Chapter 2
I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, still in the same tank top and cotton shorts from last night, because I knew he would come. The door swings inward before I can stand.
Marcus fills the frame—black polo stretched across his shoulders, utility belt riding low on his hips, the master keycard still pinched between his fingers.
"Room check," he says.
Not a question. Not a request.
His eyes sweep the room once, professionally, and then land on me and stop moving.
"Come in, I guess." My voice comes out steadier than my pulse.
He steps inside and lets the door click shut behind him. The handheld security monitor glows at his hip, its screen showing a grid of corridor feeds.
Empty hallway. Empty stairwell. Empty everything except Unit 14 and the security chief standing three feet from my bed.
He's supposed to verify no contraband. No extra guests.
No unauthorized personnel. Standard first-night protocol. Instead, he looks at my bare legs, my hardened nipples visible through the thin cotton, and something in his jaw tightens.
"You've got to keep this door sealed." His voice is gravel. "Anyone could walk in."
"Only you have the master key." I plant my palms on the mattress behind me and lean back, letting my tank ride up an inch. "So the only person walking in is you."
He doesn't deny it.
He walks a slow circuit of the room instead—past the bolted-down desk, past the empty closet with its three regulation hangers, trailing one finger along the edge of the dresser. His boots make no sound on the industrial carpet.
When he pauses near the foot of my bed, the fine hairs on my arms lift, every nerve ending straining toward him.
"So I'm on the patrol log now?" I ask.
He taps the tablet screen. "Unit 14, room check—" His thumb hovers over the submit button. "All clear."
"All clear," I repeat. My thighs shift, a whisper of friction.
"Is that what you're going to write every time you come in here?"
His eyes cut to me. Dark brown, almost black in the dim light. "Every time," he says.
The air between us thickens, charged with the thing we're not saying. I can smell him—cedar and the faint metallic tang of the radio static, the same scent that filled my head last night while I fucked my own hand to the sound of him pounding my mother through the drywall.
"Look at me," I say.
He already is.
"No, Marcus. Look at what you're checking."
I hook my fingers into the waistband of my shorts and drag them down my thighs, lifting my hips to peel them off completely. The cotton is damp at the gusset, and I let him see it.
I spread my knees wide on the mattress, bare from the waist down, my pussy already glistening in the low light.
He makes a sound—not a word, a rumble from somewhere deep in his chest, like the noise he made through the wall when he came. His knuckles go white around the security tablet.
"You're supposed to be checking for curfew violations," I say. "So check."
One second passes. Two.
Then he sets the tablet on the desk, screen up, the empty corridor feeds still scrolling. He crosses to the bed in two strides.
One knee dips onto the mattress, his weight tilting me toward him, and his hand cups me between the legs—no hesitation, no preamble, his palm pressing flat against my cunt.
"Fuck," he breathes.
I'm soaking. I've been soaking since the lock beeped.
His fingers slide through my wetness, spreading my lips apart, and I gasp at the sudden, rough contact.
"This what you wanted?" He works two thick fingers inside me, knuckles deep, no gentleness. "Been wet all day thinking about me coming through that door?"
"Yes." The word tears out of me. I'm gripping his forearm, nails digging into muscle.
His fingers curl inside me, finding a spot that makes my hips buck. "Yes, I wanted—"
"I know what you wanted." His thumb finds my clit, pressing hard circles against the swollen nub. "I heard you last night."
The words hit my bloodstream like a drug. He heard me.
Through the same wall that delivered his grunts and my mother's screaming climax, he heard my fingers working, my desperate grinding into my own palm.
"I heard every wet sound you made," he says, voice dropping to a growl. "While I was fucking my wife, you were on the other side rubbing your pretty little cunt. You think I didn't know?"
I can't answer. His fingers piston faster, three now, stretching me open, and the wet sliding sound fills the room—the same sound I heard through the drywall but now it's me, my body, my slickness drenching his hand.
"Say it," he commands. "Say you were touching yourself."
"I was touching myself." The admission comes out broken, half-moan. "I heard you fucking her and I couldn't—I couldn't stop—"
"You're not supposed to stop." He pulls his fingers out abruptly and I whimper at the emptiness. "You're supposed to come on my hand. Right now. I want to feel it."
His fingers plunge back in, rougher, and his thumb works my clit with punishing precision. The pressure builds low in my belly, heat coiling tighter and tighter.
The security tablet on the desk flickers—a motion alert in Corridor B, someone walking past a camera three sectors away, but neither of us looks.
"I'm close," I choke out. "Marcus, I'm—"
"Do it." His free hand clamps over my mouth, muffling my cry. "Come on my fingers. Now. Let me feel you."
The orgasm hits me like a wave—a clenching, shuddering release that ripples through my whole body. I bite down on the inside of his palm, my hips grinding against his hand, my cunt spasming around his fingers while he holds me through it, growling low approval against my temple.
When the spasms stop, he withdraws his hand slowly. His fingers glisten with my wetness.
He raises them to his mouth and licks them clean, one by one, holding my gaze the entire time.
"Room check complete," he says, voice ragged around the edges. "All clear."
I'm still sprawled on the bed, thighs trembling, tank top twisted around my ribs. He reaches down and adjusts himself through his cargo pants—the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric, unmistakable.
"Aren't you going to—" I start.
"No." The word comes out hard, almost angry. "Not tonight. Not yet." He picks up the tablet, thumb swiping across the screen to log the entry.
"I'm going to walk out this door and finish my patrol, and you're going to lie here and think about what just happened. You're going to think about what's going to happen tomorrow night when I come back."
"When you come back," I repeat, breathless.
"I'll be back every night. Same time." He bends down, one hand braced beside my head, and presses his mouth to my ear. His breath is hot, his voice a gravel rasp that vibrates straight down to my still-throbbing cunt.
"Keep your door sealed. I don't want anyone else finding a reason to open it. You're my room to clear now—just mine."
He straightens up, wipes his wet fingers on his pant leg, and crosses to the door. The keycard beeps.
The lock clicks. He pauses in the threshold, looking back at me—naked from the waist down, flushed, wrecked, completely his.
"Tomorrow," he says. "You're going to show me everything."
The door closes behind him. The corridor light blinks once under the surveillance cameras he controls.
I hear his boots moving away, steady and unhurried, the patrol rhythm resuming like nothing happened.
I lie still for a long moment, my pulse hammering in my throat, my thighs sticky, the phantom pressure of his fingers still buried inside me. Then I reach down and touch myself again—wet and swollen and already hungry for more.
Tomorrow. He said tomorrow.
I press my fingers inside where his were, chasing the echo of him, and I don't bother muffling the sound I make. There's no one to hear me through the wall tonight.
My mother is sleeping in her own suite, two corridors away, and Marcus Delgado is logging "All Clear" into a permanent record that will show him standing in Unit 14 at exactly 22:00, and she will never once think to wonder why.