Chapter 19
19
CLAIRE
“ W here am I sleeping?”
Marcus didn’t answer right away.
He stood in front of me, still in that damn suit, his tie loosened, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the hard ridges of muscle beneath. He had one hand braced against the wooden beam of the old Dane house, his blue eyes scanning me like he was already imagining exactly where I should be.
Like he already knew.
Heat licked up my spine, settling low in my stomach. Because I knew, too.
“Stay here,” he said finally, his voice rough. He disappeared down a hall, shoes barely making a sound against the creaking floorboards. I heard a door open, something rustling, and then he was back, tossing a worn black Metallica T-shirt toward me.
I caught it, glancing down at the faded cotton, the edges slightly frayed with time. The scent of him clung to it—clean, masculine, something darker beneath.
“From your room?” I asked, arching a brow .
Marcus leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Yeah. Teenage me had excellent taste.”
I smirked, holding it up. “Was teenage you built like a linebacker, too?”
His lips curved slightly, gaze flicking over me in that slow, consuming way that made my skin prickle. “Not quite.”
Curious, I slipped it over my head, letting the soft fabric fall into place. It wasn’t oversized like I expected—it fit snug, clinging to my breasts, hugging my waist.
I smoothed my hands over the hem, feeling the way it skimmed my bare thighs, the only barrier between me and Marcus’s dark, hungry stare. The silver dress still hung on my frame, loose now, straps slipping from my shoulders where I hadn’t fully removed it.
I felt the heat of his gaze trace every inch of exposed skin.
Marcus’s voice was low, rough. “Take the dress off.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
I met his eyes, slow and deliberate, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was barely holding himself back.
“You could help me,” I murmured, tilting my head in challenge.
Something dangerous flashed across his face, but he didn’t move. “I want to watch.”
The air between us crackled, thick with something neither of us could ignore.
I dragged my hands up, sliding my fingers under the straps of my dress, pushing them down, inch by inch. The fabric whispered over my skin, cool against the heat spreading through me. It pooled at my waist, baring my shoulders, my collarbones, the swell of my breasts beneath the too-tight cotton of his shirt .
Marcus’s throat worked, his restraint razor-thin.
I let the dress fall lower, past my hips, down my thighs, until it finally slipped to the floor in a shimmer of silver fabric.
Now it was just me, standing in Marcus Dane’s childhood home, wearing nothing but his old T-shirt and the heat of his stare.
No heels. No panties. Just his shirt.
Marcus exhaled harshly, his control splintering.
I smoothed my hands down the hem. “I could grab something from my suitcase,” I murmured.
Marcus moved fast. One second he was leaning against the frame, the next he was in front of me, fingers twisting around the bottom of the shirt, toying with the fabric.
“No,” he said, voice low. “I like you better like this.”
My breath caught.
His fingers skimmed my thigh, teasing, deliberate, and the shift in the air was instant. The exhaustion, the adrenaline crash, the weight of the night—it all burned away, leaving only this. Only him.
I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. “You think you get a say in what I wear?”
His smirk was slow, dark. “You want to argue about it?”
No. Not even a little.
Marcus didn’t wait for permission. He reached for me, fingers slipping beneath the hem of the T-shirt, dragging it up just enough to bare my thighs, my hips. His knuckles brushed my stomach, a ghost of a touch, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
“You’re not wearing anything underneath,” he murmured, his voice shifting, going darker.
I bit my lip. “You knew that already. ”
His hands flexed against my skin. “Yeah,” he admitted. “But it’s different now. Now it’s just you. No party. No dress. No distractions.”
Just me. Just him. Just this sharp, electric thing between us that neither of us could fight.
I let him lift the shirt higher, baring me completely. I should have felt exposed, vulnerable—but all I felt was his. His hands on me, his eyes devouring me, the rough pads of his fingers dragging over my stomach, my hips, my thighs.
“Marcus,” I whispered, a plea, a challenge—both.
He dropped to his knees.
My breath stalled.
I had expected him to lift me, pin me against the wall, take what he wanted. But this?
This was worship.
His fingers wrapped around my thighs, gripping, spreading, his mouth ghosting over my bare skin. He didn’t dive in right away—no, he took his damn time, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of my thigh, his breath warm and teasing.
I dug my fingers into his hair. “Stop teasing.”
He looked up at me, wicked amusement flashing in his features. “You’re in my house. My rules.”
I’d been in his house earlier—Dominion Hall, with its looming presence, its corridors steeped in secrets. But this was different. That fortress had been built for power, for strategy, for control. This place—the old Dane house on Sullivan’s Island—felt raw. Real. It wasn’t curated for appearances or intimidation. It was lived-in, worn by time and weather, shaped by something far more personal than empire-building.
And that made it more dangerous .
