Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Lila
The storm rolled in fast that evening, the kind of summer squall that turns the sky purple in minutes and dumps rain like the heavens are trying to drown the world.
We’d been sanding the living room floor all afternoon, dust coating our skin and clothes, when the first crack of thunder shook the windows. The lights flickered once, twice, and then died.
Darkness swallowed the house in an instant, and I froze. No hum of the fridge and no low buzz from the overhead fixtures. It was an eerie silence except for the relentless drum of rain on the roof and the wind rattling the shutters.
Marcus swore under his breath. “Generator’s in the garage. Stay here. I’ll grab candles.”
I stayed put on the drop cloth we’d laid down, knees drawn up, listening to his boots thud across the hardwood. I heard the back door open and then slam shut against the gale.
Lightning flashed white through the curtains, illuminating the half-sanded floor, the stacked moving boxes, and the empty spaces where furniture used to be. Everything looked stripped bare and vulnerable.
Lightning flashed again, and I could see Marcus clearly enough. He carried an armful of pillar candles, a flashlight, and a bottle of whiskey he must’ve snagged from the pantry.
I hated myself for noticing the way his T-shirt clung obscenely to every ridge of muscle across his chest and stomach. God, I was desperate. I definitely had a type of guy I found hot.
“Power’s out for the block,” he said, setting everything on the coffee table we’d shoved to the side. “Might be a while.”
He struck a match, lit the candles one by one, and warm, flickering gold pushed the shadows back just enough to see his face. I assumed the generator was out of fuel. His eyes seemed darker than usual in the low light.
“Drink?” he asked, and I nodded. Might as well.
He poured two fingers of whiskey into mismatched mugs and handed me one.
“It’ll take the chill off.”
I took it, our fingers brushing. The contact lingered, but neither of us pulled away immediately.
We sat on the floor in front of the empty fireplace, close enough that our knees almost touched. Our backs were against the couch we’d covered with an old sheet.
Rain hammered the windows like fists, and thunder rolled so deep it vibrated through my bones. For a while, we just drank in silence, listening to the storm rage. The whiskey burned smooth down my throat, spreading heat through my chest and lower belly.
He spoke first, and I didn’t miss how rough his voice sounded. “Found out about the affair by accident.”
I was stunned he brought that up but said nothing so he would continue. I wanted him to feel comfortable confiding in me.
“I came home early one day. I thought she was out. There was a truck in the driveway. I walked in and heard them in the back room.”
My heart started pounding hard. I didn’t know if I actually wanted to hear this. My stomach twisted. “Marcus—”
“I turned around and just left. Drove around for hours. And when I came back after she’d gone to bed, I said nothing. I didn’t confront her.”
“Why?”
He took a long swallow. “I don’t know. I was processing it all. I guess I had already checked out of the marriage the same as she had.”
I set my mug down and shifted closer, resting my hand on his knee. The denim was warm from his skin underneath and working all day. “You were trying to hold things together.”
He looked at my hand then at me. “Holding on to something already broken doesn’t make it whole.”
His muscles tensed under my palm.
“Lila,” he said, a low warning in his voice.
I didn’t move my hand. “You deserved better.”
His gaze searched mine in the candlelight. “Maybe.”
I felt brave right then. Maybe it was the alcohol that made me slide my hand higher, slow caress along the inside of his thigh. His breath hitched.
“This is wrong,” he rasped, but he didn’t push me away. His hand covered mine. Large and callused, it kept my hand in place instead of lifting it away. “You know it is.”
“I know.” My voice came out soft, trembling. “But I don’t want to stop.”
His grip tightened on my hand. “Jesus, Lila.”
“Being with you is all I’ve been able to think about.” The words were soft from me. “Every night since I came back. Every time you brush past me. Every time you look at me like you’re trying not to. I fantasize about you touching me. About you finally giving in. About you fucking me.”
My words hung between us, filthy and forbidden. Lightning flashed, throwing his face into stark relief, showing me how dark his eyes had gone with hunger.
He moved first with a harsh growl. One hand cupped the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, pulling me forward. Our mouths crashed together. It was hard, desperate, and there was no gentleness in what we were doing.
His tongue pushed past my lips, immediately claiming, tasting of whiskey and desperation. I knew I tasted of the same thing. I moaned into his mouth, hands flying to his chest, fingers curling into the cotton, feeling the heat of his skin and the rapid thud of his heart.
His groan was low and guttural, and a second later, he hauled me onto his lap in one, rough motion. My thighs straddled his hips, and I could feel how hard he was through his jeans.
God, Marcus was thick and pressed against my core. I rocked instinctively, grinding down, rubbing my pussy on him and chasing friction. He hissed, hands sliding under my T-shirt, rough palms skating up my bare sides, and then thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.
“Fuck,” he growled against my mouth. “You’re not wearing anything under this.”
“No,” I gasped.
His hands moved higher, cupping my breasts fully, thumbs circling my nipples until they peaked to hardened tips. He pinched lightly, but it was sharp enough to make me arch. I cried out; the sound swallowed by another bruising kiss.
One hand left my breast to grip my ass, pulling me tighter against him. He rocked up into me, a slow grind that dragged his huge cock along my soaked center leaking through our clothes.
I whimpered, nails digging into his biceps.
“Tell me to stop,” he muttered against my throat, teeth grazing my pulse. “Tell me right now.”
“Don’t you dare stop,” I breathed. “Please, Marcus. I need—”
He cut me off with another kiss, deeper, dirtier. His hand slid between us, fingers working the elastic of my leggings open, slipping inside. When he found me bare and dripping, he cursed against my lips.
“No panties and so fucking wet,” he rasped.
“Yes,” I moaned.
Two thick fingers pushed inside me without warning. He stretched me, curling the digits in and upward, finding that spot that made my vision white out. I bucked against his hand, riding his fingers shamelessly while his thumb circled my clit in tight, relentless strokes.
“Come for me,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Squeeze my fucking fingers.”
His demand was all I needed to shatter. I moaned out his name as my pussy clenched around his fingers, sucking them in deeper, my orgasm soaking his hand. Marcus kept pumping in and out as I came, drawing out my pleasure until I was shaking and boneless against his chest.
When the aftershocks faded, he pulled his hand free, lifted his fingers to his mouth, and licked them clean while holding my gaze. The sight sent another bolt of heat through me.
But then reality crashed back, not just for me but for him, too. I could see it in the way he froze, eyes clearing and his mouth forming a firm line. His hand—still on my hips—tightened, then loosened as if he were forcing himself to let go.
“Fuck. I can’t believe I fucking did that,” he said hoarsely. “This… we can’t do this.”
I cupped his face, thumbs brushing the stubble along his jaw. “I don’t regret it.”
He closed his eyes, forehead resting against mine. “I’m supposed to protect you. Not… this.” He exhaled shakily. “Go to bed, Lila.”
I didn’t move right away. Just stayed on his lap, straddling him, feeling the hard length of his dick still bobbing against me, and listening to his rapid pants, like he’d run a marathon.
I finally slid off his lap, legs unsteady. He stood, too, adjusting himself with a grimace, not bothering to hide how turned on he was for me.
We didn’t speak as the storm still raged outside or when I forced myself to head to my room. I didn’t feel shame or regret, but I was disappointed that he felt those things.
I shut my bedroom door, leaned against it, heart still racing, body still aching.
The line was crossed.
And neither of us could pretend we didn’t do it willingly.