Chapter 39 Marcus
MARCUS
Esmerelda is radiant beneath me, flushed and glowing, her skin slick, her body still trembling from everything I’ve already taken from her.
She hums with it, spent but restless, sated yet greedy.
Like me. Like neither of us could ever get enough.
It feels like the memory of almost losing this, of almost losing us, drives us to make up for every moment we went without.
I should stop. Let her breathe. Let her rest.
But then she looks at me. And the way she looks at me is always going to be my undoing. Her eyes are heavy, lashes wet, lips parted, demanding. Not pleading. Not begging. Demanding. A queen who knows she’s mine, and knows exactly how to command me with nothing but a glance.
“Still with me?” I murmur, my lips brushing hers, the words coming out softer than I mean them to.
Her smile is wicked and lazy all at once. “Always. Now don’t you dare stop.”
The way she says it—half threat, half plea—obliterates what’s left of my control.
I move over her, our kiss turning hungry, then I grab her ankles, dragging her in one swift motion to the end of the bed before lifting her into my arms and carrying her to the couch.
I lower her down slowly, sliding her along my body, her heat leaving streaks of pleasure down my torso.
“Quite the dirty girl, aren’t you?” I ask, voice low. “What am I gonna do with you?”
Esmerelda bats her nails against my chest, looking up at me innocently through her lashes. “Wow, I don’t know. Perhaps I should clean it up.”
She scoots off the couch and sinks to her haunches, looking up at me again, forever my temptress, before sliding her mouth over me, licking up the evidence of our fucking.
I grab her wrists and yank her to her feet, spinning her around and leaning her over the arm of the chair.
Trailing my tongue up her back, I taste her salty sweetness.
The taste of her I’ll never be able to get enough of, but knowing her sweat is from our lovemaking drives me to the brink of distraction.
She gazes over her shoulder at me, eyes hooded. “No fair. I was just getting started on tasting you.”
“I know, sweetheart, but believe me when I say I’d be too rough for you right now to ever let that happen.”
“I like it rough,” she sasses.
“Yeah,” I growl, leaning over her. “That much I know.”
I claim her mouth and thrust into her in the same breath. Her gasp gets swallowed by my kiss as I pound into her, hard, relentless, with a punishing rhythm. Her hands splay in front of her, clawing at the couch cushions.
“Esme,” I grit out, voice ragged, “be a good girl and come for me.”
“No.”
My brow furrows. “No?”
“No,” she rasps again, teasing, daring.
I tug on her hair, forcing her to meet my gaze. “And why is that?”
She shoots me a mischievous stare. “Because you won’t ever come before me, and I’m trying to torture you.”
“Is that so? They warned me sex would change after marriage, but I had no idea this is what they meant.”
I smack her ass, and she jolts, clamping down around me. “Looks like someone likes a good smack.”
I do it again, and she pulses tight. I lean in, whispering against her ear, “Joke’s on you, sweetheart. You already came a few times, if I’m not mistaken. So, it’s my turn.”
I pull back to the tip and slam back in. The feel of her clamping down around me sends me right over the edge. The moment I groan that I’m coming in her ear, Esmerelda explodes around me like I’d hoped.
“Fuck, sweetheart. You feel so damn good when you squeeze my cock.”
Her nails drag along the sofa, leaving marks in the fabric. The aftershocks take a while to fade, her pulsing keeping me hard inside her.
“You’re still hard.” It’s a statement, laced with surprise.
“That’s what you do to me.”
“H…how?”
I bend over and kiss her. “Let’s not waste it by questioning things. Let’s make the most of it, shall we?”
“At this rate, I’m going to have to sit on a bag of peas.”
Stilling, I pull out of her, concern etching across my face. “Shit, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Darling, if you don’t want me to hurt you, I suggest you get back inside me.”
I bite my lip, still concerned.
She stands and faces me, hands cupping my jaw. “I want to feel you every time I move tomorrow and know that you claimed me as yours.”
“You are mine.”
“Good. Now show me.”
She pushes me onto the couch and straddles me, facing away.
She swings her hips and settles on me, back to my chest, and gods, reverse cowgirl feels different.
Deeper. The angle tilts just right, so every time she sinks down it drags hard along the underside of me, ripping a groan straight out of my chest. It’s tighter like this, like her body is trying to wring every last drop of control out of me.
I don’t set the pace. She does. She grinds, slow and steady, then snaps her hips faster, harder, chasing what she wants. All I can do is hold on, my hands gripping her hips, watching as her back arches, as her body moves for me and against me all at once.
“Fuck, Esme,” I rasp, my voice rough, breaking apart. “You look so good riding me.”
She lets out a greedy moan, and the sound claws straight through my chest. My head tips back, a curse spilling out.
“You’re killing me,” I groan, dragging my thumbs over the sharp curve of her hips. “Look at you—taking all of me. Fucking perfect.”
She leans forward, grinding deeper, harder, and the sight of her—her back flexing, hair spilling wild, ass bouncing against me—undoes me completely. I reach up, fist her hair, tug her head back so I can see her profile, the flush on her skin, the dazed look in her eyes.
“You want more?” My words come out raw, torn from somewhere deeper than breath. “Then take what you need from me.”
And gods, she does. Every thrust, every groan, every ounce of strength left in me, she takes. But even if she doesn’t I’d give it all to her. Because this position, this moment, isn’t just sex. It’s her claiming me, owning me, riding me into the ground until I’m nothing but hers.
And the brutal, beautiful truth?
I want it that way. Forever.