Sebastian's flat was nothing like I expected.
The address had led me to a converted warehouse in Shoreditch—exposed brick, industrial windows, the kind of space that cost a fortune while pretending not to.
But inside, it was warmer than the exterior suggested. Lived in. Real.
Books were everywhere. Stacked on shelves, piled on tables, scattered across surfaces like evidence of a mind that never stopped consuming. Business strategy beside classic literature beside dog-eared thrillers.
Photos of his mother sat on a shelf near the window—a woman with his grey eyes and a gentle smile, captured in moments he'd deemed worth preserving.
A glimpse into the real him. The Sebastian beneath the suits and sarcasm.
He watched me take it all in, something vulnerable in his expression. This was his sanctuary, and he'd invited me into it.
"Wine?" he offered, moving toward the kitchen.
"No." I stopped him with the word. "This conversation needs clarity. I want to be completely present for it."
Sebastian set down the glass he'd been reaching for. Turned to face me fully. The distance between us felt charged with everything unsaid.
"I'm sorry," I started. "For pulling away. For freezing you out. For not letting you explain properly before I shut down completely."
"You had every right to be angry." His voice was steady, accepting. "Sophie was your best friend. I should have told you myself."
"Maybe. But I also wasn't being fair." I took a breath, forcing myself to continue. "I was scared, Sebastian. Of how much I felt. Of how fast everything changed between us."
Sebastian moved closer, slowly, giving me space to retreat if I needed it.
"Belle, I've been in love with you for years."
The words landed like a confession long overdue. They settled into the air between us, reshaping everything I thought I understood.
"Every sarcastic comment, every jab, every excuse to be near you—it was the only way I knew how to get close."
His voice was raw, stripped of every defense. "You were with James. You were untouchable. So I settled for making you notice me, even if it was through irritation."
"The blackmail," I whispered.
"Pathetic, I know." He laughed bitterly. "I couldn't have you, so I manufactured reasons to be around you. Lunches you didn't want. Conversations you resented. I told myself it was enough just to be near you."
"That's... incredibly unhealthy."
"I'm aware." His grey eyes held mine. "I'm not proud of who I was. But I'm trying to be someone who deserves you now."
I closed the distance between us. My hand found his chest, palm flat against his racing heartbeat.
"I choose you," I said. "Not by default. Not because other options failed. You. Sebastian Cole. The insufferable, brilliant, broken man who fought for me when I couldn't see it."
He kissed me like I was oxygen.
His hands cupped my face, pulling me into him with desperate urgency. I melted against his body, fingers fisting in his shirt, returning the kiss with everything I'd been holding back for weeks.
We didn't make it to the bedroom. Not at first.
He lifted me without breaking the kiss, and my legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. My back hit the wall, and he pressed into me, letting me feel how hard he already was through his trousers.
"Waited so long," he breathed against my mouth. "Wanted you so fucking long."
His hands found the hem of my blouse, pulling it over my head with impatient need. My bra followed, discarded somewhere on the floor, and then his mouth was on my breasts—sucking, biting, worshipping.
I moaned, head falling back against the wall as sensation overwhelmed me. His tongue circled one nipple while his fingers pinched the other, and I arched into him, desperate for more.
"Tell me what you need." His voice was rough against my skin. "Anything. Everything. It's yours."
"You. Inside me. Now."
He carried me to the couch, laying me down on the leather cushions. He stood over me, chest heaving, and stripped off his shirt with one fluid motion.
He knelt between my thighs, hands working my trousers open. He pulled them down along with my underwear, leaving me bare before him.
"Beautiful," he murmured, grey eyes dark with hunger. "So fucking beautiful."
His fingers found my slick heat, stroking through my folds, and I gasped at the contact. He watched my face as he circled my clit, learning what made me writhe, what made me moan his name.
I was trembling, until I was begging, until I couldn't form coherent thoughts. When he finally withdrew his hand, I whimpered at the loss.
"Not yet," he said, freeing himself from his trousers. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
He positioned himself at my entrance, holding my gaze as he pushed inside. The stretch was exquisite—slow and deep, filling me completely. I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as my body adjusted to his size.
"Okay?" he breathed, jaw clenched with the effort of holding still.
"More." I lifted my hips, taking him deeper. "Don't hold back. I need all of you."
He gave me everything.
The first thrust stole my breath. The second made me scream. He set a relentless pace—deep, hard, claiming me with every stroke. The couch creaked beneath us, leather slick with our sweat, but neither of us cared.
"I am yours." I pulled him down for a kiss. "I'm yours, Sebastian."
Something broke loose in him at the words. He pulled out suddenly, leaving me gasping, and flipped me onto my hands and knees.
"Need to feel you deeper," he said, positioning himself behind me.
He slammed back inside, and the new angle made me see stars. He gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, pounding into me with abandon.
His hand snaked around to find my clit, rubbing in tight circles as he fucked me. The dual sensation built impossibly, coiling tighter with every thrust.
I shattered with his name on my lips, pleasure crashing through me in waves. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep, spilling inside me with a groan that vibrated through both of us.
We collapsed together on the couch, breathing hard, hearts racing. But it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
"Bedroom," he said against my neck. "Now."
We made it there eventually—though not before he pressed me against the hallway wall and dropped to his knees, his mouth finding my center, tongue lapping at the mess he'd made of me until I came again with my fingers tangled in his hair.
In his bed, we took our time. Learned each other properly, the way we hadn't in Paris. He mapped every inch of my body with hands and mouth, discovering sensitive spots I didn't know I had.
I explored him in return—the scar on his ribs from a childhood accident, the way his breath hitched when I kissed his neck, the sounds he made when I took him in my mouth.
We made love three more times that night. Desperate and tender. Frantic and slow. Everything we'd been holding back, finally released.
Afterward, tangled in his sheets with dawn light creeping through the windows, I lay against his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on my back, and I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Maybe ever.
Home.