Chapter 5 – Blue #2
An hour later, Andre comes in and tosses a stack of take out flyers on the table to order food for supper.
I ignore them all and keep my eyes on the screen.
In the van, I had my steel walls. I had my cramped, cold reality to keep me sharp.
Here, surrounded by all the comforts of a home, with three men who look at me like I’m the only meal on the menu they want to eat, I feel exposed.
I finish the encryption protocol and slam my laptop shut, needing a minute without their eyes on me.
"I need a shower," I announce, standing up.
"Master bath is all yours," Damon mutters without looking up, though the tips of his ears turn pink like he’s imagining me naked in that shower.
I grab my bag, the one with the few clothes and toiletries I packed and head for the bedroom. I close the door, but I don't lock it. My hand hovers over the knob, finger pointed at the little button to engage the lock but then it falls away as I step back.
Why didn't I lock it? Because you’re a liar, Demi.
You don't want a lock between you and them. I groan in annoyance at myself and strip off my clothes, kicking them into a corner. I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and frown at how pale and tired I look plus my deep red hair is a mess from being under that horrible wig all day. But inside my body is buzzing. The adrenaline of the reunion, the caffeine, the sheer proximity of them, it’s all pooling low in my belly.
I step into the massive walk-in shower and turn the water on hot.
Steam fills the glass enclosure almost instantly.
I grab a bar of soap that smells like sandalwood and start scrubbing, trying to wash away the last six weeks of loneliness.
But I can’t wash away the memory of them.
Of how it felt to be claimed. To be owned.
When I hear the bedroom door open, my heart hammers against my ribs.
I don't turn off the water or cover myself as I stand there with water sluicing down my back, and wait. The bathroom door opens and through the steam-fogged glass, I see a silhouette that I know is Marcus. He stops at the glass door and makes no move to come in. He just watches with all the desire he’s feeling for me in his eyes.
"You didn't lock the door," he says, his voice raised just enough to be heard over the spray.
I turn slowly to face him fully, all resistance gone.
I did say we could fuck, right? And that’s exactly what I need right now.
I need him to overwhelm all the doubts and fears I have floating through my brain with the ecstasy I know he’s capable of making me feel.
The water plasters my hair to my skull, runs in rivulets over my breasts and down my stomach.
I place my hand on the glass handle and push the door open.
"I didn't want to," I tell him, my voice steady.
Marcus’s eyes darken, his pupils blowing wide. He scans me, taking in every inch of wet skin, every curve. He looks like he’s starving, and I’m the feast.
"We promised," he says, his voice rough. "No pressure. Professional merger."
"We can fuck and still be professional on the job," I snap, stepping out of the shower. I don't reach for a towel as I walk straight up to him, stopping inches away. I’m soaking wet, dripping onto the tile, and he’s fully dressed in his jeans and a tight t-shirt.
"You said I was yours, Green. You said you’d chase me.
Well, you caught me. Now what are you going to do about it? "
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Not Green...Marcus. No more colors Demi. This is the real us now."
"Don't you dare go soft on me," I warn him, reaching out to grip the front of his shirt.
I yank him forward, hard. "I spent six weeks in a freezing van thinking about your mouth between my legs.
I spent six weeks hating you and wanting you at the same time.
I need to feel that again. I need you… Marcus. "
A growl rips from his chest. His restraint snaps like a dry twig. He grabs my hips, his fingers digging into my wet skin, and slams me back against the bathroom wall. The cold tile shocks my water heated skin, but his body is a furnace against my front.
"You want real?" he growls, his face inches from mine. "I’ll give you real."
He crushes his mouth to mine. It’s not a gentle kiss, it’s a collision of teeth and tongue and desperation.
He kisses me like he wants to breathe for me, like he wants to consume me whole.
I moan into his mouth, wrapping my legs around his waist as he lifts me effortlessly.
This. This is what I missed. The chaos. The fire and the way they can make me burn.
He carries me out of the bathroom, not breaking the kiss until he throws me onto the massive bed. He follows me down, his weight settling between my thighs, heavy and perfect.
"Say it," he demands, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. "Say you missed this. Say you missed me."
I glare up at him, my chest heaving. I shouldn't give him the satisfaction. I should keep my walls up. But looking at him, seeing the raw need in his eyes that mirrors my own... I can't lie.
"I missed you," I whisper. "I missed your stupid dimples and your dirty mouth."
He grins, that wicked, boyish grin that ruins me. "Good."
He reaches down and rips his t-shirt over his head in that sexy way guys can, tossing it aside. "Now let me remind you exactly why you came back."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He dips his head and latches onto my breast, his tongue swirling over my nipple, and I arch off the mattress with a cry that is equal parts relief and surrender.
His mouth is hot, wet, and relentless. He sucks the sensitive peak into his mouth, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity through my body.
My hands tangle in his hair, gripping the short strands, trying to pull him closer, deeper.
