Chapter 6: Sebastian pins Alma against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights, his mouth working between her thighs as she grips his hair, her moans echoing through the penthouse. He fucks her with three fingers while sucking her clit, then takes her hard against the glass before carrying her to bed for slow, deep strokes that leave her shaking.
The silence in the Mercedes sedan was thick, a pressurized capsule gliding away from the chaotic light of the paddock. Sebastian drove with a focused calm, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console, inches from her thigh. Alma watched the city blur past, her fingers tracing the soft weave of her skirt. She could still feel the imprint of his lap, the solid warmth of his chest against her back. The memory was a live wire under her skin.
He didn’t speak until they were in the private elevator soaring up the core of the skyscraper. The doors reflected their image back at them—a perfectly composed, separate couple. He reached over and took her hand, his thumb sweeping over her knuckles. The simple contact sent a jolt through her system. “I’ve been thinking about that sound you make,” he said, his voice low in the humming quiet. “The one you try to swallow when you come. I want to hear it again. Unedited.”
The elevator opened directly into his penthouse. The view was a breathtaking slap of night-time cityscape, a galaxy of lights sprawling to the horizon. But Sebastian didn’t give her time to admire it. As soon as the doors hissed shut, he pushed her gently back against the wall of the foyer, his body caging hers. He kissed her, deep and hungry, tasting of the long day and latent need. His hands framed her face, possessive and tender all at once. “I need you out of this blazer,” he muttered against her mouth, his fingers already working the buttons. “Out of all of it.”
He led her through the vast, minimalist space to the bedroom. It was as severe and beautiful as the man himself: a platform bed with crisp white linens, more glass overlooking the abyss of the city. He stood her before him, his eyes dark with intent, and began the slow, deliberate work of undressing her. This wasn’t the frantic tearing of clothes from the night before. This was a ritual. Each button of her blouse was freed with concentration. He peeled the fabric from her shoulders, his breath catching at the sight of the grey cashmere sweater beneath. “My god, you actually kept it on all day,” he whispered, ducking his head to bury his face in the wool at her collarbone, inhaling deeply. “You have no idea what that did to me.”
He pulled the sweater up and over her head, his touch reverent. Her skirt pooled at her feet. When she stood before him in only her lace-trimmed bra and underwear, he took a step back, his gaze a physical caress that left her feeling more exposed than nakedness ever could. “Look at you,” he breathed. “All day, you’re my impeccable right hand. And under it all… you’re this.”
He moved then, not for her, but for himself. He stripped off his own clothes with efficient, sharp motions, discarding the armour of his role. He was beautiful, all lean muscle and defined lines, the scars of old pressures and the evidence of his current desire for her unmistakable.
He closed the distance and unfastened her bra, letting it fall. His mouth found her nipple immediately, his tongue circling, sucking deep. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair. He switched to the other, his teeth grazing the peak until she whimpered. He knelt then, his hands hooking into the sides of her underwear and drawing them down her legs. He helped her step out of them, and then he was just there, on his knees before her, his gaze level with the apex of her thighs.
He didn’t touch her with his hands. He just looked, his breath hot against her skin. “So perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. Then he leaned forward and licked her, one long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Alma’s legs buckled. He caught her, his hands firm on her hips, holding her up as he buried his face between her legs. This wasn’t just oral sex; it was consumption. He ate her with a single-minded intensity that stripped every coherent thought from her mind. His tongue was relentless, flicking and probing, penetrating her then flattening against her clit in firm, torturous circles. He hummed against her, the vibration shooting straight to her core. He used his lips to suck, his nose to nudge. He explored every fold, learned every sensitive spot with the same analytical focus he applied to a race strategy, but here the data was her gasps, the tremor in her thighs, the way her fingers clenched and unclenched in his hair.
“Sebastian… please…”
“Please what?” he growled, lifting his head for a second. His chin was wet. “Use your words, Alma. Tell me what you need.”
