Chapter 4
Jess
He kisses me like he’s starving, one hand fisted in my hair while the calluses of his chef’s fingers slide between my thighs. When those wicked pads find my clit, I gasp into his mouth. It’s a ragged, broken sound that makes him groan.
He circles the swollen nub with ruthless precision, his thumb applying just enough pressure to make my hips buck.
Too much.
Not enough.
“Look at me,” he commands, and my eyelids flutter open to find his dark eyes devouring me, and my every reaction. “I want to watch you unravel.”
His fingers plunge inside without warning. They curl upward, stroking the spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. He scissors his fingers slowly, stretching me, while his thumb never stops its maddening rhythm on my clit.
“Marco—”
“Shh. Let me feel you.” His lips trail fire down my neck. “So fucking tight... like you’re milking me already. Fuck I love it.”
The dual sensations... the deep internal pressure and the surface friction... they send shock waves through my nervous system. I’m getting closer... closer...
My thoughts stutter.
More. Need—
His teeth graze my earlobe. “Cum on my fingers. Now.”
The order snaps the last thread of control. My back arches violently, and I bite back a scream as my core convulses around his thrusting, fucking hot fingers. Pleasure detonates and I feel my pussy clenching repeatedly around his fingers, which have stopped moving.
“One.” His voice is gravel against my sweat-slicked skin. Triumphant. Possessive.
But he doesn’t stop.
His fingers start working again, drawing out the aftershocks until I’m writhing, oversensitive and trembling. “Too.... much—”
“Just warming you up, my vixen,” he murmurs, finally withdrawing. The loss makes me whimper. He lifts his glistening fingers to my lips. He sucks one of them. “So good.” He presents the others to me. “Taste yourself. Taste how much you want me.”
I suck his fingers clean, salt and musk and him, as he watches with hooded eyes.
You’d think the degradation would horrify me.
It doesn’t.
It winds me tighter.
He reaches for his wallet, and the crinkle of foil is obscenely loud.
I watch, dazed, as he strips off his Henley.
The reveal punches the air from my lungs.
His chest is a topography of muscle. Corded pectorals, a deep V leading to the sculpted lines of his abdomen, obliques like steel cables.
The dim light catches the trail of dark hair below his navel, pointing like an arrow to the formidable bulge in his jeans.
God. He’s carved.
He unbuttons his fly, freeing himself. His cock springs thick and heavy against his stomach, veins standing in relief. The sheer size makes my mouth water and my inner muscles clench.
Again I find myself wanting to suck him, but I realize I wouldn’t even be able to fit half of it into my mouth. Let alone my pussy...
“I don’t think... I can... take it all,” I breathe, half-hypnotized.
A dark chuckle. “We’ll see.” He sheathes himself efficiently. “Up. Ride me.”
He guides me onto his lap, his hands spanning my waist as I sink down. The stretch burns... sweet, sweet agony, until he’s fully seated inside me.
Our groans mingle.
So full. Splitting me—
“Move.” His palm lands sharp on my ass.
Sting. Heat.
“Show me how bad you need it.”
I roll my hips tentatively, then bolder as pleasure coils low in my belly. His hands roam my body, kneading my breasts, thumbing my nipples to aching peaks, gripping my hips to set a punishing rhythm.
“That’s it.” His praise is rough velvet. “Take me deeper.”
I brace my hands on his shoulders, riding him in earnest now. The slap of skin, the creak of my cheap couch, the wet sounds where we join.
It’s lewd. Perfect. Hot.
His gaze drops to watch himself disappear inside me, eyes blazing.
Fuck... he’s watching—
“You love this.” He grips my throat lightly, not squeezing, just claiming. “Love being full of me.”
“Yes—”
“Say it.”
“I love... your cock.” The admission scalds me. “I’ve wanted it... since Vegas.”
“Since Vegas?” His eyes flash predator-bright. Then he slams upward, nailing my cervix with a brutal precision that—
Oh god!
