Chapter 7: Sebastian takes their passion into the shower, where the steam and heat amplify their raw connection as he claims her body against the glass.
The scrambled eggs congealed into yellow curds on the pristine plates. The coffee grew a skin. They stayed fused at the kitchen island, his softening length still nestled inside her, his breath a warm rhythm against her neck. The domestic silence was a blanket, softening the edges of a world that waited, demanding and ruthless, just beyond the glass.
Finally, he sighed, a deep exhalation that moved through both of them. “Shower. Now. Or I’ll never leave.” His hands, which had been splayed possessively across her stomach, slid up to gently ease her off him. The separation was a sudden, hollow chill.
He took her hand, leading her back through the sterile living area towards the primary suite. His bathroom was a temple of slate and steam. He turned the dial, and the rainfall showerhead erupted with a hiss, fogging the massive glass enclosure in seconds. The scent of his sandalwood and cedar soap billowed out, erasing the last traces of sex and sweat.
He dropped his towel and stepped in, holding out a hand for her. She shrugged off his wrinkled shirt, letting it pool on the floor, and followed. The water was scalding, a punishing, delicious heat that beat against her shoulders, rinsing away the stickiness between her thighs. She tipped her head back, closing her eyes, letting the roar fill her ears.
His hands were on her again before she could reach for the soap. They weren’t gentle. They were purposeful, sliding over her slick skin, mapping the curves of her ass, the dip of her spine. He turned her to face the fogged glass, pressing her palms flat against the cool, wet surface. His body aligned behind hers, hard and unyielding.
“Look at you,” his voice was a rough scrape against her ear, barely audible over the water. “Fogging up the glass with your heat.” One hand gripped her hip, bones digging in. The other found the inside of her thigh, pushing her legs wider. She was open, exposed, the water streaming down the cleft of her ass.
He nudged against her entrance. She was still loose and sensitive from their earlier joining, but he was already rigid again, a thick, insistent pressure. He didn’t ask. He pushed. The stretch was a sharp, full ache that made her gasp, her forehead thumping against the glass. He filled her in one relentless, slick stroke, his pelvis meeting the backs of her thighs with a wet smack.
“Christ,” he growled, his body going rigid for a second as he sheathed himself completely. “You’re so fucking open for me. Ruined for anything else.”
Then he began to move. This wasn’t the lazy, grinding rhythm of the kitchen. This was a driving, possessive fuck. He set a deep, punishing pace, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, the water sluicing between their connected bodies. Each thrust jolted her forward, her breasts and cheek plastered against the glass. The world outside was a blur of grey light, obscured by steam and her own panting breaths.
His hand left her thigh and snaked around her hip, his fingers delving through wet curls, finding her clit with unerring accuracy. He rubbed tight, brutal circles against the swollen nerve, the pressure perfectly aligned with the pounding rhythm of his cock.
“You feel that?” he gritted out, his mouth at her ear. His breath was hot and wet. “You feel how deep I am? This is where you belong. Taking me. Milking my cock with this perfect, greedy cunt.”
The filthy words, combined with the relentless, dual stimulation, coiled a spring so tight in her belly she thought it would snap her spine. Her moans were lost in the thunder of the water. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the slick glass.
“I can feel you clamping down,” he rasped, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, losing their rhythm to pure need. “You gonna come? Come all over me. Let me feel it. Scream it.”
His command broke her. The orgasm tore through her, a convulsive, white-hot seizure that ripped a raw, shattered scream from her throat. Her legs buckled, but he held her up, hammering into her through the pulsing waves, his own control snapping. With a guttural roar that echoed off the tile, he drove into her one final, brutal time, his body locking as he emptied himself, his release a hot flood amidst the cascading water.
They slumped against the glass, a tangled heap of steaming, spent limbs. The water beat down, washing over them. His forehead rested between her shoulder blades, his breath heaving. His arms, still locked around her, were the only things keeping her upright.
