Sebastian was only two rooms down from me. A short distance.
I wasn’t even sure if he’d gone to his room, but if he had, he wouldn’t want to face me.
And maybe I’d poked him enough for one night, even if that hadn’t been my intention.
I exited the lift and walked past his room, prepared to leave him alone. But the sound of something breaking inside made me involuntarily flinch, and I quickly backtracked to stand in front of his door.
I should’ve turned and left, but I couldn’t seem to get myself to move.
“Sebastian?” I knocked.
“Please go,” he replied a moment later.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“Can I see you?”
“No,” he shot back right away.
I wasn’t about to beg, so I turned to leave, but at the sound of the door opening, I pivoted back around. “I thought you said no.”
Shirtless again. Wearing only trousers with a black belt. Bare feet. Messy hair as if he’d clawed at it.
He’d been up here for a few minutes, and he’d managed to get half-naked and break something in that space of time.
“What happened?” I pressed up on my toes to try and peer behind him, but he was too tall for me to see inside, and his broad frame filled the doorway.
“I’ll need to pay for a mirror.” He stepped aside, hands in their normal pocketed position, so I sidestepped him and moved with tentative steps.
A bottle of wine lay shattered, shards on the dresser and floor. The red liquid dripped down from the dresser to the carpet. “At least you didn’t throw the whiskey. That’d be a real crime.” I eyed the mirror, unable to see my reflection even though the pieces remained splintered but in place. “You always use mirrors for target practice?”
“Something like that,” he grumbled.
“Might need to pay for the carpet, too.” I crouched and picked up some of the broken bottle and tossed it into the rubbish bin.
“I can afford it.”
His tone had lightened, but when I faced him, the tense frame of his body remained.
“Don’t do that,” he said when I picked up more of the broken bottle off the dresser. “You might cut yourself.”
“I have experience with this.” Adam had once used a mirror in a similar way in the past.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He reached for my arm, urging me to stop what I was doing.
“And yet, you let me in.”
“My mistake. You need to go.” He released his hold of me and started for the door.
“I didn’t mean to upset you downstairs. I shouldn’t have mentioned Harrison.” I also didn’t realize my words would trigger a Hulk-like reaction from the man.
“This isn’t about him.” Instead of opening the door to let me out, he leaned against it and bowed his head.
I should’ve felt better hearing that, but broken mirror and all, I didn’t.
With his focus not on me, I took the chance to study his scars. There was more light in the room than there’d been in his suite back in Dublin on Sunday. I desperately wanted to know who hurt him, but then, what would I do with that knowledge?
Knowing wouldn’t make me feel any better, but some part of me wanted justice for him. To hurt whoever had hurt him. It was crazy but true.
“I’m mad . . . at myself.”
I strode to stand in front of him, even if he didn’t want me near him.
The broken mirror—he didn’t like what he saw, did he?
“I’m not normally weak.” His eyes captured mine, but he didn’t move away from the door. “And I don’t like it. Weakness is dangerous.”
“And I don’t understand.” I couldn’t stop myself, I reached out and brushed the back of my hand over his jawline, touching the dark scruff there. A two- or three-day-old beard. The look he always had.
His jaw tightened beneath my touch, but he didn’t remove my hand. So, I stepped even closer.
“I told you that I can’t be with you.”
“But you do want me?” I knew the answer to that, but I wanted to hear the truth from him.
His lips drew into a hard line, and he nodded.
“And you’re struggling to maintain your control around me?” My eyes narrowed. “If you did lose your control, if you did take me into your arms, would you hurt me?”
“Never intentionally,” he said in a low voice.
Intentionally? “Are you, um, into pain during sex?” I was way too out of practice in the bedroom for anything beyond vanilla.
His biceps flexed, the muscles tightening before my eyes.
“No.” He swallowed. “I’m not into pain.”
My longing for this man grew by the second.
Sex. Three letters that never meant so much until this moment. Three letters that, when strung together in such a way, could make even the strongest-willed person falter.
And right now, I didn’t want to be in control. I wanted to be free. I wanted to be like Ethan for just one bloody night.
My hands went to his belt buckle. I unfastened it and popped open the top button of his trousers. His pecs, his abdomen—there were little twitches of movement at my touch, but he didn’t stop me when I lowered his zipper.
He stared deep into my eyes as if he could see both heaven and hell there, and he had a decision to make.
When he secured a hand around the small of my back and pulled me tight to his body, I realized he’d made up his mind.
I gripped his biceps at the feel of his hard length against me.
“This is a mistake,” he said when his free hand cupped the back of my head. “But I’m done fighting you.”
My breath hitched. His mouth locked on to mine, and I surrendered to him. I’d submit every part of myself if he wanted me to. In the bedroom, at least.
His firm lips softened, and his tongue eased into my mouth slowly. I moaned, my yearning for him beyond the breaking point.
My body went lax, and I kept hold of him, so I didn’t wilt like some delicate flower.
“Holly.” My name on his tongue this time was still a warning, but it was the good kind. The I’m-going-to-screw-you-now kind.
