4. Maura #2
The sound seems to surprise both of us.
"Convenient," I repeat, still grinning. "That's one word for it. I was thinking more along the lines of 'deeply problematic' or 'the subject of several future therapy sessions.'"
"Probably both." His face doesn't change, but his voice carries that hint of amusement again. "But it worked."
"It worked?" I turn to face him fully, which means the sheet has to shift to accommodate the movement. The fabric slips slightly, and I catch it before it falls, but not before I notice his eyes track the movement. "You consider tonight a success?"
"You're here."
Two words. Simple, direct, completely without embellishment. But the weight behind them makes my breath catch. Not you chose to come with me or you didn't call the police or even you let me help you. Just you're here, like that's the only metric that matters.
"I'm here," I agree, and my voice sounds different. Softer. Less guarded. "Wearing your sheet on your balcony at four in the morning, having a conversation about stalking techniques that should probably horrify me but somehow doesn't."
"Should I be concerned about your self-preservation instincts?"
"Probably." The sheet slips again, and this time I don't catch it quite as quickly.
The fabric settles lower across my chest, and I can feel his attention like heat against my skin.
"But my self-preservation instincts have been pretty useless so far.
They kept me in a studio apartment with broken locks instead of asking for help.
They had me managing a medical condition alone instead of telling anyone what was happening.
Maybe it's time to try something different. "
"Different how?"
The question is quiet, careful, like he's aware we're approaching something that could go in several directions.
The space between us has somehow gotten smaller without either of us consciously moving.
Close enough that I can see the details of the tattoos across his chest, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
"Different like trusting someone who's already seen everything anyway." My hand moves without conscious direction, fingertips barely brushing the ink over his heart. His skin is warm and solid and real under my touch. "Different like not pretending I don't want things I'm not supposed to want."
His reaction is immediate and visceral—a low growl that starts deep in his chest and vibrates through the air between us. The sound does something to me that I don't entirely understand, something that makes the ache between my legs shift from soreness to want so fast it almost dizziness.
"What things?"
His voice is rougher now, and he's moved closer without me noticing. Close enough that the sheet is brushing against his stomach, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"Things like this." My fingers spread against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under the ink. "Things like not caring that this is probably the worst decision I've ever made. Things like wanting you to kiss me again even though I can barely walk from the first time."
The growl comes again, lower and more dangerous. His hand rises to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with surprising gentleness for such large fingers.
"You want me to kiss you."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."
"Even though you're sore."
Heat floods my face at the blunt acknowledgment, but I don't look away. "Especially because I'm sore."
That does it. Whatever restraint he's been exercising snaps so audibly I swear I can hear it.
His mouth crashes down on mine, hard and demanding and completely without the careful exploration of earlier.
This kiss is possession, pure and simple.
A claiming that makes my knees weak and my grip on the sheet falter.
His free hand fists in the fabric at my hip, holding me steady as he kisses me like he's making a point. Like he's proving something to both of us about want and choice and the way two people can fit together even when logic says they shouldn't.
I kiss him back with equal intensity, my hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders. The sheet is barely holding on now, kept in place more by his body pressed against mine than by any effort on my part.
The air is warm against my skin, but it's nothing compared to the heat of him, the solid reality of his chest against mine and his mouth demanding everything I'm willing to give.
The kiss tastes like midnight and promises and the kind of hunger that doesn't diminish just because it's been fed once. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming space like he claimed everything else tonight—completely, without apology, like he has every right to be there.
I can taste my own desperation in the way I respond, the way my body arches into his despite the soreness, despite the voice in the back of my head trying to point out all the reasons this is insane.
But that voice is getting quieter with every second his mouth moves against mine, drowned out by the much louder voice that's been waiting twenty-one years for someone to want her this badly.
His hand slides from my face to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as he angles my head to deepen the kiss. The sheet finally gives up its tenuous grip on physics and slides lower, caught only by the press of our bodies together.
The growl vibrates against my lips when he feels the fabric give way, a sound of pure masculine satisfaction that makes heat pool between my legs despite the tenderness already there.
His mouth moves more urgently against mine, like the feeling of skin against skin is driving him past the point of careful control.
I can taste the promise of what comes next in the way he kisses me—not gentle, not patient, not willing to wait for a more appropriate time or place or circumstance.
His mouth moves like a man who's spent months imagining this exact moment and now that it's real, he's going to take everything he can get.
The kiss deepens further, becomes something consuming and necessary, like breathing.
His hands grip me tighter, pulling me flush against him until there's no space left between us, until I can feel every inch of his chest against mine and the hard evidence of his want pressing into my hip through thin sweatpants.
This is what I wanted without knowing I wanted it—to be kissed like I'm necessary, like the man doing the kissing might actually die if he has to stop.
To feel desired so completely that everything else—logic, propriety, the voice trying to remind me this started with stalking—becomes irrelevant background noise.
His mouth moves against mine like he's sealing something between us, making promises with his tongue and his teeth and the way his hands hold me like he's never letting go.
The sheet slips from my fingers the second his mouth claims mine again. Cool night air hits my bare skin, but his hands are already there, large palms sliding down my sides like he’s mapping what belongs to him now.
My stomach meets the railing as he turns me, the stone pressing cool and unyielding into me while his chest molds to my spine.
His breath ghosts hot against my ear. “This is what you wanted. Out here where anyone could see if they got close enough. My stepdaughter bent over for me.”
The words should shock me. Instead my thighs clench, a fresh rush of wetness making me shift. One of his hands drops between my legs from behind, thick fingers parting me without warning.
The groan that tears from his throat vibrates straight through my shoulder blade.
“Fuck. Soaking already. This pussy knows who it belongs to.”
Two fingers push inside me, stretching the soreness from earlier into something sharper, fuller. My grip tightens on the railing until my knuckles ache. The stretch burns in the best way, reminding my body exactly how he felt the first time.
He pulls his fingers free. Fabric rustles, then the blunt, thick head of his cock nudges against my entrance. My breath stalls.
“Mark—”
“Quiet.” His voice drops lower, dangerous. “You’re going to take every inch while I put a baby in you. Right here on my balcony where the whole damn city can watch.”
He drives forward in one slow, relentless push. The fullness punches the air from my lungs.
My mouth falls open on a silent cry as he bottoms out, hips flush against my ass, stretching me so wide I feel him in my throat. The railing digs harder into my ribs. His hands lock onto my hips, fingers digging in like brands.
“That’s it. Take my cock like the good little girl who let her stepfather milk her tits and fuck her raw.
” He pulls back, slams in again, setting a brutal rhythm that makes my breasts bounce.
“Gonna fill this tight pussy until it takes. Until you’re round with my baby and everyone knows exactly who knocked you up. ”
His teeth sink into the soft curve where my shoulder meets my neck, the sharp bite of enamel grounding me even as pleasure spikes through every nerve.
It’s not enough to break the skin, but the pressure blooms hot and possessive, forcing my inner walls to clamp down around his thick cock.
The sting radiates outward, mixing with the relentless stretch of him buried so deep inside me that I swear I can feel him pressing against the back of my ribs.