Slowly, the world filtered back. The hiss of water. The drip from the tap. The distant, muted sound of a siren far below. He gently turned her, his hands cupping her face. His blue eyes searched hers, water clinging to his dark lashes. He looked stripped bare, the strategist completely absent. What was left was raw, unsettling in its intensity.
He kissed her, slow and deep, a tasting, a confirmation. Then he reached for the soap, his movements turning practical. He washed her with a focus that felt like another language, lathering her back, her arms, between her breasts. He knelt to wash her legs, his touch firm and thorough. When he rose, she took the soap and returned the gesture, running her hands over the defined planes of his chest, the old scar on his ribcage, the powerful muscles of his thighs. It was silent, ritualistic. A claiming of a different kind.
They toweled off in the steam-heavy room. He handed her a new toothbrush, still in its packaging. They brushed their teeth side-by-side in the mirror, a mundane intimacy that felt more profound than anything that had happened against the glass. She caught his eye in the reflection. A corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly.
Back in the bedroom, the reality of the day reasserted itself with the subtlety of a thrown punch. His phone, charging on the nightstand, lit up with a cascade of notifications. He scrolled, his brow furrowing. “FIA statement dropped. They’re clarifying the wing flex rule. Markus says it’s favorable.” He tossed the phone aside and walked to his closet, pulling out a fresh, impeccable suit. “I need the revised strategy notes by 9:30. And get Carvalho on the line for me at 10. His engineer is pushing back on the tire data.”
Just like that, he was Sebastian Roth, Team Principal, again. The man who had whispered obscenities into her ear was sealed away behind a wall of wool and intent. Alma stood there, a towel wrapped around her, her skin still pink from the heat. The whiplash was dizzying.
She found her clothes from the day before, folded neatly on a chair by the door—a small, telling gesture from him she’d have to dissect later. She dressed efficiently, her own professional armor clicking into place: blouse, skirt, blazer. She finger-combed her damp hair. When she was done, she looked every inch the impeccable assistant.
He was adjusting his cufflinks, his back to her. “The car will be downstairs in twenty minutes,” he said, not turning around.
“I’ll be ready,” she replied, her voice even.
He finally looked at her then, his gaze sweeping from her head to her heels and back. It wasn’t a lover’s look. It was an appraisal. Calculating. Satisfied. “Good.”
He walked over, stopping inches from her. He didn’t touch her. He just looked down, his presence dominating the space. “Last night. This morning. It stays here.” It wasn’t a request.
A cold stone settled in her gut. “Of course.”
“The team can’t know. The media would feast on it.” His eyes were chips of winter sky. “It compromises your authority. Mine. Everything we’ve built.”
She nodded, the professional in her agreeing completely. The woman who still felt him inside her wanted to crack the marble of his composure. “I understand the stakes, Sebastian.”
He held her gaze for a beat longer, searching for something—doubt, defiance, weakness. She gave him nothing but cool competence. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and headed for the door. “Don’t be late.”
He was gone. The penthouse felt cavernous, silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. Alma walked to the kitchen island. The two plates of cold eggs stared up at her, a pathetic monument to a hunger that had nothing to do with food. She picked them up, scraped the contents into the bin, and placed the dishes in the sink.
As she collected her bag and phone, her eyes fell on the discarded dress shirt of his, still lying in a heap on the bathroom floor. A casualty. She left it there.
The elevator descended. With each floor, the pressure changed, squeezing her back into the shape of Alma Rossi, Personal Assistant. By the time the doors opened to the underground garage, where the black Mercedes idled, the transformation was complete. She slid into the backseat beside him. He was already on a call, speaking in rapid German.
He didn’t glance at her. The car pulled into the morning traffic. Alma stared out the window, the city a bright, sharp-edged flow. Her body hummed with the memory of his. Her mind was already three steps ahead, drafting the strategy notes in her head. The two realities existed side-by-side, a live wire running right through the center of her, dangerous and bright. She could smell his soap on her skin.