Sebastian's hand on the back of Ryan's neck—firm, guiding, inevitable. Ryan's body follows without waiting for permission, bowing forward, his knees shifting on the hardwood. The fabric of Sebastian's trousers fills his vision, dark wool, and his lips brush against it before he knows what he's doing.
The smell hits him first. Cologne—something sharp and cedar-toned—layered over the clean salt of skin, the faint musk of a body that's been alive all day, moving, breathing, existing close to him. Beneath that, something darker. Male. Sebastian. The scent floods Ryan's nostrils and his mouth opens—not commanded, not chosen—his tongue pressing against the wool, tasting the heat trapped beneath.
Above him, Sebastian's breath catches. A sharp, quiet sound that cuts through the study's silence like a blade. Ryan's chest floods with heat at the sound, at the proof that he did that, and he presses closer, mouth working against the fabric, tongue tracing the shape of what's underneath. He doesn't know what he's tasting—spit, salt, the ghost of Sebastian's body through the weave—but he wants more of it.
His own cock aches against his thigh, untouched, hard and leaking in his trunks. He feels the wet spot forming against the fabric, and the shame of it barely registers before the want drowns it out. He shifts his weight, grinding his hips against nothing, desperate for friction he won't give himself. Not until Sebastian tells him he can.
Sebastian's hand tightens in Ryan's hair—not pulling, just holding. Grounding him. Ryan hears the exhale above him, slower now, controlled. He can picture Sebastian's face without looking up: the sharp cheekbones, the gray eyes half-lidded, the jaw tight with the effort of restraint. The image makes Ryan's mouth work harder against the wool, desperate to earn that control breaking again.
He presses his nose against the fabric, breathing in deep. The smell is everywhere now, coating the inside of his nostrils, settling in his lungs. He's dizzy with it, drunk on it, and he realizes with a clarity that terrifies him: he doesn't want to stop. Every cell in his body wants to stay here, on his knees, mouth pressed against Sebastian's cock through his trousers, breathing him in until there's nothing else.
He wants to be used. He wants Sebastian to take what he's offering and never give it back. The thought cuts through him like a razor, clean and sharp and final. There's no fight left, no resistance to marshal. Just this: his mouth open against wool, his cock hard against his thigh, his hands pressed flat on his own knees because if he lets them reach for Sebastian he won't stop reaching.
"Look at you." Sebastian's voice is low, rough, scraped raw at the edges. Ryan feels the words vibrate through the fabric against his lips. "You didn't wait for permission."
Ryan's mouth stills. He pulls back just enough to breathe, his lips brushing the wool with each exhale. His voice comes out hoarse, cracked, barely his own—"I didn't want to wait."
Sebastian's hand leaves Ryan's hair, and for a breath Ryan feels the absence like a wound—cold air where warmth was, the loss of that weight anchoring him. Then Sebastian's fingers find his chin. He cups it, firm but not rough, and lifts.
Ryan's face rises. His eyes meet gray ones, and the world narrows to that gaze—steel and smoke, unblinking, missing nothing. Ryan's mouth is still open, lips wet from the wool, and he feels the heat of his own breath against Sebastian's thumb.
"I wanted to see you," Sebastian says, his voice low, threaded with something that isn't quite control. "I wanted to see what you look like when you're desperate." He says it like a discovery, like he's found something precious and fragile.
Ryan's throat works. He doesn't speak—can't. His eyes are locked on Sebastian's, and he feels exposed in a way he hasn't before, like the kneeling and the mouth against fabric was hiding behind a curtain that's just been pulled back. This is bare. This is him, seen.
Sebastian's thumb moves, slow, tracing Ryan's lower lip. The touch is light, almost curious. Ryan's breath catches, and his lips part further, a silent invitation he didn't know he was making. Sebastian's eyes darken.
"You want to go back down," Sebastian says. It's not a question. "You want your mouth on me again."
Ryan's cock throbs at the words, and he feels a thin sheen of sweat break across his skin. He nods—just once, a small movement against the hand that holds him.
"Then look at me while you do it." Sebastian's grip tightens slightly, commanding attention. "I want to watch your eyes when you taste me."
Ryan's breath stutters. He's still held, still caught in that gray gaze, and he understands: Sebastian doesn't want him to close his eyes and disappear into sensation. He wants Ryan to stay present, stay aware, stay *choiceful*. The thought should terrify him. It does. But beneath the fear, something hot and desperate coils in his gut.
"Yes," Ryan whispers. The word is hoarse, barely audible. "Yes."
