2. Marcus
MARCUS
I surface slowly from sleep, consciousness returning in gradual waves.
The first thing I notice is the softness beneath me—sheets far more expensive than anything I own, high thread count that feels like silk against my skin.
Then the scent hits me, distinctly masculine, distinctly Marcus.
Cedar and sandalwood and something darker, more primal.
My eyes flutter open to morning sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. This isn't my room. The space is massive, all clean lines and minimalist luxury. Marcus's master bedroom.
I'm alone in his bed.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:15 AM.
I'm wearing one of his t-shirts, soft cotton that falls to mid-thigh and smells exactly like him.
The fabric brushes against my bare skin as I shift position, and that's when I feel it—a deep, persistent ache between my legs that makes my breath catch.
Memory crashes back. The sleeping pills. Positioning myself in his bed wearing almost nothing. The unsent message on my phone, explicit permission for him to use my unconscious body however he wanted.
My hand flies between my legs, pressing against myself through the t-shirt. The soreness is immediate, undeniable. I suck in a sharp breath as reality fully registers.
He actually did it. My stepfather took my virginity while I was asleep.
I sit up carefully, every movement making me acutely aware of the tenderness. My muscles protest, unfamiliar aches in places that have never been touched before last night. I pull back the covers with shaking hands and lift the hem of Marcus's shirt.
Small dried bloodstains on my inner thighs. Evidence.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The draft message is still there, unsent, exactly as I left it as my invitation to him. But there's a new text from Marcus sent at 6:30 AM.
Had to leave early for work. We need to talk when you get home. -M
The formality of the message contrasts sharply with the intimacy of what happened between us. The careful distance in his words makes my stomach flip, but not with regret. With anticipation.
I lie back against his pillows, staring at the ceiling, taking inventory of my body. The soreness feels like a claim, proof that I belong to him now. No regret touches me, only satisfaction and a growing arousal that makes the ache between my legs pulse with heat.
I wanted this. Planned this down to the last detail. And he gave me exactly what I asked for.
Getting out of bed takes effort. My legs are slightly unsteady as I stand, muscles protesting the movement. I make my way slowly to his en-suite bathroom, taking in the space I've only glimpsed before. All marble and chrome, another massive window overlooking the private grounds of his villa.
I catch sight of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and freeze.
My hazel eyes look bright despite the early hour, pupils still dilated.
My brunette hair is completely disheveled, tangled from sleep and from what happened before that.
But it's the marks on my neck and throat that make me gasp—dark hickeys I don't remember him leaving, visible proof of his mouth on my skin.
I look claimed. Marked. Exactly like I belong to someone.
The shower is scalding hot, and I welcome the burn. Water hits sensitive areas and makes me wince, but I stand under the spray anyway, letting heat work into sore muscles. My hands shake slightly as I wash myself, feeling the tenderness between my legs with every movement.
Marcus married my mother when I was ten years old, this tall, commanding presence who entered our house and changed everything.
Dorothy had always been controlling, emotionally abusive in subtle ways that left no visible marks.
But Marcus became a refuge. He never tried to replace my late father, never demanded I call him dad.
He was just... there. Steady. Safe. Someone who made the house feel less suffocating.
The divorce five years ago felt like losing my protector.
I was fifteen, devastated when he moved out.
But the arrangement let me visit him, and as I got older, something shifted.
I started noticing him differently after my twentieth birthday three months ago.
More accurately, I noticed him noticing me differently.
The way his gray eyes would track my movements across a room. How his jaw would tighten when I wore something revealing. The careful distance he maintained, like he didn't trust himself too close to me.
The attraction was mutual, electric, completely forbidden.
And I've been deliberately pushing boundaries ever since—the revealing clothes, the lingering touches, the excuses to be close to him.
Last night was just me finally taking control, giving him explicit permission to act on what we both wanted.
I turn off the shower and dry myself carefully, every movement a reminder. I dress in clothes I left at his place—jeans and a fitted top—and walk gingerly down the stairs to his kitchen. The soreness between my legs is persistent, undeniable. I'm hyper-aware of every step.
