Chapter 7
"Your turn. Come for me. Now."
He slams into me three more times—hard, brutal, proprietary—and then he breaks with a guttural "Fuck—clear," his cock pulsing deep in my ass, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades.
We collapse into a tangle of limbs and sweat. Three people breathing like they've run a marathon.
The security monitor still glows on the table, showing empty corridors everywhere except this room.
I'm the first to move. I pull off Diego, wincing at the sudden emptiness, and reach for Marcus's patrol tablet.
My fingers are sticky. The screen smudges.
"Unit 14—Enhanced check," I murmur, typing with steady thumbs. "All clear."
I submit it. The log pings. 01:17. Permanent record.
Diego dresses in stunned silence, pulling his shorts up with shaking hands. He pauses at the door, looking back at me with something between awe and terror.
I give him a small nod. He slips out. The corridor swallows him.
Marcus stays, still sprawled on my bed, his pants undone, his chest heaving. His dark eyes track me as I stand, unsteady, and pull my tank top back down.
"You're rewriting my protocols," he says.
I bend down, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Just getting started."
I can feel his semen sliding down my inner thigh, mixing with Diego's, a wet trail that soaks into the hem of my shorts. The word SECURED is still faintly visible on my skin, two days faded.
I'll make him write it again tomorrow.
For now, I walk to the bathroom on trembling legs, and when I glance back, Marcus is still sitting there—security chief, stepfather, the holder of every key—watching me with the stunned devotion of a man who just realized he's no longer the one in charge.
The next morning, I pass him the clipboard at the medical leadership breakfast.
My mother is mid-sentence about hydration protocols, her reading glasses perched on her nose, a half-eaten grapefruit going pink on the table. I slide the clipboard across the white linen.
"Physio report for your review, Chief. Patient S requires nightly therapy. I'm recommending mandatory sessions." I point to the bottom of the page with my pen. "Access code is S-cum."
Marcus's coffee cup cracks. A hairline fracture splits the ceramic, brown liquid seeping onto the saucer.
"Marcus?" My mother looks up. "Everything all right?"
"Too much caffeine." I answer for him, smiling. "I was just telling him the same thing. Wired all night."
He sets the cup down carefully. His knuckles are white.
When my mother returns to her grapefruit, his eyes find mine and hold—a silent, furious promise.
—
At 14:00, he's installing a new security camera in the common room. Elena is assisting, holding the mounting bracket while he feeds wire through the ceiling panel.
I walk in, spot the camera's wide-angle lens, and bend to tie my shoelace directly in its line of sight.
My tank gapes forward. The camera's red light blinks.
"Got it," Marcus says, his voice clipped. "Elena, you can let go."
I straighten up, catch his expression—murderous, aroused, a man being slowly dismantled by his own desire—and walk out without a word.
—
At 22:47, he corners me in the stairwell.
I'm heading back from the physio bay, still in my polo and track pants, when his hand closes around my arm and yanks me through the fire door. The concrete wall hits my back.
His body pins me there, one forearm braced across my collarbone, the other hand already working my waistband down.
"You want me to lose my job." His voice is a growl against my ear, the words hot and ragged. "Bending over in front of the camera. In front of your mother. You think this is a game?"
"No." I gasp as his fingers find me bare, already wet. "I want you to admit you'd rather lose your job than stop fucking me."
He doesn't answer with words. He spins me around, bends me forward with my palms flat against the cold concrete wall, and kicks my ankles apart.
His belt buckle clanks. The blunt head of his cock presses against my opening, and then he thrusts in—one brutal, bottoming-out stroke that forces a raw cry from my throat.
His hand clamps over my mouth. The other grips my hip hard enough to bruise.
The stairwell is freezing. My nipples are hard points scraping the rough wall.
He fucks me from behind in a standing sprawl, each drive punching a wet, obscene sound from my body.
The friction is savage—my wetness barely enough to ease the stretch, each stroke dragging against my inner walls.
I can feel him in my cervix, a deep, dull pressure that borders on pain and tips into something molten.
"All those notes," he grunts, pistoning into me. "Your little coded messages. The log entries. You've been playing with me since the first night."
I moan against his palm. My thighs tremble.
The wet slap of his pelvis against my ass echoes up the concrete shaft.
"I checked the intranet this morning," he continues, not slowing. "You left me a message at 07:42. 'Unit 14 therapy window approved—23:59 hours.' You're scheduling your own patrol visits now. You're running security."
I bite the inside of his hand. He thrusts harder.
"Say it," he growls. "Say you're running this."
I wrench my mouth free, gasping. "I'm running this. I'm running you. Your cock, your patrol, your log—all of it. Now let me come."
His thumb finds my clit, grinding circles against the swollen nub. The stairwell air is cold and thin, the concrete biting my palms, and the orgasm crashes over me in brutal, clenching waves.
I scream into his palm, my cunt spasming around his cock, my knees buckling.
He fucks me through it, then pulls out. Hot pulses stripe across my lower back, my ass, the bunched fabric of my track pants.
His groan echoes up the stairwell, raw and wrecked.
We stand there panting. His release drips down the back of my thigh. The fire door remains closed. The stairwell remains empty.
After, as I'm pulling my pants up with shaking hands, I ask, "Have you ever erased a camera feed?"
He's tucking himself in, not looking at me. "The stairwell footage is on a three-minute loop every night at midnight. Has been since the first patrol."
I stop. Stare at him. "You've been planning this since the first patrol."
He nods once. "Since the moment you looked at me and said 'only you have the master key.' I knew I'd need the blind spots."
"So all those cameras you installed—"
"Some of them aren't recording what the log says they're recording." He buttons his fly, straightens his polo. His voice is steady now, the security chief returning to his body.
"The one in the common room? Wide angle misses the lower three feet of the frame. You bent over in the perfect spot."
I laugh—a breathless, disbelieving sound. "You built me blind spots."
"I built us blind spots." He cups my jaw, his thumb smearing the sweat on my cheek. "Don't forget who gave you the key to start with."