I shatter into a choked sob. The
“Thirsty fucking girl,” he growls. His palm slams between my shoulder blades, pinning me forward until my breasts crush against his chest.
His hips become a piston. He’s no longer letting me ride, but fucking up into me with jackhammer force. Each upward slam drives the breath from my lungs. My thighs scream, trembling with the effort to stay upright, to take it. I bite his shoulder to muffle cries, tasting salt and sweat.
“That’s it,” he rasps against my ear, hands shackling my waist now. “Take it. Take every inch.” He angles deeper, grinding on the upthrust until I feel him in my throat, in my fingernails, in the roots of my hair.
The pressure isn’t building anymore, it’s detonating. My hips stutter in broken circles, no rhythm left, just raw hungry friction as my vision splinters.
Need... more... please break me...
My fingers rake his back. “Close...” The word rips out jagged. “So close...”
“Not yet.” He stops thrusting brutally. “Wait.”
Torture.
I sob, trembling with restraint. I start moving up and down, unable to control myself, pounding the shit out of his hard cock with my tight little pussy, but his fingers tighten around my waist like a vice.
“I said wait,” he commands.
I stop.
He traces my lower lip. Smiles wickedly. “Now.”
And he starts pounding me again from below. I begin to make an uncontrollable whimpering sound, almost like a coo, a sound that vibrates passionately with each thrust.
And then I shatter. My vision grays at the edges as convulsions rip through me. He holds me down, grinding deep as I pulse around him.
“Two!” The word is ripped from him, harsh with satisfaction.
Before the last tremor fades, he flips me onto hands and knees. The couch cushions scratch my skin. He kneels behind me, one hand fisting my hair, the other spreading me wide.
“Arch that pretty back.” A dark command.
The first thrust steals my breath.
Deeper like this. God... deeper.
He sets a brutal pace, slamming into my G-spot with unerring accuracy. Each drive punches a gasp from my lungs.
Fucking... wreck me... yes yes yes—
His palm cracks against my ass. The sharp pain morphs into liquid heat that pools where we’re joined.
“What’s the count?” He bites my shoulder. “Scream it.”
I can’t. Can barely think. Syllables fracture. “M-Mar... can’t... cuh—”
He fists my hair tighter. “Louder.”
Another slap. Another piston-deep thrust. The coil snaps.
Cumming... ming—
“Three!” he roars as I clamp around him, voice raw. He pumps through my climax, dragging it out until I collapse.
He pulls out. Turns me onto my back. My legs hook over his shoulders before I register the movement. The position opens me obscenely, and his gaze scorches where we’re joined.
“Look at you.” His eyes. Reverent. Ravenous. “Taking me so well. Such a good girl.”
He sinks back in, slow, inexorable, filling me to the hilt. The eye contact is more intimate than anything before. I’m laid bare.
“Last one.” His thumb finds my clit, swollen and throbbing. “Make it filthy.”
He starts a relentless rhythm. Deep, purposeful thrusts that light every nerve. His thumb circles my clit in counterpoint. Overstimulation wars with ravenous need.
Too much... can’t—
Thoughts dissolve. Only sensations remain.
Stretch.
Burn.
Full.
Him.
My hips piston, meeting his thrusts. Sounds spill from me. Guttural, animal.
“Marco Marco Marrrrrcoooo co co co.”
His control fractures. Grunts tear from his chest.
“Gonna cum—” I choke out.
“On my cock.” His order is ragged. “Now.”
The climax hits like a seizure. No warning, just white noise and convulsing muscles. I arch off the couch, mouth open in a silent scream.
“Four!” He slams home, hips jerking as he empties himself into the condom.
We collapse in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs. His heartbeat rages against my ear where my cheek rests on his chest. The air reeks of sex and him. Cedar, salt, and spent lust. His hand drifts lazily down my spine, fingertips tracing the curve of my ass.
Marked. Claimed.