Because Dominion was Marcus’s battlefield. But this? This felt like his past. His bones. His breath.
I didn’t have time to argue.
His mouth was on me, hot, slow, devastating.
A sharp gasp tore from my throat as he licked into me, soft at first, a slow stroke designed to drive me insane. His hands tightened on my hips, holding me in place as he worked me open, each flick of his tongue sending pleasure shooting through me.
I trembled, thighs threatening to close, but he just pushed them wider, pinning me against the wall with nothing but his mouth and the slow, relentless pace of his tongue.
“Marcus,” I moaned, trying to grind against him, trying to get more.
His grip tightened. “I said, my rules.”
Then he sucked my clit into his mouth, hard, and my vision whited out.
Pleasure slammed into me, my body shaking, every muscle pulling tight as he drove me toward the edge. He didn’t let up, didn’t slow—just kept eating me like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to break me completely.
And then, just as I was about to shatter, he did something unexpected.
He dragged his teeth over me.
Not enough to hurt—just enough to make me snap.
A strangled cry ripped from my throat as I came, pleasure crashing through me so hard I almost collapsed. Marcus caught me, hands strong, steady, guiding me through it.
By the time he pulled away, I was shaking. He looked wrecked—his mouth slick, his pupils blown, his breathing uneven .
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like a fucking devil.
“Still want to argue with me?” he murmured, voice deep and wrecked.
I didn’t hesitate. I dropped to my knees in front of him, fingers already working at his belt.
His smirk faltered.
“Claire—”
I looked up at him through my lashes, slow and teasing as I pulled his zipper down. “My turn, Dane.”
His breath caught, hands flexing at his sides.
I tightened my fingers around him, stroking once, slow and firm. “And I don’t play by your rules.”
And then I took him into my mouth.
This time, I was the one making him lose control.
I kept my grip light, my fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, my tongue flicking over the head just to taste him. He was hot, thick, pulsing against my palm, his whole body vibrating with restraint. I could feel it—the way he was barely holding himself together, the way his muscles tensed.
I met his gaze as I slid my tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough, wrecked. His hands flexed in my hair, like he wanted to guide me, but he was fighting it—letting me do this my way.
Good.
Because I planned to take my time.
I sucked him in, hollowing my cheeks, taking him deeper, letting my nails trail lightly along his thighs as I set a slow rhythm. I could hear his breath quicken, feel the way his body coiled, could taste the salt of his skin as I worked him over, inch by inch .
Marcus let out a ragged groan, his fingers tightening in my hair. “Claire.” My name sounded delicious on his lips.
I hummed around him, just like I had below Dominion Hall, sending a shiver through his whole body. Then I pulled back, lips slick, breath warm as I dragged my mouth along his length, teasing him with just the edge of my tongue. “Something wrong, Dane?” I murmured, stroking him, slow and firm.
He growled, dark and dangerous. “You’re playing with fire.”
I smirked. “And?”
His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back, forcing my gaze to his. “And I don’t fucking burn alone.”
Before I could respond, he moved.
Fast.
One second, I was on my knees, the next, I was flat on my back on the old wooden floor, Marcus looming over me, his hands braced on either side of my head. The Metallica shirt had ridden up, baring my stomach, my thighs, leaving me completely exposed beneath him.
I let out a sharp breath, but I wasn’t scared. No, I was turned on as hell.
I licked my lips, watching his eyes track the movement. “Gonna do something about it?”
A wicked grin flashed across his face. He reached between us, palming himself, lining up. “You have no fucking idea.”
He thrust into me, deep and slow, filling me to the hilt, stretching me open.
I gasped, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as he started to move. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t careful. He fucked me like he wanted to claim every inch of me, like he wanted me to feel him for days .
And I did.
Every stroke, every drag of his cock, every rough sound he made against my skin—it was all fire, all consuming, all him.
My nails raked down his back, my hips lifting to meet every thrust, the friction sending sparks through my veins. “Marcus?—”
His hand shot between us, his thumb finding my clit, pressing just enough to make me see stars. “Come for me,” he rasped, voice dark, demanding.
And fuck, I did.
Pleasure crashed through me, sharp and sudden, my whole body seizing around him as I shattered. Marcus groaned, his thrusts turning erratic, his breath hot against my neck as he chased his own release.
A heartbeat later, he tensed, his grip tightening, a rough curse tumbling from his lips as he came, buried deep inside me.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Just the sound of our ragged breathing, the distant crash of waves outside, the heat of his body pressing me into the floor.
Then Marcus lifted his head, his dark gaze locking onto mine, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
I smirked, running a slow hand down his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. “So, about where I’m sleeping …”
He chuckled, low and rough, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face. “With me.”
I arched a brow. “That wasn’t a request, was it?”
His lips quirked. “No.”
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t argue. Because honestly? I didn’t want to be anywhere else.