Chapter 17 Xavier
Xavier
Marcus and I were tangled together before he even managed to get the front door open.
My back hit the door frame as Marcus’s mouth found mine again, hot and desperate.
His hands were everywhere—gripping my waist, sliding up under my shirt, tangling in my hair.
I fumbled behind me for the doorknob, finally getting it to turn as we stumbled inside.
The door slammed shut behind us, and Marcus pressed me against it, his body solid and warm against mine. God, the man kissed like he was drowning and I was air. Every touch was hungry, almost frantic, like he was trying to make up for years of denial in this single moment.
“Bedroom?” I gasped when we broke apart for air.
“Too far,” he growled, his voice rough with need. His hands found the hem of my shirt, and he pulled it over my head in one swift motion. “Couch.”
I didn’t argue. The living room was right there, and I wasn’t sure my legs would make it down a hallway, anyway. Marcus guided me backward, his lips never leaving my skin as he kissed down my neck, across my collarbone, down my chest.
We collapsed onto the couch together, a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. I worked at the buttons of his shirt while he made quick work of my belt. The urgency between us was electric, different from the careful exploration we’d done before. This was raw, unfiltered need.
“I want you,” Marcus murmured against my throat, his stubble scratching my skin in the most delicious way. “God, Xavier, I want you so fucking bad.”
My heart stuttered at the admission. We’d been fucking around already, sure, but this felt different. More intimate. More real.
“Then take me,” I breathed, arching into his touch. “I’m right here.”
His hands stilled for a moment, and he pulled back to look at me. Those green eyes were dark with desire, but there was something else there too. Vulnerability. Fear. Hope.
“I’ve never...” he started, then stopped, his face flushing. “I mean, I have, but not like this. Not with someone I—” He cut himself off, seeming to realize what he’d been about to say.
I cupped his face in my hands, forcing him to keep looking at me. “We’ll go slow,” I promised. “And if you want to stop at any point, we stop. No questions asked.”
He nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Then he kissed me again, slower this time, more tender. I felt something shift between us in that kiss, something that went beyond just physical attraction or mutual need.
Something that scared the hell out of me.
Because I was supposed to be leaving in two weeks. Going back to my life in New York, my career, my apartment. This was supposed to be temporary, uncomplicated. No strings.
But as Marcus’s hands explored my body with reverent touches, as he whispered my name like a prayer against my skin, I realized we’d already crossed an invisible line that could not be uncrossed.
Outside the sky lit up in a brilliant flash, thunder rolling in just a few seconds later. Rain began to patter against the roof as Marcus’s tongue circled my nipple. I moaned against him, feeling every buck of his hips.
It was too late to turn back now.
I lost myself in the sensations. Marcus’s calloused hands mapped every inch of my skin as I felt the weight of his body pressing me into the worn leather couch.
The storm grew stronger outside while we created our own tempest inside.
His shirt was gone now, discarded somewhere on the floor, and I ran my hands over the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath my palms.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his lips trailing down my stomach. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”
The words made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with arousal.
In New York, guys threw around compliments like confetti.
They were just empty, meaningless words designed to get you into bed.
But when Marcus said it, with that rough drawl and those earnest green eyes, I believed him. He meant it.
I helped him work my jeans down my hips, lifting slightly so he could pull them off completely. The cool air hit my overheated skin, making me shiver. Or maybe it was just the way Marcus was looking at me, like I was something precious he was afraid to break.
“I’ve got supplies in my bag,” I said, nodding toward where I’d dropped it by the door. “Lube, condoms—”
“I’ll get them,” Marcus said, pressing one more kiss to my hip bone before standing. I watched him cross the room, admiring the way his jeans hung low on his hips, the play of muscles in his back as he bent to retrieve my bag.
He returned with the supplies, setting them on the coffee table before kneeling between my spread legs. The position should have felt vulnerable, exposed, but instead I felt safe. Protected. Like Marcus would never do anything to hurt me.
“Tell me what you need,” he said, his hands resting on my thighs. “I want to make this good for you.”
“It already is good,” I assured him, reaching down to stroke his jaw. “Just having you here, wanting this... that’s enough.” But I knew what he was asking. I reached out, grabbing a fistful of his hair. “Suck my cock and eat my ass before you fuck me.”
It wasn’t a request.
Marcus’s pupils dilated at my command, his breath catching. I watched his throat work as he swallowed, and then that beautiful man was lowering his head between my thighs without hesitation.
The first touch of his tongue against my cock made me gasp.
He started at the base, dragging slowly up the underside before swirling around the head.
His technique was different than the first time.
It was less tentative and more confident.
Almost like he’d been thinking about this, practicing in his mind what he wanted to do to me.
“Fuck, Marcus,” I breathed, my fingers tightening in his hair. “Just like that.”
He hummed in response, the vibration sending pleasure shooting up my spine. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me in place as he took me deeper. I could feel the heat of his mouth, the wet slide of his tongue, and it was almost too much. Almost, but not quite.
He worked me with single-minded focus, his eyes occasionally flicking up to meet mine. The sight of Sheriff Marcus Webb on his knees for me, his lips wrapped around my cock, was something I knew I’d never forget. Not when I went back to New York, not ever.
When he pulled off with an obscene pop, I whimpered at the loss. But then he was pressing my thighs up and back, exposing me completely, and my brain short-circuited.
“Gorgeous,” he murmured again, his breath ghosting over my most intimate places. “Everything about you is so damn perfect.”
Then his tongue was on my hole, and I forgot how to form words entirely.
He licked at me with the same thoroughness he’d shown my cock, taking his time to explore and taste my entrance. The sensation was overwhelming—his rough stubble against my sensitive skin, the wet heat of his mouth, the way his hands gripped my thighs to keep me spread wide for him.
