His Plump Mate (Book 1: The 'His' Series) novel Chapter 180

**Chapter 179: Hope Was A Dangerous Thing**

**Cecilia’s POV**

The whiskey lingered on his tongue, intoxicating and bold, sending a wave of dizziness through me. My mouth opened instinctively, devoid of any rational thought, as if my body had a mind of its own.

I was simply a vessel, pliant and eager, surrendering to his every whim, allowing him to take control without hesitation.

My arms hung loosely around his neck for a fleeting moment before tightening their grip, as if anchoring myself to him.

“Upstairs. Now,” he growled, the words escaping his lips like a primal command rather than a mere suggestion.

In one fluid motion, he lifted me as if I were weightless, his strong hands digging into the soft flesh of my thighs, securing me against him.

I locked my ankles around his back, my face flushed with heat, pressed against the warm curve of his neck.

My fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, each pop echoing the urgency of our desire, until I could finally taste his skin against my lips.

I bit down on his collarbone, then trailed my mouth lower, leaving a mark on his chest, feeling the low, rumbling growl that reverberated in his throat.

We never made it to the bedroom.

With a sudden, forceful motion, he slammed me against the cool glass wall of the hallway, his body a solid, unyielding weight pinning me there.

The glass began to fog up, the heat radiating from our bodies creating a steamy barrier between us and the outside world.

His mouth crashed against mine, fierce and unrelenting, while his hands roamed over my body, slipping beneath the thin fabric of my shirt before tearing it away, his touch igniting every nerve ending.

“So f*****g perfect for me,” he snarled, his voice raw and filled with a hunger that matched my own.

He hoisted my leg higher around his hip, and my head thudded back against the glass as he began to kiss my neck, sucking with a fervor that promised a dark bruise in its wake.

“Sebastian… f**k!” I gasped, my nails clawing down his shoulders, leaving red lines in their wake.

The cool glass was a stark contrast against my bare back, a shocking reminder of my vulnerability, while the front of my body blazed with heat wherever he touched.

He enveloped me, his hands, mouth, and body pressing against me, his desire palpable, the pressure of his arousal insistent against my core, demanding attention.

With a low growl, he shifted just enough to free one hand, and I heard the unmistakable sound of foil tearing.

My breath caught in my throat as he sheathed himself, the brief interruption only intensifying the electric tension that crackled between us.

“Mine,” he growled against my damp skin, his eyes locking onto mine, revealing a wild, possessive glint that made my heart race.

He pushed inside me, and in that moment, I shattered completely for him.

The pleasure built to an unbearable crescendo, and I felt myself trembling, on the brink of release, until I finally fell apart, my body quaking as he followed suit with a deep, shuddering thrust, his own climax crashing over him.

We leaned against that fogged-up wall, panting, utterly spent.

The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of sex and sweat, a fragrant reminder of our wild encounter.

His forehead rested against mine, our breaths mingling in the intimate silence that followed.

Then, his hands began to move again, slow and deliberate, tracing the curves of my waist, the swell of my hip, reigniting the embers he had left smoldering deep within me.

“Again,” he murmured, not posing it as a question but rather stating a fact, his mouth finding mine in a deep, languorous kiss that promised yet another slow, delicious burn.

My body, still humming from the last wave of pleasure, arched into him, eager to be taken once more.

I awoke to the gentle sound of birds singing outside.

Lifting my head, my hair tousled and wild, I gazed out at the lush green trees bathed in sunlight, fluffy white clouds drifting lazily across the sky. I found myself sprawled across Sebastian’s chest, his arm serving as my pillow.

The sheets had slipped down to his waist, revealing the sculpted muscles of his torso. I reached out tentatively, my fingers brushing against the fabric, pulling the sheet up higher to cover him.

“Cold?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

I attempted to roll away, a sense of urgency washing over me. “Time to get up. Work awaits.”

Sebastian shifted, turning onto his side, wrapping his arm around my waist once more.

“Cecilia, it’s Sunday,” he reminded me, his voice gravelly, still laced with the remnants of sleep.

I met his gaze, feeling a flutter of nervousness in my stomach. “Even on Sundays, you have things to do.”

Every muscle in my body ached pleasantly, a testament to the passionate night we had shared.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, eyeing my oversized shirt. “You went outside dressed like that?”

“…There’s no one else here.”

With a playful grin, he patted my backside. “Go take another stroll while I make breakfast.” He turned towards the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients with a casual ease.

As he turned back, he caught me watching him, and I quickly averted my gaze, stepping outside.

I didn’t head to the garden.

I was still practically naked, swimming in his shirt, alone with him in this ridiculously perfect villa. It felt… strange. Like I had stumbled onto the set of someone else’s movie.

So instead, I wandered into the glass house, because nothing screams “casual” like pretending to be interested in plants while trying to suppress the overthinking that came with the realization that I had slept with a man who clearly had a past.

The place was breathtaking, of course.

In the backyard, a lace-trimmed chaise lounge seemed to lounge with an air of superiority, as if it knew it was far more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. A single diamond earring sparkled near the piano—just sitting there, reminiscent of some kind of calling card. And a bold red tube of lipstick peeked out from beneath a stack of magazines on the coffee table, the kind I never wore.

I hadn’t been looking for anything in particular. Yet, somehow, I found it anyway.

These weren’t clues, not exactly.

They were remnants, leftovers of someone else’s life.

Should I ask?

“So, how many women’s lost-and-found items do you usually have lying around?”

Yeah. That wouldn’t be awkward at all.

I didn’t voice my thoughts.

Because asking would imply that I believed this was anything but temporary.

That maybe I dared to hope for something more.

I didn’t ask. Because asking meant hoping this could be more than just a fleeting moment. And hope, I had learned, was the most dangerous thing to carry.