It wasn't a kiss.
That would have been easier to condemn. It was a choice.
My boyfriend fell asleep early that night, his arm heavy across my waist, trusting. I lay still beside him, counting breaths, waiting for the guilt to settle me into sleep. It didn't. Instead, my phone vibrated softly against the mattress.
I didn't move at first.
I told myself that was strength. When the vibration came again, slower this time, deliberate, I slid out of bed and padded into the bathroom, closing the door without a sound. The light stayed off. My reflection stared back at me anyway, faint and unfamiliar.
Sebastian: You're awake.
I swallowed.
Me: I shouldn't be doing this.
The reply came after a pause that felt intentional.
Sebastian: And yet you are.
My hands trembled as I typed. I could still stop. Put the phone down. Crawl back into bed and pretend this moment never happened.
Instead, I wrote:
Me: What do you want from me?
This time, there was no delay.
Sebastian: Honesty.
That was the betrayal.
Not my body.
Not my lips.
My honesty.
I told him how lonely I felt lying beside someone who no longer saw me. How wrong it felt to crave another man—and how right it felt when that man was him. Each word loosened something inside me, like a door I'd been holding shut finally giving way.
When I returned to bed, my boyfriend shifted closer in his sleep, murmuring my name.
I froze.
Because for the first time, being there felt like the lie.
And somewhere, deep in my chest, I knew I had crossed a line I couldn't uncross—not because anyone saw me do it, but because I did.
And Sebastian Crowe knew it too.
The message came the next evening.
No warning. No greeting.
Sebastian: Meet me.
My heart stuttered. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, my boyfriend in the shower, steam curling under the bathroom door like a countdown.
Me: That's not a good idea.
I waited, pulse racing, half-hoping he'd let it go.
He didn't.
Sebastian: Tomorrow. 9 p.m.
Sebastian: The old Crowe building. Top floor.
I stared at the screen, dread and anticipation twisting together until I couldn't tell them apart.
Me: Why there?
The reply took longer this time. When it came, it felt deliberate—measured.
Sebastian: Because it's private.
Sebastian: And because once you walk in, there's no pretending anymore.
My throat tightened.
Me: What if I don't come?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then—
Sebastian: Then you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what would've happened if you had.
The bathroom door opened. My boyfriend stepped out, towel around his waist, smiling at me like nothing in the world was wrong.
I locked my phone and forced a smile back. But my mind was already elsewhere—standing at the edge of a choice that felt heavier than betrayal, heavier than guilt. Because this time, Sebastian wasn't just invading my thoughts. He was asking for my presence. And the terrifying part wasn't that he wanted me to come. It was that I already knew… I would.
I started preparing hours before I was supposed to leave.
Not the careful kind of preparing—no mirror-staring, no outfit changes meant to impress. This was different. This was damage control. I chose something simple, something that wouldn't invite questions. Jeans. A dark top. Shoes I could walk away in if I needed to.
I told myself that meant I was still in control.
My boyfriend watched me from the doorway as I slipped on my jacket. "You going somewhere?" he asked casually, like the answer didn't matter.
It did.
"Just meeting a friend," I said. The lie slid out smoothly, too smoothly, and that scared me more than if I'd stumbled.
He nodded, but his eyes lingered on me, searching. "You've been doing that a lot lately."
My chest tightened. "I'll be back soon."
I hated myself for the relief I felt when he didn't argue.
Outside, the night air was cold, grounding. I stood by my car for a moment longer than necessary, keys cold in my palm, giving myself one last chance to stop. To go back inside. To choose the life that was already waiting for me.
Instead, I checked my phone.
Sebastian: On your way.
It wasn't a question.
I didn't reply. I didn't need to. He already knew.
As I drove, every streetlight felt like a warning I was ignoring. Every turn carried me further from the person I pretended to be and closer to the one he seemed determined to uncover.
