Chapter 4: Climax
Her words, barely a whisper against the hum of the engines, lanced through him. Don’t you dare make me regret this. They hung in the charged air, more damning than any shout. Sebastian heard them, though she had spoken to the floor, to the torn silk in her hands.
He closed his eyes. He drew in a long, slow breath, the scent of their sex and her perfume filling his lungs. He nodded to himself, a private, grim acceptance. This wasn’t the beginning he’d imagined, not some soft, slow seduction. It had been a collision, messy and raw against a cabin wall. But it was real. It was them. And he would be damned if he let her twist this into a shameful mistake.
He moved to the small galley, his body humming with spent energy. He ran a clean linen towel under warm water, wringing it out. Alma flinched when he first touched her thigh with the warm cloth, but she didn’t pull away. He cleaned her with a shocking tenderness, wiping the evidence of their joining from her inner thighs. His touch was methodical, deliberate.
He hooked her ruined panties back into place, his fingers brushing her sensitive skin. He smoothed her skirt down over her hips, the fabric now wrinkled and smelling faintly of him. He leaned in and pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the swell of her breast above the torn lace of her bra. He adjusted the cups, his knuckles grazing her nipples, and she shuddered.
Then he turned her gently to face him. He framed her face with his hands, his thumbs wiping a smudge of mascara from under her eye. He kissed her deeply, a slow, claiming promise that tasted of salt and surrender. “We can talk about everything tonight. Okay?” he murmured against her lips.
Alma stared up at him, her dark eyes wide, searching his face. She gave a single, sharp nod. He kissed her again, briefly, before turning his attention to her blouse. The silk was ripped beyond repair at the seams. He strode to his own travel bag, unzipped it, and pulled out a fresh, black dress shirt of his own.
He helped her into it, his fingers working the buttons from the bottom up. The soft cotton drowned her, the sleeves falling past her fingertips, the collar wide around her slender neck. She looked like she’d been claimed, and she had. He rolled the sleeves up for her with efficient motions. “Better,” he said, his voice rough.
The jet gave a lurch as the wheels deployed. The real world rushed back in with the increased whine of hydraulics. Alma straightened her spine, a visible shift. The vulnerable woman was receding, the impeccable assistant reassembling her armor. But the shirt, his shirt, remained.
“The hotel is fifteen minutes from the airport,” she said, her voice still husky but clearing. “I’ve moved your eleven o’clock with the FIA delegate to a working lunch. You have thirty minutes in the suite before you need to be in the engineering debrief.”
Sebastian watched her, a faint, unreadable smile touching his mouth. “See? Indispensable.”
They landed with a smooth, professional ease. By the time the cabin door opened to the humid air of the European tarmac, they were a perfect picture of composed authority. Alma descended the steps first, tablet in hand, his oversized shirt tucked crisply into her skirt. Sebastian followed, sunglasses on, barking a question about tire compound data into his phone.
The black team limo swallowed them, the partition firmly up. In the dim, cool interior, the space between them on the leather seat felt vast and electric. Sebastian ended his call and tossed the phone aside. He didn’t look at her, just stared out the tinted window at the blur of airport fencing.
His hand, however, found hers where it rested on the seat. He laced his fingers through hers, his grip firm, unbreakable. Alma didn’t pull away. She looked down at their joined hands, her breath catching. She held on just as tightly, her professional mask finally cracking for no one but him to see. The silent ride was a confession all its own.
The silent ride was a confession all its own. The partition in the limo was up, sealing them in a dark, moving vault. Sebastian turned from the window, his profile sharp in the intermittent flash of passing streetlights. He looked at their joined hands, then at her face, half in shadow.
He pulled her in for a sweet kiss.
It was soft, undemanding, just the warmth of his mouth moving slowly over hers. Alma’s first instinct was to stiffen, to pull back and murmur something about the driver, about protocol. She tried to stay professional. But the tenderness of it, the shocking contrast to the violence against the cabin wall, undid her completely. A small, fractured sound escaped her throat, and she melted into it. Her hand came up to cradle his jaw, her fingers finding the rough texture of his stubble.
He tasted like coffee and resolve. When he finally broke the kiss, he didn’t go far, his forehead resting against hers. “The hotel suite,” he said, his voice a low vibration in the shared space. “I need you in a real bed. I need to see you.”
