5. Violet #2
"I've already seen every inch of you. I've tasted you, fucked you, filled you with my cum. You don't get to be modest now."
His blunt words make my pussy clench with need.
This isn't the first time things have gotten heated between us when we're both awake—there was that night when we've just arrived in Paris, when he'd been so careful with me, so considerate of the fact that he'd just taken my virginity.
He'd held back then, controlled himself, made sure I could handle him.
But now? Now Vincent seems intent on fucking me, and fucking me roughly. There's no holding back this time, no carefulness. Just raw, possessive need.
The realization makes my heart race and my pussy clench with anticipation.
Vincent runs his hands over my body. Breasts, waist, hips, ass. Claiming every inch.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs.
His fingers find my pussy, discover I'm already wet.
"You like this." It's an accusation. "Being displayed. Being claimed."
"Yes," I admit breathlessly.
I hear him unzip his pants. Then the thick head of his cock presses against my entrance from behind.
"Watch," Vincent commands, indicating our reflection.
I look at us in the glass as Vincent thrusts into me in one hard stroke.
"Oh—fuck—" I cry out.
He's so deep from this angle, filling me completely. My body accepts him despite my soreness, my pussy stretching around his thick cock.
Vincent sets a rough pace immediately. Hard, deep thrusts that make my breasts bounce against the glass. One hand grips my hip, the other wraps in my hair, pulling my head back.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You," I gasp.
"Say it properly."
"I belong to you, Vincent."
He pounds into me harder. "That's right. Mine. My girl. My stepdaughter's tight little pussy."
The taboo words make my inner muscles clench around him. I can see everything in the reflection—his powerful body behind mine, the place where we're joined, my face flushed with pleasure.
"Oh God—Vincent—" I moan loudly, not caring who might hear.
The window is cool against my breasts and palms, contrasting with the heat of his body behind me. He changes angle slightly and hits that perfect spot inside me.
"Ahh—ahh—right there?—"
Vincent's hand moves from my hip to my clit, circling roughly. The combination of his cock and his fingers destroys me.
My orgasm builds rapidly, overwhelming.
"Come for me," Vincent orders. "Show me you're mine."
"Vincent—oh fuck—yes—" I scream as I come, my pussy spasming around his shaft, inner muscles milking him.
Vincent groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Fuck—taking it so well—my good girl?—"
He drives deep one final time, his cock pulsing as he fills me with his cum. We stay frozen—him buried inside me, me pressed against the glass, both breathing hard.
Vincent withdraws carefully. His cum leaks down my thighs. I'm trembling, exhausted, completely wrung out.
He lifts me easily and carries me to the bathroom. Starts the shower, adjusts the temperature. Steps in with me, holding me up when my legs won't support my weight.
The warm water is soothing on my aching body. Vincent washes me gently—soaps my skin, washes my hair. The tender care is such a contrast to his earlier roughness.
I lean against him, letting him support me. He pays special attention to cleaning between my legs, where his cum and my arousal mix.
I wince when he touches my pussy. Definitely sore now.
"You need a break tomorrow night," Vincent says firmly.
It's not a question. It's a decision.
I don't argue. I'm tender enough that the thought of more sex makes me wince.
Vincent finishes washing me, then himself. Wraps me in a towel and dries me carefully.
The intimacy of the aftercare makes my emotions overflow. This isn't just physical. It can't be, not with the way he takes care of me.
Vincent carries me to bed and lays me down gently. I'm exhausted, my body aching in the best way. He lies down beside me and pulls me against his chest. His hand strokes my hair, soothing.
"Sleep," he murmurs.
But my mind races despite my physical exhaustion. The truth I've been avoiding crashes over me.
I'm falling in love with him.
This isn't just a forbidden arrangement. This isn't just sex. I want all of him—not just his body, but his time, his attention, his future.
The realization terrifies me.
What if he doesn't feel the same? What if this is just sex for him, just a temporary indulgence before he moves on to someone appropriate?
What happens when we go home, back to real life where our relationship has to stay hidden?
I want to ask him how he feels, but fear keeps me silent.
"Vincent?"
"Mm?"
"Will you be here when I wake up?"
It's not what I really want to ask, but it's all I can manage.
"Yes."
One simple word. It's not a promise of more, but it's something.
I close my eyes, letting exhaustion claim me. But the anxiety remains—a seed of worry about our future.
We have two more days in Paris. Then back to reality.
Vincent's hand continues stroking my hair, the rhythm soothing. I feel safe, cherished, claimed.
But also uncertain about what happens next.
My last conscious thought before sleep takes me: I love him, and I have no idea if he loves me back.