By the time the Crowe building rose in front of me—dark, towering, impossibly still—I realized something with a mix of fear and clarity.
This wasn't just a meeting.
It was a crossing.
And once I stepped inside, there would be no going back to who I was before.
The elevator ride was silent.
Not awkward—intentional. The kind of silence that pressed against my skin, made every breath feel too loud. When the doors opened, Sebastian was already there, leaning against the glass wall of the top floor like he had been waiting for hours.
He looked exactly like I imagined—and worse.
Dark suit. Calm posture. Eyes that didn't rush, didn't search. They settled on me like they already knew every inch of what they were claiming.
"You came," he said quietly.
I nodded, suddenly unsure of my voice.
He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that I felt his presence everywhere. "I told you you would."
My pulse was loud in my ears. "What happens now?"
His gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes. "Nothing you don't let happen."
Slowly—deliberately—he lifted his hand and brushed his thumb against my wrist. It was barely there, the lightest contact, but it sent a shock through me that made my breath hitch.
"Still pretending?" he murmured.
I shook my head before I could stop myself.
His fingers slid up my arm, unhurried, stopping just below my elbow—as if testing, asking without words. When I didn't pull away, his hand closed gently, grounding, possessive without force.
"Good," he said softly.
He leaned in then, close enough that his breath warmed my cheek. His forehead rested against mine for a moment—no rush, no kiss yet—just closeness so intense it made my knees weak.
"You feel that?" he asked.
I did. Everywhere.
When his lips finally brushed mine, it wasn't demanding. It was slow. Certain. Like he had all the time in the world and knew I wasn't going anywhere. My hands moved on their own, gripping the front of his jacket, and he exhaled against my mouth like that was exactly what he'd been waiting for.
"This," he said quietly when we broke apart, his hand still at my waist, steadying me, "is what honesty feels like."
And in that moment, wrapped in his touch and his certainty, I knew I had crossed another line.
Not because he touched me—
but because I wanted him to.
He pulled away first.
The sudden absence of him was almost painful, like stepping out of heat into cold. His hand left my waist, but his eyes stayed on me, sharp and unreadable. It felt intentional—like he wanted me to feel the loss.
"You're shaking," he said calmly.
I hadn't noticed. My hands were still clenched in his jacket, as if letting go would undo me completely. I forced myself to release him, my fingers tingling where they'd been.
"You should sit," he added.
It wasn't a command.
That was what made my body obey.
I sat on the edge of the desk behind me, heart pounding, and he stepped closer again—slow, unhurried, reclaiming the space he'd given up. He stopped between my knees, close enough that I could feel his warmth without him touching me.
"This is where you lose control," he said quietly. "Not when I touch you. When I don't."
My breath caught. He tilted my chin up with one finger, firm enough to guide, gentle enough to feel deliberate.
"Look at me."
I did.
His thumb traced the line of my jaw, down to my throat, resting there—not pressing, just present. A reminder. My pulse jumped under his touch, betraying me completely.
"You went home to another man after the last time," he continued, voice low. "You slept beside him. Let him believe you were still his."
Shame flared, hot and sharp.
"And yet," he said, leaning closer, his lips near my ear but not touching, "your body learned my name."
My knees weakened.
He pulled his hand away again, stepping back just enough to make me feel exposed. "This is the part you don't understand yet," he said. "I don't need to take anything from you."
His eyes darkened. "You offer it."
Silence stretched between us, thick and unbearable.
"When you leave here," he added, "you'll think about this moment more than anything we didn't do."
I swallowed. "And you?"
A faint smile touched his mouth. Dangerous. Knowing.
"I already have you," he said. "The rest is just timing."
He stepped aside then, opening a clear path to the door.
No force.
No demand.
Just the certainty that walking away wouldn't free me—it would only prove how deep I was already in.
And as I stood on unsteady legs, one truth settled heavy in my chest:
Sebastian Crowe didn't dominate with touch.
He dominated with restraint.