“Oh god,” I moaned, my head falling back against the couch cushions. “Marcus, fuck—”
He doubled his efforts, his tongue pressing inside me now, and I felt my whole body tremble.
No one had ever done this to me with such reverence, such attention to detail.
Most guys treated rimming like a chore, something to get through quickly before the main event.
But Marcus was taking his time, savoring it, like he genuinely enjoyed reducing me to a writhing mess.
My cock was leaking steadily now, precum pooling on my stomach. I reached down to stroke myself, but Marcus grabbed my wrist, pulling my hand away.
“Not yet,” he said, his voice rough and commanding. “I’m not even close to done with you.”
The dominance in his tone made my cock throb. I nodded, letting my hand fall to the side, completely surrendering to whatever Marcus wanted to do to me.
He went back to eating me out, adding his fingers now. One slid inside easily, my body welcoming the intrusion after all his attention. Then another, stretching me, preparing me for what came next.
I was panting now, my hands gripping the couch cushions so hard I thought I might tear the leather. Every nerve ending in my body was on fire, pleasure building in waves that threatened to crash over me at any moment.
“I need you inside me,” I gasped out. “Marcus, please. I need you to fuck me.”
He pulled back, his lips swollen and glistening. The sight of him—this proper, reserved sheriff looking absolutely wrecked with desire—made my heart stutter in my chest.
“Are you sure?” he asked, even as his hands were already reaching for the condom.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I told him, and I meant it.
I watched him roll the condom on with shaking hands, his cock thick and hard and perfect.
He slicked himself up with lube, then added more to his fingers, working me open even further.
The care he took, the attention he paid to making sure I was ready, made something warm bloom in my chest that I absolutely did not want to examine too closely.
“Come here,” I said, reaching for him.
He positioned himself above me, one hand braced on the back of the couch while the other guided himself to my entrance. Our eyes met, and I saw everything I was feeling reflected back at me in his gaze. Want. Need. And something deeper, something that terrified and exhilarated me in equal measure.
“Go slow,” I whispered, even though my body was screaming for him to just take me already. “You’re bigger than most.”
He nodded, pressing forward with agonizing gentleness. The head of his cock breached me slowly, and we both groaned at the sensation. He was definitely bigger than the dildo I’d ridden on his desk, thicker, and the stretch was intense.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
“More than okay,” I assured him. “Keep going.”
He pushed in another inch, then another, pausing to let me adjust. His free hand found mine, threading our fingers together and pinning my hand to the couch beside my head. The gesture was so intimate, so tender, that I had to close my eyes against the sudden rush of emotion.
When he was finally seated fully inside me, we both let out shaky breaths. He stayed still, giving me time to adjust to the fullness, and I could feel the tremor in his muscles from the restraint it took.
“You feel incredible,” he murmured against my neck. “So tight and perfect around me.”
I squeezed his hand, using my other to grip his shoulder. “Move,” I urged. “I need you to move, now.”
He pulled back slowly, then thrust forward again, and I saw stars. The angle was perfect, hitting that spot inside me that made my toes curl. He set a steady rhythm, not too fast, not too slow, just right.
“Is this good?” he asked, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me what you need.”
“It’s perfect,” I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulder. “You’re perfect. Just—fuck… just keep doing that.”
He found a rhythm that had me moaning in delight, each thrust deliberate and controlled. The couch creaked beneath us, the sound mixing with the rain hammering against the windows and our ragged breathing. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and felt him shudder above me.
“Xavier,” he groaned, his voice wrecked. “I’m not gonna last long. You feel too good.”
“Don’t hold back,” I told him, reaching between us to stroke my neglected cock. “I want to feel you cum inside me.”
His rhythm faltered, became more erratic. I could feel him getting close, could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes went dark and unfocused. I stroked myself faster, chasing my own release, wanting to cum with him.
“Look at me,” I commanded, and his eyes snapped to mine. “I want to see you when you cum.”
That’s all it took. His hips stuttered, and I felt him pulse inside me as he came with a guttural moan that sent shivers down my spine.
The sight of him—head thrown back, throat exposed, completely lost in pleasure—pushed me over the edge too.
I came hard, spilling between us with Marcus’s name on my lips.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us trembling and breathless. Marcus’s forehead dropped to rest against mine, and I felt his heart hammering against my chest. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out, and I winced slightly at the loss.
“Stay there,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple before disappearing down the hallway.
I lay there on his couch, boneless and satisfied, listening to the storm rage outside, the wind rattling the windows.
My body felt heavy, pleasantly used, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this content after sex.
Usually, I was already thinking about leaving, about getting back to my own space.
But here, in Marcus’s living room, I found myself hoping he’d come back and just hold me.
Which was dangerous thinking. Really fucking dangerous.
Marcus returned with a warm washcloth and cleaned me up with gentle touches that made my heart ache. Then he settled beside me on the couch, pulling me onto his lap like I weighed nothing. I went willingly, tucking my head under his chin and listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat.
“Wow… that was…” he started, then seemed to lose the words.
“Yeah,” I agreed, because I knew exactly what he meant. “It was some of the best I’ve ever had.”
His hand stroked up and down my spine in slow, soothing motions. Outside, the storm showed no signs of letting up. Thunder rumbled overhead, and rain continued to pelt the windows. But inside, wrapped in Marcus’s arms, I felt safe. Protected. Like nothing bad could touch me here.
“Stay the night,” Marcus said softly, kissing the top of my head. “I… I don’t want you driving in the storm.”
I leaned back, my hand on his cheek as I stared into those green eyes. “Is that the only reason?”
He blushed but shook his head. “No.”
I nodded, settling against him once more. This feeling between us, however dangerous, was at least mutual. “Then I’ll stay.”