Ryan's hand froze on the warm leather. His fingers had curled deep into the seat where Sebastian's thigh had been, pressing into the residual heat like he was trying to absorb it through his skin. The voice came from the doorway — low, measured, exactly the same tone as before the call. "You're still touching it."
He should have pulled his hand back. Should have dropped it to his thigh, to the floor, somewhere that didn't scream I put my palm where your body was. But his fingers only tightened, knuckles whitening against the dark leather. He looked up. Sebastian stood in the doorway, phone held loose at his side, gray eyes fixed on Ryan's hand like it was the most interesting thing he'd seen all night.
"I asked who called." Ryan's voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. A deflection. A weak one.
Sebastian didn't answer. He crossed the room slowly, each footstep a deliberate beat against the hardwood, and stopped inches from where Ryan knelt. Close enough that Ryan could smell him — that clean cologne, something sharp underneath. Close enough that if Ryan tilted his head forward, his forehead would press against Sebastian's thigh.
Sebastian didn't tell him to move his hand. He didn't tell him anything. He just stood there, looking down at Ryan with those gray eyes, patient and hungry and utterly still. The silence stretched. A clock ticked somewhere. Ryan's pulse hammered in his throat.
"You come back to my chair," Sebastian said finally, "and you put your hand where I was sitting. You press into it. You lean into it." He paused. "What exactly were you doing, Ryan?"
The question landed like a hand around his throat. Ryan's fingers gripped the leather harder, the heat long gone now, replaced by the cool slick of the material under his sweaty palm. He could feel the truth rising in his chest — hot, undeniable, pressing against his ribs like it wanted out. "I wanted to feel you." The words left him before he could stop them, raw and cracked. "I wanted to feel where you'd been."
Sebastian's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes shifted — a flicker, a hunger that recognized its own reflection. He didn't speak. He just watched, waiting, giving Ryan nothing but the weight of his attention.
Ryan's throat worked. His hand stayed where it was, pressed flat against the leather, claiming something he had no right to. "I wanted your body on my skin," he said, the words tumbling out now, unstoppable. "I wanted to press my face into it and breathe you in. I wanted —" His voice broke. He stopped. His fingers curled into the leather, knuckles white.
Sebastian moved. Not away — closer. His leg brushed Ryan's shoulder, a whisper of fabric against skin. He didn't touch Ryan's hand. Didn't tell him to let go. He just stood there, looking down at him, and said, "Good."
Sebastian's fingers found the back of Ryan's neck. The touch was light—barely a brush—but Ryan's whole body locked, his breath catching in his throat. Those fingers traced a slow line from his hairline down to the base of his skull, following the curve of his spine, and Ryan's eyes fluttered closed before he could stop them. The heat from Sebastian's hand seemed to seep through his skin, spreading down his shoulders, loosening something tight and coiled.
His hand was still pressed flat against the leather chair. He couldn't move it—couldn't do anything but kneel there, frozen, while Sebastian's fingers mapped the bones of his neck. Each pass was slower, more deliberate, like Sebastian was learning the shape of him. The callus on Sebastian's thumb caught against the fine hairs at his nape, and Ryan shivered, a full-body tremor he couldn't hide.
"You're shaking," Sebastian said. His voice was low, almost curious. His fingers didn't stop.
Ryan's throat worked. He didn't trust his voice. His cock was hard against his thigh, pressed against the fabric of his trunks, and he knew Sebastian could see it from this angle—knew Sebastian saw everything. The shame should have burned through him, should have sent him scrambling back, but instead he tilted his head forward, offering more of his neck, a surrender he didn't have words for.
Sebastian's fingers paused. Then they pressed deeper, curling into the muscle at the base of Ryan's skull, and Ryan's breath stuttered out in a broken sound—half groan, half whimper. His hips shifted involuntarily, his erection brushing against his own thigh, and he bit his lip hard enough to taste copper.
"Your body knows what it wants," Sebastian said. He wasn't asking. His thumb traced the ridge of Ryan's spine, down to where his shoulders met his neck, then back up. "Even when your mouth doesn't."
Ryan's fingers curled into the leather seat, gripping it like a lifeline. The residual warmth from Sebastian's body was gone now, replaced by the cool slick of the material against his palm, but he didn't let go. He pressed harder, knuckles white, as if he could anchor himself through the chair.
Sebastian's hand slid down, palm flattening against the curve of Ryan's shoulder, then across his collarbone. His touch was unhurried, possessive, claiming territory inch by inch. When his fingers brushed the hollow of Ryan's throat, Ryan's breath caught again, his pulse hammering under Sebastian's fingertips.
"Look at me."
Ryan opened his eyes. Sebastian's gray gaze was fixed on him, steady and hungry, and Ryan felt the weight of it settle in his chest like a stone. He didn't look away. Couldn't. His hand stayed on the chair, his body stayed on his knees, and Sebastian's fingers stayed pressed against his throat, feeling every beat of his heart.
Sebastian smiled. It was a small thing, barely a curve, but Ryan saw it. "Good," he said again, and the word landed like a brand.