Page 87 of The Bourbon Bet
My hands tremble with anticipation as I fumble with his zipper. I wrap my hand around his erection, and he groans low and rough against my throat.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he rasps.
I let go of him, needing to press my body against him. Nothing but a scrap of lace stands between us and what we both want.
“Condom. Do you have one?” he asks.
“In my purse.” I get the square package.
He holds up a hand. “Stop.”
My body instinctively listens.
He stalks closer. “I’ll do that.” Hooking the scrap of lace with his fingers, he drops to his knees. I smile as he slides them over the red heels, leaving the shoes on.
His hands falter as they slide up my calves, his touch reverent, yet hungry. His breath deepens, chest rising and falling more rapidly. The man who commanded a room full of employees with cool confidence now looks at me with dark, heat-filled eyes that can’t seem to focus on anything but where his hands meet my skin.
“Rosalia,” he whispers, like I’m his favorite dessert. “Sit.” His fingers press more firmly into my flesh, possessive and wanting. His usually perfectly knotted tie now hangs askew, his usually immaculate hair disheveled where I’ve run my fingers through it. A flush spreads across his cheekbones, and the controlled executive facade melts away, revealing raw desire. Seeing this man—so controlled, so composed—completely undone by me sends a heady rush of pleasure through my veins.
I settle where he wants me, and I’m rewarded with kisses up my legs. Every touch makes me ache for more. By the time he reaches where I need him, I’m already breathless. I savor the rasp of his short beard against my inner thighs. It’s a delicious contrast to his soft lips. Then his mouth is on me. There is no teasing, only hunger that demands satiation.
Digging my hands into his thick hair, I scrape my nails along his scalp, desperate to hold onto him to stay grounded as my rising pleasure threatens to break me apart. He moans, gripping my hips, pressing me into his face as if he can’t get enough. And that’s what shattersme.
Euphoria suffuses me even as a faint whisper of doubt threads through my ecstasy, warning me that this perfect, shining moment is as fragile as a soap bubble. I shove the unwelcome thought away with all my other ones and fall fully into Sebastian’s touch.
I cry out as bliss races down my spine. Shock waves of ecstasy roll through me. Sebastian stands, pulling me up and to the edge of the desk. He tugs down his slacks, enough to free his erection. Rolling on the condom, he pushes inside me. I gasp at the intense sensation of him filling me, prolonging my orgasm.
He stills. “Are you okay?”
“Y—yes,” I pant, wrapping a leg around him. “Don’t stop, Sebastian.” His name is a plea and a prayer on my lips. Burying my face in his neck, I breathe him in, memorizing the scent of his skin and the feel of his body against mine.
I rock, meeting each of his thrusts. His movements grow urgent. “You feel so good,” he growls.
An impossible pressure builds at the base of my spine. “H—how? I—I can’t come again. It’s too much,” I pant.
“You can. You will.” His demand has my muscles clenching around him, and a deep guttural groan escapes him. His thumb circles my clit, and I freeze like I’ve been electrocuted as another orgasm engulfs me.
He slams into me, heightening my pleasure. Something heavy crashes to the floor, but Sebastian doesn’t stop or even slow. He keeps moving inside me until his body stiffens, and his erratic breaths whisper my name.
My orgasm has left me boneless and I collapse onto the desk, Sebastian following me. I trace my fingers over his back as our heartbeats gradually return to normal. We lie entangled in the afterglow, and for these precious moments, the world outside doesn't exist.
“I needed this more than I realized,” he admits quietly, his voice soft against my hair. “This week has been... intense.”
His vulnerability reminds me of all the stress he’s under—stress that I’m about to make infinitely worse. The weight of what I might do crashes back down, shattering our perfect bubble.
Sebastian pushes up from the desk and tosses the condom in the trash before tucking himself back into his slacks. I haven’t even removed his shirt. He only has to button it back up, put on his vest and jacket, and he’ll be ready to go.
I giggle. “You’re basically ready for dinner, and here I’m in nothing but heels,” I tease, trying to shake off my growing melancholy.
“You’re dressed spectacularly as my perfect appetizer.” He grins, helping me stand, resting his forehead against mine, his breathing still uneven. “I’m not usually like this,” he admits, letting out a soft laugh. “I pride myself on control in all things. I’m all measured responses and careful planning. But with you...with you, I lose every bit of that control. It’s never been like this for me.”
I trace a finger along his jawline, savoring this rare glimpse of vulnerability. “I like seeing you this way. Not always perfectly composed.”
“Only with you,” he murmurs, the words sending a flutter through my chest. “Only ever with you.” The wonder in his voice cuts me.
Avoiding his eyes, I busy myself retrieving my scattered clothes while he rights the fallen lamp. The dress slides over my body as my reluctant gaze drifts back to the shelf of bourbon bottles.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimes softly, another unwelcome reminder that this moment is fleeting. By this time Saturday, derby hats will be donned, mint juleps poured, and I’ll have to choose between Sebastian and my bookstore.