“They’re expecting us,” she whispered, but the protest was hollow, her lips already seeking his again.
“Fuck what they expect.” He kissed her harder this time, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a possessiveness that made her toes curl in her heels. His hands slid under the dress shirt she wore, finding the bare skin of her waist. “I’m rewriting the brief.”
The limousine slid to a smooth halt beneath the hotel’s portico. Sebastian didn't wait for the driver. He opened the door himself, pulling Alma out after him. He kept her close, his arm a firm band around her waist as they moved through the glittering, marble-lined lobby. Her heels clicked a frantic tempo on the floor, his pace desperate and determined. She felt the eyes of the concierge, the discreet glances of other guests, but Sebastian’s focus was a force field. He didn’t acknowledge anyone, just collected the keycard with a terse nod and guided her to the private elevator.
The elevator doors closed, sealing them in golden, mirrored silence. He pressed her against the wall, his body pinning hers, one hand fisting in the cotton of his own shirt at her hip. “I can still smell us on you,” he growled into her neck, his breath hot. “It’s driving me fucking insane.”
The elevator chimed. The penthouse doors opened directly into a vast living area. Sebastian swept her inside, the door clicking shut with a heavy, final sound. Moonlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything in silver and deep blue. He didn’t turn on the lights.
He backed her towards the sprawling bedroom, peppering her neck with open-mouthed kisses and sharp, hungry nips. “Take this off,” he said, tugging at the shirt. “I want it off you.”
Alma’s fingers fumbled with the buttons. Her competence had evaporated, replaced by a trembling need. He finally batted her hands away and ripped the shirt open, the buttons pinging against the hardwood floor. The cool air hit her skin as he pushed the fabric from her shoulders. She stood before him in just her skirt and the torn bra. His gaze was physical, a scalding touch that traveled from her face down to her waist.
“The rest. Now.”
She complied, her fingers hooking into the waistband of her skirt. She shoved it down over her hips, let it fall. She reached behind to unclasp the bra, letting it drop. The evidence of their first coupling was a faint, sticky ache between her thighs. Sebastian’s eyes darkened. He shed his own clothes with brutal efficiency, his jacket, his shirt, his trousers landing in a heap.
He was already fully hard, his erection jutting from his body. He closed the distance and wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her into another searing kiss. With his other hand, he grasped his cock and slid the broad, slick head through her folds, coating himself in her wetness. She whimpered against his mouth, her hips pushing forward, seeking pressure.
“Not yet,” he breathed, denying her. He walked her backwards until her calves hit the edge of the massive bed. “Lie down.”
She fell back onto the cool duvet, the scent of expensive linen filling her nose. He followed her down, covering her body with his. He kissed her breasts, sucking each nipple deep into his mouth until she was arching and panting. He kissed a hot trail down her stomach, over the delicate bones of her hips. He hooked her knees over his shoulders, burying his face between her legs.
His tongue was a flat, rough stroke over her clit. Alma cried out, her hands flying to his hair. He licked into her, a filthy, intimate penetration of his tongue that mirrored what was to come. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a rhythm that made her thighs shake. “You taste even better now,” he muttered, his voice muffled against her. “All twisted up and desperate for it.”
“Sebastian, please…” She was begging, and she didn’t care. The build was too intense, a coil of pure heat winding tighter in her belly.
He slid up her body, his weight a delicious anchor. He nudged at her entrance, the thick tip an insistent pressure. He caught her gaze and held it. “Look at me when I’m inside you,” he commanded, and it wasn’t a request.
He pushed forward, a long, slow invasion that stretched her, filled her, claimed her in a way that felt more profound than the frantic coupling on the jet. Alma’s eyes fluttered shut at the overwhelming sensation. “Eyes on me, Alma.” Her lashes lifted. He was watching her with an unnerving intensity, reading every flicker of pleasure on her face as he seated himself to the hilt.
He began to move, pulling out almost completely before driving back in with a deep, rolling thrust. “This,” he grunted, his breath hot on her cheek. “This is what it feels like. No walls. No surprises. Just you and me.”
“Just you and me,” she echoed, the words a raspy sigh. She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. The pace was punishingly deliberate, each thrust a calculated assault on her senses. He leaned down, capturing her mouth, swallowing her moans. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, a clash of tongues and shared breath.
