Chapter 7: After Midnight at the Blackwell House

The corridor felt longer than it ever had.

Not because of distance, but because of what I knew waited at the end of it.

Sebastian walked beside me, unhurried, one hand resting lightly at the small of my back. Not guiding. Claiming. The quiet of the house wrapped around us as the noise of the party faded behind closed doors. The marble floors absorbed our footsteps. The walls seemed to listen.

I could feel my heartbeat everywhere. In my throat. In my hands. In the way my body leaned toward his without permission.

“This way,” he said calmly, as if we were discussing nothing more dangerous than a late drink.

The study door closed behind us with a soft, decisive sound.

Sebastian crossed the room and stopped by the bookshelf. He glanced back at me, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“You already know how this works,” he said.

My breath caught. I smiled.

He reached out and pressed a single book. The shelf shifted with a low, smooth sound, revealing the hidden passage beyond. Warm light spilled through the opening, softer than the study, more intimate. The private bedroom.

The same room.

Memory crashed into me without warning. A flash of silk sheets. Low light. The unmistakable sound of breath breaking apart. I remember the man arching his back while Sebastian fucked him intensly. The memory of Sebastian’s composure stripped away, replaced by something commanding and raw. The image had lived in my head for days since the night I sneaked into the party with Jacob, resurfacing when I least expected it.

And now he was inviting me into it. Inviting me to his private bedroom. Inviting me to be part of the same memory that I had fantasized about all these days.

Sebastian stepped through first, unbuttoning his coat as he went. He set it aside with careless precision, then his shoes, movements easy, unselfconscious. When he turned back to me, he looked entirely at home. The richest man in the country, the most dangerous one too, watching me like this was exactly where he wanted to be.

He sat back against the pillows, relaxed, one arm draped along the headboard. Waiting.

Not summoning me.

Waiting.

The power of that nearly undid me.

I closed the distance slowly, aware of every movement of my body. I slipped out of my blazer, then my shoes, my hands unsteady despite my resolve. I could feel his eyes on me the entire time. Not rushed or greedy, but with intent.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said softly.

“I’m not,” I replied, surprised to find it was mostly true.

When I reached the edge of the bed, he lifted a hand and caught my wrist, gentle but certain, drawing me closer until my knees pressed into the mattress. I could feel the warmth of him through our clothes, the pull of proximity.

“Good,” he murmured.

He drew me down with him, guiding rather than forcing, until I was stretched along his body. His hand settled at my waist, steadying me. The contact sent a slow, electric awareness through me, every place we touched lighting up.

Our mouths found each other without ceremony this time. The kiss was deeper, more assured, the kind that carried days of restraint breaking apart. His lips moved with confidence, his attention absolute. I responded instinctively, fingers curling into his shirt as if anchoring myself.