“I need to come,” she begged, the words torn from her. “Let me come.”
He gave her a slow, wicked smile. “Not yet.” He stood suddenly, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and laid her on the cool sheets. He followed her down, covering her body with his, but he didn’t enter her. Instead, he kissed her again, letting her taste herself on his tongue. He moved down her body, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses. When he settled between her legs again, he added his fingers, sliding two inside her with a groan at how wet she was. He curled them, finding a rhythm that made her back arch off the bed.
“There it is,” he whispered, watching her face as he worked his fingers and his mouth in unison. “There’s that spot. You’re clenching around me, darling. You’re so close, aren’t you?”
She could only nod, moaning, her hips rocking against his face. The pressure built, a coil winding tighter and tighter in her belly. He sensed the precipice. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue a hard, rapid point on her clit, his fingers pumping deep. The orgasm ripped through her without warning, a blinding detonation of pleasure that tore a raw, broken scream from her throat. He rode it out with her, gentling his touch as she shuddered and convulsed beneath him.
Before the last tremor had faded, he was moving up her body. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her. His eyes, wild and dark, locked onto hers. “Again,” he commanded, his voice ragged. “You’re going to come again, on my cock this time.”
He pushed into her, a slow, devastating invasion that stretched her exquisitely full. She was so sensitive from her climax that every millimeter was an electric shock. He seated himself to the hilt and went still, his body trembling with the effort of his control. “Fuck, Alma… you feel… you ruin me.”
Then he began to move. It wasn’t gentle. It was primal, a claiming. He fucked her with deep, powerful strokes that drove the breath from her lungs. The bed rocked against the wall. He shifted her leg over his hip, changing the angle, and the next thrust punched a sob from her chest.
“Is this what you wanted?” he gritted out, his sweat dripping onto her breasts. “When you stood in my office and told me you needed more? Is this it?”
“Yes,” she gasped, nails digging into the hard muscle of his back. “God, yes. Harder.”
He obeyed, his pace turning punishing. The slapping of skin, his grunts, her whimpers, filled the sterile room. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing her cries. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing in rough circles. A second orgasm, sharper than the first, began to claw its way up from the depths. It felt less like pleasure and more like fission, a splitting apart of her very self.
“I’m gonna… Sebastian, I’m gonna…”
“Come,” he snarled. “Come all over my fucking cock. Do it.”
The command shattered her. She fell apart, a wordless, desperate cry echoing in the room as her inner muscles clamped around him in relentless pulses. Her climax triggered his. With a guttural roar, he plunged into her one final time, his body bowing as he emptied himself deep inside her, heat spreading through her core in pulsing waves.
He collapsed atop her, his weight a welcome anchor. They lay like that for long minutes, a tangled mess of limbs and spent breath, the only sound their racing hearts slowing into a syncopated rhythm.
Eventually, he rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping her flush against his chest. The city lights twinkled, indifferent witnesses. He nuzzled the damp hair at her temple, his arms a tight band around her. His voice, when it came, was roughened by use and something else, something vulnerable. “I don’t know how I did any of this before you.” A long pause. “I’m not used to needing someone.”
Alma turned her head, pressing a kiss to the place over his heart. She said nothing. She just held onto him, the words settling inside her, a new and terrifying weight. The most dangerous race had just begun, and there was no strategy sheet, no data model, for this.
The most dangerous race had just begun, and there was no strategy sheet, no data model, for this. His confession, the raw need in his voice, hung in the air between them more intimate than the sex. Alma traced the line of his collarbone, her fingertips learning the map of him. The city’s light etched the sharp plane of his cheek, the exhausted curve of his mouth. She understood, then, the weight of what he’d just given her. It wasn’t his body. It was the crack in his armor.