Sebastian's hand releases his chin—slowly, a deliberate uncurling of fingers. He doesn't push Ryan's head down. He waits. The choice is Ryan's again, and the weight of it presses against his chest like a stone. Ryan's gaze stays locked on Sebastian's as he leans forward. His lips find the wool once more, and he opens his mouth, tongue pressing into the fabric, tasting the heat beneath. He doesn't close his eyes. He watches Sebastian watch him, and the gray eyes hold him like a leash. He's falling, and he's choosing to fall, and Sebastian sees it all.
The buzz cuts through the study like a drill—sharp, insistent, alien. Ryan feels it through the floorboards, through his knees, through the fabric still pressed against his lips. Sebastian's body goes still above him. Not relaxed stillness but the kind that comes before a predator decides whether to strike or wait. Ryan's mouth stops moving. He doesn't pull away—can't, won't—but the spell cracks, cold air seeping through the seam.
Sebastian's hand, still in Ryan's hair, tightens once. A reflex. Then loosens. His breathing shifts—slower, measured, the control clicking back into place like a door closing. Ryan watches the gray eyes flick to the desk, where the phone vibrates against the dark wood, a frantic insect trapped in the lamplight. He sees the muscle in Sebastian's jaw jump again, the same tell from Chapter 3, and a low animal part of him reads it as relief—Sebastian is not made of stone. He bleeds. He feels interruptions. Ryan wants to bite down on that knowledge, taste it.
The phone stops. Silence rushes back, filling the space the buzzing emptied. Ryan's heart is loud in his own ears, and he realizes he's been holding his breath. His lips are still touching wool, wet with spit, the heat of Sebastian's body seeping through the fabric. He doesn't move. He doesn't dare.
Sebastian exhales slowly, a controlled release of air. His fingers card through Ryan's hair, once, almost gentle. "That," he says, voice low and rough, "was the house president. He knows I'm in here." The words are flat, but there's an edge beneath them, a blade wrapped in silk. "He's been calling all night."
Ryan's throat works. He pulls back an inch, just enough to speak without his lips brushing fabric. His voice comes out cracked, hoarse, tasting of wool and heat. "What does he want?" The question is brazen, a violation of the space between them, and he feels his own recklessness like a buzz under his skin.
Sebastian's eyes meet his. The gray is darker now, a storm in them. "He wants to know if you're ready for the next phase." He says it like a sentence, not an invitation. "If I've made my decision." His thumb finds Ryan's jaw again, tilting his face up, holding him in that stare. "I told him I haven't."
The words land like a slap. Ryan's stomach drops. He feels the cold wash of a rejection he wasn't ready for, a door closing before he even reached it. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. "You haven't?" The question is barely a whisper, and he hates how small it sounds, how needy.
Sebastian's thumb traces Ryan's lower lip again, slow, deliberate. "I haven't decided anything yet," he says, and there's something in his voice that isn't quite cold—something almost like curiosity. "But I'm enjoying the process." The phone buzzes again, a single sharp pulse, then silence. Sebastian's gray eyes never leave Ryan's. "He's not going to stop."
Ryan feels the weight of the room shift. The interruption is not a breach—it's a test. Sebastian is waiting to see what Ryan will do with the space, with the cold air that's crept between them. Ryan's hands, still pressed flat on his own thighs, tremble with the effort of staying still. He wants to reach for Sebastian, to pull him back down, to press his mouth against the wool until the world outside dissolves. But he doesn't. He waits.
Sebastian's phone lights up again, silent this time, a name glowing on the screen. The house president's name. Ryan reads it upside down—Marcus Shaw—and files it away like a stolen key. Sebastian glances at it, then back at Ryan. "He'll come find me in five minutes," he says, almost to himself. "He'll knock. He won't leave until I open the door." The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.
Ryan's breath catches. He understands: the interruption is coming. It's a matter of minutes. The choice is what Sebastian does with those minutes. Whether he sends Ryan away now, or uses them. Whether this moment closes or stays open, incomplete, a wound that will fester until the next time they're alone. Ryan's cock aches against his thigh, untouched, and he feels the wet smear of his own want cooling against his skin.
"Then don't open it," Ryan says. The words come out before he can stop them, raw and reckless and true. He watches Sebastian's eyes widen—just a fraction, just for a breath—before the mask slides back. The gray gaze holds him, measuring him, weighing the weight of that request. The study is silent except for the hum of the desk lamp and the distant sound of footsteps in the hall, approaching, inevitable.