7. Violet #2
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't think it was a big deal?—"
"Not a big deal?" His voice rises. "He was all over you, blocking your car?—"
"I was handling it," I insist.
Vincent laughs, but there's no humor in it.
"By letting him follow you around? By being polite when you should have told him to fuck off?"
The accusation stings.
"I did tell him I'm seeing someone?—"
"And did you tell him who?" Vincent demands.
"No, of course not. I can't exactly announce I'm with my stepfather?—"
The word makes Vincent's anger spike higher. I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the tight line of his mouth.
"So as far as that boy knows, you're available."
I'm frustrated now too, my own temper rising.
"What do you want me to do, Vincent? I can't tell people about us!"
"I want you to make it clear you're taken. I want other men to know you're off-limits."
"I tried! He didn't listen!"
Silence falls again, heavy and charged. The rest of the drive passes without another word.
Eventually, Vincent pulls into the garage at his house—our house—and we both get out. The tension follows us inside, crackling in the air between us.
We enter through the garage door into the kitchen. The moment it closes behind us, Vincent grabs me.
His kiss is bruising, punishing, claiming. His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back hard enough to make my scalp sting. The sharp pain makes me gasp against his mouth, and his tongue invades immediately, taking what he wants.
"Mine," he growls against my lips.
Before I can respond, he spins me around with rough hands. Bends me over the kitchen counter, pressing me down until my cheek meets the cold granite. I should protest. Should tell him to slow down.
Instead, I arch my back, presenting myself to him. Daring him with my body to take what he needs. To claim me the way his jealous fury demands.
"Do it," I whisper. "Show me I'm yours."
The words unleash something in him. His hands yank down my jeans and panties roughly, dragging them to my knees in one aggressive motion. The denim burns against my skin as he strips me.
"Vincent—"
"Shut up."
The command is harsh, brooking no argument. I hear his belt buckle jangling, his zipper lowering. Then the thick head of his cock presses against my pussy, demanding entry.
I'm not ready. Not wet enough yet. It burns when he shoves inside, stretching me before my body can adjust.
"Ahh—"
The cry tears from my throat. More surprise than pain, but it still stings for the first few seconds as he forces his way in.
Vincent doesn't ease up. Doesn't give me time to adjust or catch my breath. He fucks me hard immediately: brutal thrusts that drive my hips into the counter edge with each powerful stroke.
This reminds me of Paris. Of the night Vincent saw that old man looking at me at dinner and took me roughly against the hotel window afterward. But this is different. Rougher. More possessive. More desperate.
One hand presses between my shoulder blades, holding me down. The other grips my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You," I gasp.
"Say it properly."
"I belong to you, Vincent."
He pounds into me harder.
"That's right. Not that boy at your college. Not anyone else. Me."
The possessive fury in his voice makes my pussy clench around him. My body starts responding despite the rough treatment. Growing wetter. Accepting him easier.
"He looked at you like he wanted to fuck you," Vincent growls.
"I don't want him—ahh?—"
I moan as he hits deep, the angle punishing.
"I know you don't. But he doesn't. So I'm going to fuck you so hard you can't walk straight tomorrow, and every boy at that college will know you're taken."
His crude words send arousal flooding through me. I push back against his thrusts, meeting him.
"Harder," I beg.
Vincent obliges. Fucking me brutally against the kitchen counter. The sound is obscene: skin slapping, my cries, his harsh breathing.
He reaches around, finds my clit, rubs it roughly. The combination destroys me.
"Vincent—oh fuck—I'm?—"
"Come."
The order sends me over the edge.
"Vincent!"
I scream his name, my pussy clenching hard around his cock. The orgasm tears through me, violent and overwhelming.
Vincent follows immediately. Driving deep and holding there. His cock pulses, filling me with his cum.
We stay frozen. Him buried inside me. Me bent over the counter. Both gasping for air. I moan needily as Vincent withdraws slowly. His cum leaks out, running down my inner thigh. I'm trembling, my legs barely supporting me.
