23. Marcus #2
My hands move slowly, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine.
I slide one palm under the hem of her shirt, my fingers stroking the soft, warm skin of her lower back.
She sighs into my mouth, a soft, contented sound that makes my chest ache.
This isn't a race to a finish line; it's a slow, deliberate discovery.
"Marcus," she whispers against my lips, her hands tightening in my hair.
I pull back just enough to look at her, to see the lamp light reflected in her dark eyes. "I'm right here."
With a careful tenderness that feels more intimate than any frantic touch, I ease her shirt upward. She lifts her arms without hesitation when I reach for the hem of her shirt. A few weeks ago, I would have noticed the movement. Tonight, I notice the trust behind it.
My gaze drifts over her, taking in details I've noticed before but never allowed myself to linger on. The soft lace. The rise and fall of her breathing. The faint flush spreading across her skin beneath my attention.
For a second, all I can do is look at her.
"You're so beautiful," I say, and the words feel inadequate for the reality of her.
A faint blush colors her cheeks, but she doesn't look away when I look at her. The realization catches me off guard. There was a time when every step between us felt negotiated, every moment balanced on the edge of an argument neither of us wanted to have.
Now she's simply here, choosing this.
"You're still dressed," she says.
I smile, a slow, deliberate curve of my lips. "A tactical error on my part."
Her eyes sparkle with amusement. "Fix it."
I don't need to be told twice. I make quick work of my own shirt, tossing it aside, then reach for my belt. The buckle clinks softly in the quiet room as I pull it free and let it fall across the back of a chair.
Her eyes follow every movement, dark and intent, and the heat in her gaze is a heady thing.
I hold her stare as I unfasten my pants and push them down, stepping out of them without looking away. By the time I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my boxers, her breath has gone noticeably slower.
The look she gives me is enough to make my pulse kick harder.
When I lower myself back over her, skin to skin, we both groan at the contact.
It's a slow, deliberate friction, a promise of what's to come.
My mouth finds hers again, deeper this time, more certain.
I kiss her until we're both breathless, until the only sounds in the room are the soft, wet noises of our mouths and the frantic beating of our hearts.
My hand drifts from her back to her front, my fingers tracing the edge of her bra. I can feel the hard nub of her nipple through the lace, and I circle it slowly, teasingly, until she's arching into my touch, a soft, needy sound escaping her throat.
"Marcus, please," she gasps.
"Please what?" I murmur, my mouth trailing down her jaw, to the sensitive skin of her throat.
"Don't tease."
I smile against her skin. "Where's the fun in that?"
But I'm not immune to her pleas. I reach behind her, my fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp before it gives way. I slide the straps down her arms, tossing the bra aside. My breath catches. Not because I haven’t imagined this since the last time.
My imagination never accounted for the reality of her, the trust in her eyes, or the way she watches me without hesitation.
I lower my head, taking a breast into my mouth. I suckle gently, my tongue swirling around the nipple, my hand coming up to cup and knead the other one. Sloane moans, her back arching off the couch, her fingers tangling in my hair, holding me to her.
I lavish attention on her, switching sides, giving each breast the same slow, deliberate treatment until she's writhing beneath me, her hips rocking in a silent, desperate plea for more.
I can smell her arousal, a sweet, musky scent that drives me wild. I want to taste her.
I kiss my way down her body, my lips tracing a path over her stomach, her hips, her thighs. I hook my fingers in the waistband of her skirt, tugging it down, followed by her panties, until she's completely bare before me.
I settle between her thighs, my hands spreading her open as I take her in.
The sight of her nearly undoes me—not because of how badly I want her, though God knows I do.
It's the way she's looking at me. A few weeks ago, every step between us felt uncertain, balanced on the edge of a fight neither of us knew how to stop having.
Now there's no hesitation in her gaze. No doubt.
No second-guessing. Just trust. Just certainty.
And somehow that feels far more dangerous than desire ever did.
I look up at her, my eyes locking with hers. "Is this okay?"
She nods, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Yes. God, yes."
I lower my head, my tongue flicking out to taste her. She's sweet and salty, a taste that's uniquely Sloane. I groan, the sound vibrating against her. I explore her slowly, my tongue tracing her folds, circling her clit, but never quite touching it.
She's panting now, her hips rocking, trying to get me where she wants me most. "Marcus, please," she begs. "Stop teasing."
I smile, but I give her what she wants. I close my mouth over her clit, sucking gently, my tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
She cries out, her body bowing off the couch, her orgasm hitting her hard and fast. I don't stop, licking her through it, prolonging her pleasure until she's a trembling, whimpering mess beneath me.
When she finally comes back to herself, I crawl back up her body, my mouth claiming hers in a deep, possessive kiss. She can taste herself on my lips, and the thought sends a fresh wave of arousal through me.
Every instinct tells me to rush, to grab hold of this moment before the world finds a way to take it back.
A few months ago, I probably would have.
I would have mistaken urgency for certainty and control for security.
But that's not what this is. Not anymore.
With Sloane, I'm learning that wanting something doesn't mean I have to hold it so tightly I leave bruises behind.
I slide my hand along her cheek, holding her gaze before I reach for my wallet, my fingers fumbling for the foil packet I keep there. I rip it open with my teeth, rolling the condom on with a speed that betrays my desperation.
I settle back between her thighs, my cock nudging at her entrance. I look down at her, my eyes searching hers. "Are you sure?"
The answer matters. Maybe more than anything else tonight.
She reaches up, her hand cupping my cheek. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
I push into her slowly, inch by inch, savoring the feeling of her stretching around me, accommodating me.
She's warm and impossibly welcoming around me, and for a second, the sensation steals every coherent thought from my head.
Not because this is new. Because it isn't. Because somehow it feels different anyway.
When I'm fully seated inside her, I still, giving her a moment to adjust. I look down at her, at the woman who has turned my carefully constructed world upside down, and I feel a wave of something so powerful, so overwhelming, it almost scares me.
Love.
It's a thought for another time. Tonight, there's only this.
I start to move, a slow, deep rhythm that builds pressure deep inside me.
Each movement feels like its own kind of conversation, one built from trust instead of words.
I hold her gaze as we move together, and for the first time in a very long time, I don't feel the need to control where any of this leads. I just want to be here with her.
The pace quickens, the control shattering, until all that’s left is the sound of our bodies meeting, our ragged breaths, and the whispered fragments of each other's names.
The tension coils tighter and tighter at the base of my spine, a white-hot pressure building until I can't hold it back anymore.
"Sloane," I groan against her neck.
Her body tightens around me, and for a second everything else falls away.
The city, the company, the endless pressure of always looking three steps ahead—none of it matters.
There's only Sloane in my arms, her breath against my skin, her voice in my ear, and the overwhelming certainty that this is exactly where I want to be.
The release hits hard enough to steal the breath from my lungs, but it's the look on her face that stays with me. The certainty. The trust. The simple, impossible fact that she's here.
I bury my face against her neck as the last of it rolls through me, her name rough in my throat and my arms tightening around her like I still can't quite believe she's real.
For a long time afterward, neither of us speaks.
I lie against her on the couch, my body spent and my heartbeat still refusing to settle completely.
The office remains quiet around us, while beyond the windows the rest of the world continues exactly as it did before. Apex still exists. Problems still exist. Nothing has magically fixed itself.
But with Sloane in my arms, I find myself believing something that would have sounded impossible a few weeks ago.
Everything is going to be okay.