“Sebastian,” I whine, the only word I’m able to pull from my chest. But then I’m done— the orgasm tears through my body, lightening and fire and bliss that makes me scream, arch upward, fist my fingers and feeling like I may explode from the pleasure of it all. I barely even hear Sebastian groan, but in the midst of my world shattering in the best way, I feel his cock clench in me, and then pulse as he comes deep in my pussy, his hands tightening over my legs. I’m reduced to a trembling, happy disaster, splayed across a study desk in a law library. I can’t stop smiling, even through my gasping breaths.
Sebastian regains control of himself and looks up at me, his brow sweaty and his hands shaking against my legs. He bites his lip and slowly, cautiously, pulls his cock from my soaked pussy. He watches as he does this, seemingly pleased with his work, and I love that expression on his face. I love knowing he came in me, I love knowing his pleasure matched my own. He eases my legs down, then climbs onto the desk beside me, lying on his side so we fit together. I tuck my head against his chest, inhaling the hot, spicy scent of his body.
“Perfect,” I remind him breathlessly.
“Only because I’m with you,” he answers, and ducks his head down to kiss me, our lips trembling together in exhaustion and delight.
17
We lie together for another hour, until the first hints of sunlight appear in the library’s upper windows. The building takes on an otherworldly quality, at this hour— a mix of shadow and light, more like a forest than a manmade room. I’d lie here with Sebastian for a few more hours, frankly, if it weren’t for our promise to get out the door.
I expect it, but it’s disappointing all the same when it locks behind us.
“That was an excellent date,” I say, leaning against him, stifling a yawn.
“I’m glad you liked it,” he answers, kissing the side of my forehead. We’re back to the car, now; Sebastian opens the door on my side for me, then dashes around to slide into the driver’s seat. I’m going to be sore again, I know. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to his size?
“I liked it too, actually,” he says as he buckles his seatbelt. I lift my eyebrows at his tone— did he think I was under the impression he didn’t enjoy himself? He laughs and shakes his head, turning the car on, reversing from the parking spot. “I liked the library, I mean. It’s nice, a big beautiful place like that that’s all about right and wrong and justice. Making sure the innocent stay out of jail and the guilty are punished. It’s a nice reminder that my family isn’t alone in this whole mess.”
I cringe, and am glad Sebastian doesn’t see it.
“You’re so confident that your father is innocent,” I say cautiously, warily. I know we agreed to pretend that the murder didn’t happen, but Sebastian was the one to bring it up…
“Well, he’s my dad.”
“Is that enough of a reason?” I ask.
Sebastian frowns, and for a moment, I think he’s angry. When he looks over at me, though, I see that it’s not anger— it’s confidence. “Of course. If someone accused your parents of doing something terrible, would you assume they did it?”
“No, but…I mean, if there was evidence,” I try, stepping carefully. “Is there?” I ask this to throw him off my trail, should he be on it at all— the truth is, I know every shred of evidence linking Dennis Slate to my aunt’s murder. I know it backward, forward, in the dark, upside down.
Sebastian takes a breath, and I realize that he knows all the evidence just as well as me— only, instead of wanting to highlight it, he wants to pretend it doesn’t exist. He says, “There is. Some.”
“But not enough for you to be convinced,” I say, shaking my head in disappointment. I can’t change who Sebastian is, or who I am. If Sebastian were to realize that his father is guilty perhaps I wouldn’t feel so guilty about wanting to be with him.
Sebastian pauses as he turns onto the interstate, then exhales. When he begins to speak, his words are careful and deliberate. “So, he was having an affair with the lady— with Tessa Miller. That part I know is true— and he sucks for cheating on my mom like that.”
I try not to let myself audibly wince at my aunt’s name. The truth is, I hardly ever think of her name— it’s a self-preservation method. If I think of her name, I think of singing it at her birthday parties, and seeing it signed on holiday cards, and hearing my mom say it into the telephone. I try to think of her simply as “my aunt”— in the same way that I know Sebastian usually thinks of her as “that lady”. A name is a person. “Aunt” and “lady” are just words.