He shifted, angling his hips. The next thrust hit a spot so deep and electric that white light exploded behind her eyes. “Oh, God, right there!” she screamed, her nails digging into the muscles of his back.
“Tell me who this belongs to,” he demanded, pistoning into that same devastating spot. His control was fraying, his movements becoming ragged.
“You,” she gasped. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”
Her confession shattered the last of his restraint. A guttural roar tore from his chest. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming frantic, powerful drives. Alma’s climax detonated, a convulsive, unending wave that clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper into the vortex. He came with a final, grinding thrust, pouring himself into her, his entire body rigid as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing jets.
He collapsed atop her, his sweat-slicked skin pressed to hers, his heart hammering against her ribs. For long minutes, the only sounds were their struggling breaths and the distant hum of the city far below. He softened inside her but didn’t move, his face buried in the curve of her neck.
Finally, he rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping her anchored to his body. The moonlight had shifted, painting a silver path across the rumpled duvet. Alma traced the lines of tension that still bracketed his mouth. The ruthless team principal was gone. In his place was a man who looked twenty years younger, sleep-softened and utterly spent.
He caught her hand, brought her fingertips to his lips. “Stay,” he said, the word simple and heavy.
Before she could answer, her phone buzzed insistently on the floor, where it had fallen from her discarded clothes. The screen lit up the dim room. Markus. Followed by another buzz. The FIA delegate.
The real world, relentless, was pounding at the door.
The buzzing was a drill against the quiet. Alma felt Sebastian’s body tense against hers, the warm, spent languor hardening into familiar alertness. His arm tightened around her for one more second, a silent protest, before releasing. “I know,” he said, his voice gravel. “I heard it too.”
He sighed dramatically, a long, performative exhalation of pure frustration that cut through the weighted intimacy. It was so unexpectedly childish, so unlike him, that a startled giggle burst from Alma’s lips. The sound, foreign and bright, seemed to surprise them both. He looked down at her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and kissed her again—a soft, grateful press of his mouth for the gift of that laugh.
Then he slid from her body. The sudden emptiness was a physical shock, a cold vacancy that made her whimper. He kissed the sound from her lips, a quick, reassuring sip. “Come on,” he murmured, swinging his legs off the bed. He fetched a warm washcloth from the adjoining bathroom, the steam rising in the moonlit room.
He cleaned her with the same methodical care he’d used on the jet, wiping the spend from her inner thighs and the sticky wetness from her belly. His touch was pragmatic now, but his eyes held hers, refusing to let the moment become clinical. He helped her sit up, then handed her the clothes he’d gathered from the floor: her skirt, her heels, the torn blouse now useless. From his open suitcase, he pulled a simple grey V-neck sweater of soft cashmere. “Wear this,” he said, handing it to her. It would smell like him, like them, all day.
They dressed in a silence that was no longer charged with lust but with something more complex: a negotiated peace, a shared secret. Alma stepped into her skirt, zipped it up. She pulled the sweater over her head, the fabric swallowing the evidence of his mouth on her skin. Sebastian stepped into fresh trousers, shrugging into a clean shirt, his movements efficient and precise. The Team Principal was reassembling himself, piece by piece.
Alma found her phone, its screen a landslide of notifications. She scanned them, her mind clicking into its familiar, lightning-fast gear. “Markus needs the finalized strategy doc. The FIA delegate is in the lobby bar, early. He’s ordered a Scotch.” Sebastian gave a curt nod, knotting his tie in the reflection of the dark window.
Just as Alma reached for the suite door, his hand shot out, gripping her wrist. He pulled her back, her spine meeting the solid wall of his chest. He turned her to face him, his fingers tangling in the cashmere at her waist.
He leaned in and captured her mouth in a searing, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of promise and desperation. It was a brand, a final anchor in the quiet before the storm. When he pulled back just inches, his words were a warm breath against her lips. “Tonight, this room is the only briefing I want.” His thumb stroked her hipbone through the soft wool. “You wreck me, Alma Rossi. Remember that while you’re fetching his fucking Scotch.”
He released her, opened the door, and ushered her into the bright, expectant hallway. The silent click of the latch behind them was the starting gun.