“Before me, you just won,” she whispered into the silence. “It was simpler.” He stiffened almost imperceptibly, then let out a slow breath, his arm tightening around her. “It was emptier,” he corrected, his voice gravel. The admission seemed to cost him. He shifted, rolling onto his back and dragging a hand over his face. The vulnerability was receding, the professional carapace re-knitting itself in the dark. She could feel him pulling away even as he lay beside her.
A rebellious heat flared in her chest. She wouldn’t let him retreat. Not now. Sitting up, the sheet pooling at her waist, she looked down at him. The view was a different kind of power. His body was a landscape of shadows and tension, his cock already half-hard again against his thigh, slick from her. “You’re thinking about tomorrow’s briefing,” she stated, her voice losing its softness.
He opened one eye, a blue glint in the dimness. “The rear wing clarification. The media spin. Yes.” Classic Sebastian. Facing a potential scandal, he weaponized his focus. But she was done just being part of his strategy.
“Stop thinking.” She swung a leg over his hips, straddling him, pinning him to the mattress with her weight. The movement was deliberate, assertive, a reclaiming of the space between them. His eyes flew open, surprised, then intensely focused. His hands came to rest on her waist, not guiding, just holding. Ceding control. “What are you doing?”
“What I want,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She reached between them, taking his length in her hand. It was hot and heavy, a living weight. She positioned him at her entrance, still wet and open from him. She didn’t slide down. She held him there, making him feel the heat, the tremor in her own thighs. “This is mine right now. You’re mine. Not the team principal. Just the man who can’t stop wanting me.”
A low groan escaped him. His fingers dug into her hips. “Fuck, Alma.”
“Exactly,” she breathed, and sank down onto him, taking him inside in one slow, inexorable descent. She watched his eyes roll back, his jaw go slack. The fullness was exquisite, a deep stretch that made her gasp. She planted her hands on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart under her palms, and began to move.
This wasn’t the frantic, driven pace he’d set earlier. This was her rhythm. A slow, grinding rock of her hips that dragged his cock along every nerve ending inside her. She tilted her pelvis, experimenting, finding the angle that made her breath catch. Her hair fell around her face, a dark curtain as she looked down at him, at the utter surrender on his features. She rode him with a focused intensity, a reclaiming of her own pleasure. She was in charge of the tempo, the depth, the friction.
“You watch me all day,” she panted, lifting herself almost all the way off before sinking back down, taking him deeper. “You memorized the sound I make. Now watch this.”
His hands slid from her hips to her ass, kneading the flesh, urging her on but not dictating. His gaze was locked on the place where their bodies joined, on the slick glide of him moving in and out of her. “I’m watching. Christ, you’re beautiful like this. So fucking greedy for it.”
She was. A had building, rolling wave of sensation began low in her belly. Her movements became less controlled, more urgent. She leaned back, bracing one hand behind her on his thigh, changing the angle again. This new position made him hit a spot that had stars bursting behind her eyelids. A sharp, filthy cry tore from her throat. “Right there. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
“I’m not stopping,” he growled, his own composure fraying. He thrust upward to meet her downward stroke, his hips pistonning off the bed. The slapping sound filled the room, a wet, rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breathing. “Come on. Come all over my cock. Show me what you need.”
His words, crude and direct, shattered her last thread of control. The orgasm detonated, a white-hot seizure that clenched around him, milking him. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound he’d never heard in any boardroom. Her body convulsed, riding him through the crashing waves.
The violent tension of her climax triggered his. With a shout that was pure release, he slammed up into her one final time, his body bowing off the bed. She felt him pulse deep inside, the hot rush of his come filling her. She collapsed forward onto his chest, boneless, their sweat-slick skin merging. The air reeked of sex and salt.
They lay utterly spent, a tangle of exhausted limbs. His hand, trembling slightly, came up to stroke her hair. Her ear was pressed against his chest, his heartbeat a wild drum slowly settling into a steady rhythm. Outside, the indifferent city glowed. In here, there was only the shared reality of their bodies, the profound silence after the storm.