I nuzzle the damp hollow of his throat. “Still think... I’m beautiful?”
His laugh vibrates through me. “More now.” He tips my chin up. “Look at you. Flushed. Used. Perfect.”
Outside, Manhattan hums. Taxis, sirens, the pulse of a city that never sleeps. In my shabby studio, we exist in a bubble of skin and silence.
His fingers trail patterns on my hip.
“You counted,” I whisper.
“Wanted you to know.” His thumb strokes the bite mark on my shoulder. “Every time I wrecked you.”
I trace the ridges of his abdomen. “Five next time?”
He says nothing.
We just lay there, tangled together on the couch. I’m boneless (and well-boned). Not to mention slightly dazed, like I’ve been hit by a truck.
A very pleasurable truck.
Fuck. Will I ever feel this way again with anyone else?
After what seems an eternity, and yet also a heartbeat, Marco shifts, carefully extracting himself. I immediately feel the loss of his warmth and have to resist the urge to pull him back.
Don’t be clingy, Jess. One night, remember?
He stands, disposes of the condom, then crosses to my tiny kitchen. I hear the tap run. He returns with a glass of water and my ratty throw blanket. And a damp cloth.
“Drink,” he says, handing me the glass.
I drink. The water is cold, and grounding. Somewhat. At least my hands are steadier now.
He sits back down, and the tenderness as he cleans between my thighs with the damp cloth almost undoes me. Then he pulls me against him, and drapes the throw blanket over us both. For a moment, we just sit there in the quiet.
His heartbeat is steady under my ear.
I could fall asleep like this.
I could stay here forever.
But I know I can’t.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“Yeah.” I am. Sort of. “You?”
His face darkens. He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Finally: “Yeah.”
We don’t talk about what this means.
We don’t make promises or plans.
We just exist in this moment, this small pocket of time where nothing else matters.
Eventually, he shifts again. “I should let you sleep.”
Translation: I should go.
“You could stay.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He’s quiet for a beat too long. “I can’t. I’m... sorry.”
Right. Of course he can’t. He has a kid at home. Responsibilities. A whole life that doesn’t include random hookups with his best friend’s unemployed sister.
“Okay.” I sit up, clutching the blanket. “Yeah, no, that’s fine. Totally fine.”
He stands, starts getting dressed. I watch him button his jeans, pull on his Henley. Watch him transform back into Marco Fiore, billionaire restaurateur, instead of just Marco, the hot guy with the carved body who fucked me senseless only minutes ago.
“Jess.” He pauses at the door, hand on the deadbolt. “Tonight was—”
“One night,” I interrupt, because I need to say it before he does. “I know. It’s fine.”
Something flickers across his face. Regret maybe. Or relief. Or even guilt. I can’t really tell in the dim light.
“See you around,” he says finally.
“Yeah. See you.”
He unlocks the door. Steps into the hallway. Pauses once more, like he’s going to say something else.
But he doesn’t.
The door closes.
I sit there on my couch, wrapped in my blanket, listening to his footsteps fade down the stairs. I hear the main door open and close. Through the window, I watch him get into the Range Rover. Watch the security vehicle pull away from the curb behind him.
Watch him leave.
My bracelet is still sitting on the counter where I left it. The silver catches the streetlight coming through the window.
I should put it back on. Back to regular programming.
Instead, I pull the blanket tighter and let myself feel everything I’ve been holding back.
The want.
The disappointment.
The stupid, stupid hope that maybe this could’ve been more than one night. That his pillow talk was more than pillow talk.
But of course it wasn’t.
I laugh wistfully, imagining the content I could create from this.
“When you sleep with your brother’s best friend and he ghosts before sunrise.”
A million views, no doubt. Back in my heyday.
But I’m not an influencer anymore, I remind myself.
I’m a no one.
Yes, a no one.
And all I can do is sit here in the dark, file this under “lust and bad timing,” and try not to cry.