Darling

XXI

Sebastian

Clementine was exhausted. He could feel it in the way her body draped against his, soft and pliant, her breath evening out, her fingers still curled loosely against his chest.

Sebastian should've let her sleep.

But he couldn't stop touching her.

Not after what they'd just done. Not after the way she came apart in his hands, in his mouth, around him—again and again.

Not after he'd taken her against the cold tiles of the bathroom, her back pressed against the glass, steam curling around their tangled bodies.

She'd been a vision—flushed, trembling, a ruined mess of pleasure.

Now, back in her bed, she was barely awake, but still his.

Still his.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, his fingers dragging over her bare back, feeling the way her skin heated at the slightest contact. He rolled onto his side, pressing closer, his mouth ghosting over her temple, then her cheek, then lower, until he found the bruises on her throat.

His bruises.

His jaw tensed. He should feel guilt—she was too delicate for the way he handled her. He should've held back.

But she hadn't wanted him to.

Even now, as his fingers traced over the marks on her thighs, her ribs, her hips, she made a soft, content sound, shifting to press herself closer.

Sebastian smirked against her skin. Fucking insatiable.

His hand slid up, cupping her breast, feeling the tenderness there from where he'd gripped too hard earlier.

She stirred at that, a little whimper slipping from her lips.

"Mmm... Seb..."

The sound was like gasoline to a fire.

He didn't know what this was. This pull to her. This madness. This obsession.

Sebastian didn't get obsessed. He didn't let people in.

But Clementine—sweet, jittery, innocent Clementine—had slipped through the cracks before he could stop her.

And now?

Now he didn't think he could let her go.

Even if he should.

Sebastian had always been an early riser. Years of discipline, of self-control, had ingrained the habit into him.

Even now, after last night—after the way he had taken Clementine over and over until she was too exhausted to even speak—his body still refused to sleep in.

So he'd gotten up, tugged on his boxers, and found his way into her tiny kitchen.

It was laughable, really.

The space was barely enough to fit him—his broad shoulders nearly brushed against the fridge when he turned, the counters small and cluttered with little trinkets and notebooks she probably forgot to put away. The entire apartment felt like her—soft, warm, a little chaotic, and completely unlike the cold, pristine spaces he was used to.

Still, he worked efficiently, cracking eggs into a pan, the sound of bacon sizzling filling the quiet. His fingers moved automatically, the act of cooking strangely grounding.