He turned his head, his lips brushing her forehead. “No one gets that,” he murmured, the words a faint rumble in his chest. “No one but you.”
The statement hung there, a finish line and a starting gun all at once.
The statement hung there, a finish line and a starting gun all at once. They slept tangled, a merciful blankness for a few hours until the first grey hint of dawn edged the panoramic windows. Alma woke to the solid warmth of him curled against her back, his arm a heavy weight across her ribs, his breathing deep and even. She lay perfectly still, memorizing the feel. This was new. Waking together. The domesticity of it felt more intimate than anything they’d done in the dark.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, a violent electronic purr. Sebastian groaned, his arm tightening reflexively around her before releasing. He fumbled for it, squinting at the screen. “Markus. At six-fifteen.” His voice was rough with sleep. He accepted the call, his tone shifting instantly to its daytime blade. “Talk to me.” He listened, his fingers absently tracing circles on Alma’s bare shoulder. “Tell him the data from Practice Two is irrelevant if the temperature delta holds. We stick with the original call.”
He ended the call and dropped the phone, then buried his face back into the curve of her neck. “I have to be in the paddock in two hours.” The words were a grumble against her skin. His hand slid from her shoulder down her side, over the dip of her waist, coming to rest on the swell of her hip. He pulled her back more firmly against him, and she could feel him, already hard and insistent against the small of her back. “Fucking Markus.”
She smiled into the pillow. “He’s just doing his job.”
“His job is an inconvenience.” His mouth found the sensitive spot behind her ear. He didn’t move to do anything more, just held her there, his erection a persistent promise against her skin. The simplicity of it—the want, present even in a moment of mundane irritation—unlocked something tender and aching in her chest.
Eventually, the encroaching sun forced them up. He showered first while she pulled on his discarded dress shirt from the day before. It smelled wholly of him, of clean sweat and his particular cologne. She padded barefoot into the vast, clinical kitchen, its steel surfaces reflecting the peach-colored morning sky. She found coffee, clicked the machine on, her movements slow in the quiet.
He emerged with a towel slung low on his hips, hair damp. He came straight to her, his hands sliding around her waist beneath the shirt tails, his mouth finding hers in a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of mint. “You’re in my shirt.”
“You have others.”
“I like you in this one.” He nuzzled her jaw, his stubble rasping. “Leave it on.”
They moved around each other with a new, unspoken choreography. He scooped ground coffee while she retrieved eggs from the sub-zero fridge. Their hands brushed. His palm smoothed over her backside as she reached for a bowl. Each touch was casual, proprietary, a constant low-current connection. It felt ordinary and extraordinary all at once.
She was whisking eggs at the counter when his arms encircled her from behind. He kissed her shoulder, then the nape of her neck. “Stop that,” he murmured, but it was a request, not a command.
“You need to eat. Big day.” Her voice was breathier than she intended.
“I need this more.” His hands slipped inside the open shirt, cupping her breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples to tight peaks. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, a soft sigh escaping her. The whisk clattered into the bowl. He turned her slowly, his mouth covering hers, a deep, searching kiss that melted her bones.
He hoisted her onto the cold quartz breakfast bar, the material shocking against her bare skin. The shirt fell open. He knelt, pushing her thighs apart, and put his mouth on her. It wasn’t the drawn-out worship of the night before; this was quick, hungry, a sharp claiming. His tongue speared into her and she cried out, her fingers clawing at the smooth stone. He worked her over with ruthless efficiency, sucking her clit between his lips, applying just the right pressure. The orgasm was a sudden, sharp shock, whiting out her vision for a second, pulling a choked gasp from her throat.
He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a darkly satisfied look in his eyes. “Breakfast.” He turned back to the coffee as if he’d just fetched the newspaper.
Her legs felt like water. She slid off the counter, her borrowed shirt dangling open. She managed to pour the eggs into a heated pan. The sizzle was loud in the quiet. He brought two mugs of coffee over, setting them down. He stood behind her again, his body a solid wall of heat, watching the eggs congeal.