He pulls up my panties and jeans gently, then turns me to face him. I'm crying slightly. Not from pain, but from emotional overwhelm. From the intensity of his possession.
"Violet."
His voice is softer now. The anger burned out, replaced by something else. Possessive tenderness.
He cups my face, wipes my tears with his thumbs.
"I'm sorry. That was too rough."
I shake my head.
"I liked it."
"Still. I lost control."
He kisses my forehead. Gentle now. Then lifts me easily, carrying me upstairs to the master bathroom.
He runs a bath, adds bath salts, helps me undress. Settles me in the warm water, then strips and joins me.
I sit between his legs, my back to his chest. His hands wash me gently. Soap on my skin. Shampoo in my hair. The care is such a contrast to the rough sex minutes ago.
"I don't like other men looking at you," Vincent admits quietly.
"I know."
"I don't like that I can't tell everyone you're mine."
"I know," I repeat.
His hands pause on my shoulders.
"That boy touched you. Put his hand on your arm. I wanted to break it."
I'm quiet, processing the intensity of his jealousy. It should probably worry me. This level of possessiveness isn't normal, isn't healthy.
But instead it makes me feel secure. Wanted. Claimed.
I want to be his. I want his possessive claim on me.
"I'm yours," I say softly. "Only yours."
Vincent's arms tighten around me.
After the bath, Vincent orders dinner. Neither of us feels like cooking. We eat Thai food in the living room, curled together on the couch.
We watch a movie, but I'm not paying attention to the screen. Vincent's hand stays on me possessively the entire time. My thigh. My hip. The back of my neck.
Constant reminders that I belong to him.
Around eleven, I announce I'm going to bed. Vincent nods, tells me he'll be up soon. He has work emails to finish.
I go upstairs to my room, get ready for bed. Put on a thin nightgown, brush my teeth, climb under the covers.
I fall asleep quickly, exhausted from the emotional day.
I wake to sensation. Hands on my body. My nightgown pushed up around my waist.
I'm disoriented, still half-asleep. Confused.
"Shh." Vincent's voice in the darkness. "It's just me."
I make a confused sound. Not quite awake.
He's in bed with me, his body covering mine. I feel his cock pressing against my entrance. Thick and hard.
"Vincent?" I murmur drowsily.
"Shh. Stay relaxed. Let me in."
He pushes inside me slowly. I moan softly. My body is still loose from sleep, accepting him easily.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Stay sleepy. Just feel me."
I float in a strange state. Aware of what's happening but not fully conscious. My body responds automatically. Growing wet. Inner muscles clenching around him.
But my mind is foggy. Dreamy. Not quite present.
Vincent fucks me slowly. His body weight presses me into the mattress. Each thrust deep and measured.
"So fucking perfect like this," he whispers. "Half-asleep, taking my cock so well."
I make soft sounds. Quiet moans. Sleepy sighs.
The experience is surreal. Intensely erotic. I'm present enough to enjoy it, but drowsy enough that I can't quite process everything.
Vincent's hands are everywhere. My breasts. My hips. Between my legs, finding my clit.
The pleasure builds slowly. A gradual tide.
"Come for me, baby."
The endearment is new. Unexpected. It makes something warm bloom in my chest.
My orgasm washes over me. Gentle. Rolling. Like waves.
"Ahh..."
I sigh, my body tensing then relaxing. Vincent follows soon after, coming inside me with a quiet groan.
He stays on top of me. Inside me. Both of us catching our breath.
"Go back to sleep," he whispers, pulling out gently.
Moonlight streams through my bedroom window, and with it, I saw that for the first time, he's choosing to stay in my bed all night instead of retreating to his own room. The possessive claim. The territorial statement.
I'm already drifting off. Barely conscious. I feel Vincent settle beside me, his arm around my waist.
My last semi-conscious thought: I love him. I love belonging to him.
Even his jealousy, dangerous as it is, makes me feel wanted. Cherished. Claimed.
I fall back into genuine sleep with the warmth of his cum inside me.