"Fuck, you taste good," he groans against my skin, the vibration of his voice humming through my chest. "Better than I remembered. Sweeter."
He moves lower, his tongue tracing a wet, scorching path down my sternum, over my stomach. His hands are everywhere, kneading my hips, squeezing my thighs, leaving hot brands on my skin that I know will turn into bruises tomorrow. I want them. I want to look in the mirror and see his mark.
"Please," I gasp, my hips bucking involuntarily as his breath ghosts over the curls covering my pussy.
"Please what, Demi?" He looks up, his hazel eyes dark, pupils blown so wide the gold flecks are swallowed by black. That cocky, dimpled grin is back, but it’s edged with a predator’s hunger. "Please stop? Please go?"
"Please fuck me," I demand, my voice breaking. "Stop playing."
"Oh, I’m not playing, baby. I’m worshipping."
He grabs my thighs and shoves them wide, settling further between my legs. He doesn't dive in. He just looks. He stares at my pussy like it’s the only thing worth seeing in the world, his gaze heavy and starved.
"Look at you," he whispers, reaching out to drag a thumb through my slick folds. He pulls it away, showing me the glistening proof of my need. "So fucking wet. You’ve been leaking for me since you stepped out of that shower, haven't you?"
"Maybe," I hiss, trying to keep my bratty edge, but it’s hard when my entire body is throbbing for more touch, more him.
He chuckles darkly and lowers his head. When his tongue hits my clit, my vision whites out.
There’s no teasing now as he devours. He licks me with broad, flat strokes, humming against my swollen flesh as he tastes me.
My heels dig into the mattress, my head thrashing back and forth.
It’s too much and not enough. I need friction. I need weight.
"Marcus!" I moan his name loudly, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.
He sucks me hard, one last punishing pull that has me sobbing, then rears back leaving me gasping for more. He reaches for his jeans, shoves them down, and frees his cock. It’s thick, angry, and leaking pre-cum. It bobs with his heartbeat, demanding attention.
"You want it?" he growls, positioning himself at my entrance. The head of his cock rubs against my clit, teasing, taunting.
"Yes," I whimper. "Put it in."
"Tell me who it belongs to."
I glare up at him through my lashes. "It’s mine."
He laughs, a rough, barking sound, and slams into me.
I scream as he stretches me, filling me so completely that for a second, I can’t breathe.
It’s a violation of the emptiness I’ve been living with for weeks.
He fills every hollow space, every crack in my armor.
He holds still for a moment, letting me adjust, his forehead resting against mine, our breath mingling in harsh pants.
"You’re right," he whispers against my lips. "It is yours. It’s always been yours."
Then he starts to move. He withdraws almost all the way, leaving just the tip in, before snapping his hips forward and burying himself to the hilt again. The friction is exquisite agony. My inner muscles clamp down on him, milking him, trying to keep him there.
"Fuck, Demi," he groans, his composure cracking. "You’re so tight. You feel so fucking good."
He picks up the pace, his thrusts getting harder, faster.
The bed frame hits the wall with a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that matches the slapping of our skin.
I wrap my legs around his waist, tipping my hips up, pulling him deeper, grinding my clit against his pubic bone with every thrust. It’s messy.
It’s frantic. It’s not the slow, sensual making love of a romance novel.
It’s two people who have been starving, finally getting fed.
I rake my nails down his back, feeling the ridges of his muscles bunch and flex. He grunts, biting my neck, his hands gripping my hair to tilt my head back.
"Look at me," he commands.
I force my eyes open. He’s watching me, his face twisted in a mask of pure pleasure and possession.
"I’m not going anywhere," he vows, thrusting harder. "I’m right here. Feel me?"
"Yes," I cry out. "Yes, yes!"
The tension in my belly coils tight, a spring ready to snap. I’m close. I’m so close.
"Come for me, baby," he urges, his pace becoming a blur. "Show me how much you missed me. Give me what’s mine. Ruin me with this perfect pussy."
That’s the trigger. The thought of ruining him, of taking him apart the way he’s taking me apart.
My orgasm hits me like a freight train. My body arches off the bed, a scream tearing from my throat as the waves of pleasure crash over me, drowning out the fear, the uncertainty, the plans.
For a few glorious seconds, there is nothing but the perfect pleasure between us.
My muscles have a mind of their own as they clamp down on him more powerfully than I thought was possible and he chokes out a harsh groan before he loses himself to me.
"Demi! Fucking hell!" He shouts my name, driving into me three, four more times, hard and deep, before emptying himself inside me with a guttural roar.
We collapse together in a tangle of limbs and sweat.
His weight is heavy on me, crushing me into the mattress, but I don't push him off.
I hold him closer. I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in the crook of his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him.
For the first time in six weeks, the cold is gone.
The heist can wait. My White Whale can wait. Right now, I just need to burn.