She forked them onto two plates. They sat on tall stools at the island. She took one bite. He sipped his coffee, his eyes never leaving her, a simmering intensity that made the food taste like nothing. She took another forkful, her hand slightly unsteady.
“You have a bit of…” He reached out, his thumb swiping the corner of her mouth. He sucked the thumb clean, his gaze locked on hers. “Egg.”
It was the deliberate crudeness, the domestic act turned carnal, that broke her last thread of composure. A flush spread from her chest up her neck.
He saw it. He stood, his stool scraping loud on the tile. In one fluid motion, he took her plate, set it aside, and pulled her up from her own stool. He sat back down and dragged her into his lap, her back to his chest. The thick terrycloth of his towel was between her legs. He nudged it aside.
“Sebastian, the food…” Her protest was weak, already dissolving.
“It’ll keep.” His hand slipped between her thighs from behind, fingers parting her. She was still slick from his mouth. He gave a low hum of approval. He positioned himself beneath her, his cock sliding easily along her wet seam. “Take it. Slow.”
She reached back, guiding him, and sank down. The fit was perfect, familiar yet newly intense in the stark morning light. He filled her utterly. A ragged groan escaped him, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. His hands settled heavily on her hips. “Now move. Just like that. Slow and steady.”
She rose, his length slipping almost all the way out, then descended, a slow, grinding roll of her hips that made them both gasp. This was different. There was no frantic race to a finish, no strategic conquest. This was deliberate, an untimed exploration. She set a lazy, deep rhythm, each descent a full, breath-stealing sink.
He swore, his voice thick. “Christ. That’s it.” His hands coasted up under the shirt, palming her breasts, pinching her nipples with just enough bite to make her moan and clench around him. “Feel how deep I am? You’re taking all of me.”
She could only nod, her head lolling back against him. Every nerve was alive to the sensation: the cool air on her skin, the heat of him inside her, the coarse texture of the towel beneath her, the solid beat of his heart against her spine. She controlled the pace, a steady, rocking undulation that built the pleasure not in a sharp spike but in a deep, flooding wave.
His lips traveled the side of her neck, sucking marks into her skin she’d have to conceal with powder later. “You ruin every other thought,” he breathed into her ear. “All I can think about is this cunt. How it feels. How you look with my cock buried in you.”
The filthy words, spoken in that low, morning-rough voice, sent a fresh thrill through her. Her rhythm hitched. She drove down harder.
“Yes,” he hissed. His hand slid from her breast down her stomach, through the rough thatch of curls, finding her clit. His fingers were clever, circling in time with her rises and falls, applying perfect, maddening pressure. The dual sensation, the deep internal stretch and the focused friction on that tender bud, began to coil her tight.
She was close. The world shrank to the joining of their bodies, the sound of their breathing, the smell of coffee and sex. “Sebastian…”
“I know. Let go. Come for me.” His fingers moved faster.
The climax unfolded like a slow sunrise, a warm, golden radiance that spread from her core outward. She shuddered, a low, continuous moan tearing from her lips as she ground down against him, milking his length with the rhythmic pulses of her release. It pulled his own orgasm from him. With a guttural curse, he thrust up, seating himself to the hilt, his body rigid as he emptied himself in hot, pumping jets.
They sat fused, breathing in ragged unison. Outside, the city was fully awake, cars beginning their insect-like crawl on the streets below. Time, which had suspended, crashed back in. He nuzzled her damp hair, his arms wrapped completely around her. They were a mess—cold eggs, spilled coffee, her shirt stained, his towel disheveled. He pressed a kiss to her temple, his voice a rough murmur. “We’re going to be late.”
She didn’t move. Neither did he. For another stolen minute, they just stayed there, in the wreckage of the breakfast they didn’t eat, holding onto the thing that felt more urgent, more necessary, than any race.