12. Phantom’s Claim
Phantom’s Claim
Maddox
The room is dark, bathed in nothing but slivers of moonlight spilling through the curtains. The house is silent, the kind of hush that only comes in the dead of night.
And she’s right there.
Sprawled out on the bed, tangled in the sheets, her breathing soft and even. Oblivious. Trusting .
I exhale slowly, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way the hem of her sleep shirt has ridden up her thighs, teasing me with flashes of smooth, bare skin. Her scent lingers in the air—warm, familiar, laced with something distinctly her. Vanilla, lavender… and me.
My cock twitches at the memory of what I did earlier. How I lost control, how I buried my face between her thighs and made her come apart on my tongue. How she gasped and whimpered and gave in so easily, so perfectly, thinking I was him.
I should leave.
I already made a mess of myself earlier, coming so fucking hard I saw stars. It should’ve been enough to take the edge off. To keep me satisfied for a little longer.
But it wasn’t.
Not even close.
My fingers flex around the glass bottle in my hand, cool and delicate against my palm. Her perfume.
I found it sitting on the dresser, the cap slightly askew like she’d used it before bed, letting the scent linger on her skin.
I bring it to my nose, inhaling deeply, letting it mix with the natural warmth of the room. The familiar fragrance wraps around me, sinking into my skin, into my bloodstream, as if I could absorb her from the inside out.
I walk over and sit down in the chair by the window, watching her and touching myself with one hand while I bring her perfume to my nose in the other.
I lazily stroke my cock. It’s already stiff again, straining against my ruined boxers, and a sharp inhale slips through my teeth as I work my hand slow and firm.
Fucking insatiable.
My body still remembers the way she clenched around my tongue, the way she tasted on my lips, the way she shook for me. All mine, and she doesn’t even know it yet.
I tighten my grip, leaning back as I bite back a groan. I watch her shift in her sleep, her lips parting slightly, as if she can feel me here. As if, deep down, her body already knows who it belongs to.
I imagine waking her up like this. Sliding beneath the sheets, slipping between her thighs, replacing my hand with her heat.
Sinking into her perfect cunt in one long thrust.
Would she fight it? Would she arch into me like she did before? Would she whisper my name instead of his?
I clench my jaw, my strokes growing rougher, faster, a low growl vibrating in my chest. I look down at the perfume bottle, and a sick thought slithers into my brain before I can stop it.
I smirk, slowing my movements, rolling my thumb over the swollen tip of my cock, smearing precum down my shaft.
What if she carried me on her skin?
Not just in the way she smells.
But deeper.
I let out a harsh breath, my stomach contracting as I squeeze the bottle in my free hand. My mind spins with the idea—of her waking up, getting ready, spraying this perfume on her pulse points.
Unknowingly rubbing me into her wrists, her throat, her collarbones.
A low, guttural groan rips from my throat as the pressure in my spine coils tighter, then snaps. My muscles go rigid, my thighs clenching as heat floods through me in sharp, uncontrollable waves. My cock throbs violently in my grip, and then—I come.
Hard .
Thick ropes spill over my hand, splattering across my stomach as my entire body locks up, jerking once, twice—helpless against the force of it. My fingers crush tight around the perfume bottle, not cracking it, but damn close. The tension coils through every muscle, shaking, brutal, unstoppable. I grind my teeth, the taste of her still lingering, and I don’t fucking stop until every drop is spent. When it’s over, I’m left gasping, feral and wrecked, knuckles aching from how hard I’ve clenched the glass, like it’s the only thing tethering me to the moment instead of storming across the room and taking what’s mine.
Fuck .
The aftershocks roll through me, my skin damp with sweat, my pulse hammering against my ribs. My legs feel unsteady, my chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, but still, I don’t move. I can’t move. Not yet.
Not while she’s right there.
Not while the evidence of my obsession still lingers warm and sticky between my fingers.
I inhale sharply, dragging my hand down my abdomen, smearing the last of my release across my skin. The room feels thick, the scent of sex mingling with her perfume, her warmth—her.
My stomach clenches as my gaze flicks to the bottle in my other hand.
And just like that—that same wicked thought takes root.
I twist off the cap. I should clean up. I should stop.
A satisfied smirk tugs at my lips as I dip my fingers into my own mess and let a few large drops slide inside the bottle, swirling it into the pale golden liquid.
When she wakes up, she’ll have no idea what she’s rubbing into her skin.
But I will.
And every time she touches her wrist, every time she catches a whiff of that sweet, familiar scent, she’ll be wearing me.
Carrying me.
Marking herself as mine .
I let out a slow exhale, setting the bottle back down exactly where I found it.
Then, with one last look at her sleeping form, I step back into the shadows.