kneads, rubs, and works out all the stress and tightness until I’m boneless.
“How’s that feel?” She leans over, whispering into my ear.
An image of me rolling her over so she’s sitting on my cock floats through my mind. My dick grows hard against the couch cushions. A pained hiss escapes.
“I don’t like you hurting,” she says, her tongue trailing up the side of my neck. “I just want you to feel good.”
A half-protest, half-seductive groan comes out.
“Roll over,” she says.
No.
But when she climbs off, I do.
Her eyes go to my cock, standing straight up in my sweatpants.
“I was going to leave. But I can’t leave you hanging.”
I should tell her to go.
But I don’t say a word.
Her eyes lock with mine as she straddles me, then lowers herself right onto my cock. My jaw clenches, wishing there weren’t layers of clothing between us.
“Aw, baby. You’re tense.” Fingers trail over my jawline before sliding down to my chest. Hands roam over my skin, teasingly gliding over my abs in a way that has me jerking from the sensation.
“You’re driving me crazy.”
No. That’s not what I mean to say.
A breathy giggle comes from her.
And then she starts moving her hips. The sight and feel is so damn seductive, I’m powerless to do a damn thing except rest my hands on her waist.
“Sebastian.” She leans over, her cleavage in my face. “You feel so damn good.”
I groan. “Don’t stop.”
My hands slide up, moving over her breasts. She whimpers, arching into my touch. Her hips still grind against me.
And then, I’m unzipping her jacket. She’s not wearing a bra. Her beautiful breasts spring free, right in front of my face.
I take a nipple into my mouth, my thumb grazing the other one. Her breath shudders, her pace faltering, losing rhythm, before she finds it again.
“Mmm,” I growl against her nipple, dragging my teeth lightly over it. “Your tits are amazing.”
She gasps from the sensation, grinding harder. Faster.
I switch, sucking on the other nipple while my fingers tease the other to a hard point. She pants and whimpers.
And then, I’m releasing her breast, my hand moving around her throat. Not choking, just pulling her so my mouth can find hers.
I shouldn’t be kissing her. I know this.
I shouldn’t be doing any of this with her.
But I can’t seem to stop.
I lick her bottom lip. She moans, and my tongue sweeps inside. She lets me control the kiss, our hands roaming, hips grinding in perfect harmony.
With a growl, I pull back, my hand still on her throat.
“I’m going to come soon.”
She’s off me, her hands tugging on my sweatpants. “This time, in my mouth.”
The room spins. My breath shudders as my cock springs free.
And then her mouth is on me, taking me deep. Tongue gliding over my skin, protecting me from her teeth.
“Fuck, Ivy.” My hands are wrapped in her long strands, tugging her deeper. “Suck my cock, baby.”
She moans around my length. Bright eyes meet mine as she takes me to the back of her throat.
“Shit. No gagging,” I whisper.
She pulls me from her mouth. “Nope.” Her tongue licks my pre-cum. “You taste so good.” Eyes are still on me. “Come in my mouth. I want every drop.”
And then, she’s taking me deep, her warm mouth like heaven. I jerk my hips, chasing the pleasure, seconds from exploding.
And then I arch, shoving my cock down her throat, and unleash.
I feel it furiously working around me, swallowing everything I have to offer.
When I stop, she moves to the tip, licking it, before releasing me. Her fingers wipe the corners of my mouth, dragging the cum inside, sucking it off.
“Fuck, that’s hot.” I pull her closer, my thumbs wiping her tears before I devour her, tasting myself on her tongue.