He spun me around and pressed my back to the wall alongside the door, and I knocked into a picture on the wall.
His hands framed my face as he brought his lips back to mine, stealing my breath, my sanity.
My palms dragged down his hard wall of muscles, and I yanked at his trousers in an attempt to get them to fall.
He kissed me like something fierce and wild, and it was better than I’d ever imagined, even in my fantasies. His trousers and boxers dropped a moment later, and he kicked them to the side.
“You’re still dressed, love.” His murmured words had my nipples pebbling, and my desire spiking to new heights.
He backed away, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. Lust darkening his eyes. “Strip for me like you did at my hotel.”
I could barely move with him naked before me. He was carved like a marble statue of perfection. And his cock was massive—thick and veiny. Heat pooled between my legs, a sticky wetness against my thong.
But . . . the scars . . . there were more on his muscular thighs.
“Don’t look at them,” he said, clearly knowing my mind had shifted to worry.
My heart hurt for whatever had happened to him.
“Look at my eyes,” he said when my attention jumped to another tattoo on his leg. Before I had a chance to analyze it, he gathered me in his arms and kissed me again, redirecting my focus.
And when his mouth seized mine, my mind emptied of everything except for how he made me feel. I brought my hands to his chest and pushed him back so I could give him what he wanted. Me naked.
His hands tightened at his sides as he observed my movements.
Boots off. Jeans next. Jumper after.
I wasn’t exactly a stripping pro, especially with someone like him watching, but I’d do a
nything to evoke the devastating look of hunger in his eyes.
His gaze dipped once I was completely naked, moving from my breasts to my smooth center.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
I moved with slow steps and faced the wall, eyeing the photo of the city of Limerick I’d knocked into before. But when a large, warm hand connected with my skin and trailed down my spine, my lids snapped closed, and my knees buckled.
His hand went to the curve of my arse cheek before traveling to my sex. To my very wet sex.
I wouldn’t be able to stand much longer. The need was too great. Hot pulses of desire had me clenching my thighs together with his hand wrapped around from behind, touching my clit.
He released me but only for a moment to change his position. He pressed his body tight to mine, bringing both hands around the front of my body. One hand massaged my breast, the other feathered over the sensitive area between my legs.
“You’re perfect,” he said into my ear, the sound of desire heavy in his tone. “I want to take my time, to appreciate you.” His voice deepened when he pinched my nipple. “But it’s been a long time. A long time wanting you, too.”
A long time? No way had he not had sex recently. He had women with him everywhere he went. I’d even spotted him with women—plural. I didn’t want to think about that, not with his hands on me and us so close to finally giving in to our desires.
I turned toward him, losing his touch in the process, but then I draped my arms over his shoulders and stared deep into his heavy-lidded and lust-filled eyes, probably a mirror of what mine looked like.
“You don’t have to be gentle.”
“I want to be. For you.” His brows pulled together.
“And I just want you to be you,” I whispered. He lifted me into his arms and deposited me on the bed before I even knew what the hell happened.
“Fuck,” he rasped as he climbed on top of me, our naked bodies pressed together exactly how we were meant to be. Somehow he managed not to crush me with the weight of his muscular body.
His kiss turned rougher, and God, did I love it.
With his hands now propped on each side of me, his biceps tightening, I shimmied against him, desperate for him to fill me.
He worked his mouth down my body, and my hands went to his thick, luscious hair.
“Gorgeous.” He licked and sucked my breast. Took my nipple between his teeth, and, oh wow . . .
“Sebastian.” I arched off the bed, and he brought his palm between my legs and lightly slapped me there, then rubbed the sensitive nub. I was going to scream—lose my mind.
And when he worked his mouth even lower, pausing at my belly button to swirl his tongue around, my legs squeezed, my knees bent, and I fisted the bedding at my sides.
Want greater than I’d ever experienced in my life surged through me.
But nothing would’ve prepared me for when he positioned his mouth over my sex.
Absolutely nothing.
He parted my thighs, spreading me open as if he could look at me forever.
We were in the light. He could see all of me. And I wanted him to.
“Beautiful.” I think I died a little the moment his mouth dropped down.
When his tongue slid along the seam of my sex, I came. Right freaking then.
I cried out his name, my entire body wrecked. Shattered. Destroyed for life.
But he didn’t stop. He continued to punish me with his tongue in the best possible way, and I rode the orgasm.
I wanted to screw my eyes tight from the almost painful bliss I was experiencing, but I also couldn’t take my gaze off him.
He squeezed my hips when I lifted my arse off the bed, ensuring he kept his mouth on me, never losing hold of me for a second.
“Sebastian, please,” I begged. “I need you inside of me.” I couldn’t take it any longer.
I needed my mouth on him, too. I wanted to trail my lips along his body. To kiss his wounds in an attempt to heal. But I was greedy, too greedy with the desire for us to be one.
I took a second to catch my breath when he stood to grab protection. His backside was as hard as every other part of him. The tattoo of the cross at the center of his back held my eye.