A note waits for me on the kitchen counter beside a travel mug of coffee.
Drink this. Take it easy today. Come straight home after your classes. We have things to discuss. -M
The command in his tone, even written, sends heat flooding through me. I pick up the coffee and take a sip—cream, no sugar, exactly how I take it. He remembers. Of course he remembers. Marcus notices everything.
I finish the coffee standing at his kitchen counter, looking out at the perfectly manicured grounds of his villa. This place has become more home than my mother's house ever was. The realization settles in my chest with warm certainty.
I leave for Westbridge University around eight, driving my modest used car through the exclusive gated community where Marcus lives.
The morning traffic is light, but I barely notice.
My mind is full of him—wondering exactly what he did while I was unconscious, imagining his hands on my body, his cock inside me.
The realization hits me with fresh force: he took my virginity. I'll never have another first time with anyone else. And instead of regret, I feel possessive satisfaction.
Westbridge University sprawls across perfectly maintained grounds, all Gothic architecture and old money prestige.
I park in my usual spot and walk carefully across campus, acutely aware of every step.
Students mill around between classes, conversations and laughter filling the air.
Everything feels surreal, like I'm moving through a different world than I left yesterday.
My morning lecture is American Literature, a class I normally love. Professor Harrison discusses Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter," themes of forbidden desire and societal judgment. The irony is not lost on me. I sit in my usual seat near the back and try to focus, but it's impossible.
My mind constantly drifts back to Marcus. Wondering what he did. How he touched me. The feeling of him inside me that I can't quite remember but can feel the aftermath of in every movement.
The possessiveness of knowing he was the first, the only.
I shift in my seat for the hundredth time, the soreness a persistent reminder. Heat floods my face as I imagine his hands on my body while I was unconscious. My breathing quickens despite my attempts to control it.
"Miss Fletcher?"
Professor Harrison's voice cuts through my distraction. I look up to find the entire class staring at me.
"I asked what you thought about Hester's relationship with Dimmesdale."
My face burns hotter. "I... the power dynamic is complicated. He has authority over her, but she chooses him anyway. Despite the consequences."
Professor Harrison nods slowly. "Interesting interpretation. Though one could argue she had little real choice given the societal constraints."
I don't respond. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I check it under the desk, hoping for a message from Marcus. But it's just a notification from some app. Disappointment crashes through me.
When class finally ends, I gather my things quickly. A male voice stops me near the door.
"Hey, Maisie."
Tyler approaches with that easy smile he's been giving me for weeks. He's attractive in a conventional college-boy way—athletic build from intramural sports, dirty blond hair, blue eyes. Probably twenty-one or twenty-two. Several of my classes have him in them, and he's made his interest obvious.
"Want to grab lunch? We could study together for the exam next week."
I look at him and feel absolutely nothing. He's a boy. Marcus is a man. The difference is so stark it's almost laughable.
Tyler's interest feels juvenile compared to the intensity of what I have with my stepfather. Boys who ask permission and worry about exams don't compare to a man who commanded me to come straight home, who took what I offered without hesitation.
"I can't. I have plans."
Tyler's face falls slightly but he recovers fast. "No problem. Maybe another time?"
"Maybe."
I watch him walk away and realize with absolute certainty that I have zero interest in anyone my own age now. Marcus has ruined me for boys who don't know how to command, possess, dominate. The age gap that should make our relationship more forbidden actually makes it more appealing.
The rest of my classes pass in the same distracted blur.
I check my phone constantly. No new messages.
The waiting is torture. I replay the memory of last night—taking the sleeping pills knowing they'd knock me out completely, positioning myself in his bed, the mix of nerves and excitement as the medication pulled me under.
I have fragmented sense-memories from last night, nothing concrete. The feeling of being touched, moved, penetrated. A deep ache that might have been pain or pleasure. My own voice moaning something I can't quite recall. Strong hands on my body, holding me down or holding me close.