Once he was wrapped, he repositioned himself on top, and his eyes connected with mine. He dipped in for a kiss. A long, sensual one. Whiskey mingled with sex.
He didn’t ask if I was sure. He didn’t check if I wanted to change my mind. And he didn’t have to.
I’d secured my hand around the root of his cock and guided his tip to my center, and he held my eyes as he thrust in with one hard movement.
I swore louder than I’d meant to, my body lifting off the bed as he claimed me.
Sounds, not words, continued to leave my lips. Incoherent beats of breathy noise.
He pushed into me with deliberate strokes. He moved harder than I think he’d meant to, burying himself so deep inside of me.
“I’m sorry,” he said, starting to slow down as if he’d been worried he’d hurt me.
I shook my head, and my fingernails bit into his biceps. “Don’t stop. Please.”
I lifted my hips and moved with him, letting him know I only wanted more. More of whatever he’d give me.
Hard. Soft. Rough. He was perfect. This was perfect.
“Sebastian,” I cried when I couldn’t hold back another orgasm. It was a the-world-tipped-off-its-axis kind of moan that ripped from deep within my chest, and the sound impacted him because his jaw locked tight as if he were biting down on his back teeth . . . and he came, too. I could feel it happening.
He bowed his head, his forehead touching mine, and he hissed.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
He lifted his head, a mix of guilt and longing in his deep brown eyes. “I’m gonna want to do this again.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sebastian
She was asleep. The sheet covered her lower half, and her beautiful tits lifted with each soft breath she took. I should’ve covered her, kept her warm, but I was a greedy bastard and loved the sight of her.
When I’d first seen her that night at the club, I’d thought she looked like an angel. And I’d been right.
She was heaven in a bottle, and I wanted to savor her. To keep her for myself. Forever.
I stood from the armchair by the bed, allowing the bottle of whiskey to rest against the side of my leg.
I didn’t get drunk. Not ever. I couldn’t afford to weaken my senses or control. But I’d fucked up. I’d crossed the line I shouldn’t have. I’d tried to resist her, and I’d failed.
And now that I’d had her, I didn’t have a damn idea how I’d ever be able to walk away. But when she discovered the truth, she wouldn’t walk—she’d run.
She moaned and rolled to her side. Her eyes opened, and she blinked a few times, attempting to adjust her focus in the dark. “Why are you drinking?”
I brought the bottle to my lips and took a long swig. I wasn’t drunk yet. But I wanted to be. I needed to dull the pain of a loss I knew was imminent.
“Sebastian?” She positioned her back against the headboard, sheet covering her beautiful body, as I set the bottle on the bedside table and sat next to her.
She’d had her tight arse up against my cock while she’d slept. Her back to my chest. The heat from her had made my normally hot skin feel like it was on fire.
And now, I wanted her in my arms again. Her body pressed to mine.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
She reached for my hand, allowing the sheet to slip, then shifted on top of me, straddling me in my upright position. She moved her hips in circular motions, grinding her pussy against my very awake cock. If she wasn’t careful, I was going to slide right into her, because she was already drenched.
“I want you.” She leaned in and captured my lower lip between her teeth and pulled.
“I’ll always want you,” I admitted, choosing to let her decipher my words how she wante
d. I wasn’t about to follow my statement with a but, not with her in this position, ready for me to claim her again.
She leaned back, and her finger circled the bullet wound at the side of my abdomen.
She had questions. A lot of them. And I couldn’t provide any answers. Especially not about the scar that ran from my armpit to my hip—the time I was sliced open at the side and nearly bled to death.
“What is it? What are you thinking?” She moved off of me, her concern trumping her desire to come.
She truly was a woman with a pure heart.
I stood and found my trousers on the floor near the bed and pulled them on without anything underneath. I zipped the fly and lowered my hands to my hips, leaving the button undone.
She brought the sheet back to her body like a shield.
“The thing is,” I said, the knot in my stomach turning into a hardened fist, “everyone I ever care about—well, they die.”
Chapter Eighteen
Paris, France - Three Years, Eight Months Ago
Sebastian
“Who killed her?” My hand trembled as I held the 9mm at my side, the weapon I’d taken from the guard who’d tried to stop me from storming Moreau’s mansion unannounced. Fuck protocol. Alessia was dead.
I lifted my hand, biting down on my back teeth, as I raised the gun in the direction of the man who I considered a father since I was eighteen. He and Drake Anderson, one of the ten leaders of The Alliance, were sipping whiskey in Moreau’s opulent study.
I shifted the gun toward Anderson. “Your people?” Spit and fury accompanied my words as they flew out of my mouth. “Who feckin’ killed my sister?”
Moreau held a hand in the air. Catching sight of a bodyguard in my peripheral view, I whirled around to find two more men approaching, their weapons drawn. “Lower your guns,” Moreau ordered. “Sebastian’s not a threat. He’s upset,” he added in a calm voice. “Leave us be.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Anderson stood from the red armchair, his arms tense at his sides.
“He’s here about his sister.” Moreau rose as well. “And so are you.”
The Real Deal: A Dublin Nights Novel Page 14