2. Marcus #2
The not-knowing exactly what happened makes it somehow more erotic.
By the time my last class ends at four, I'm practically vibrating with anticipation. I drive back to Marcus's villa faster than I should, my hands gripping the steering wheel tight.
His villa comes into view through the trees—modern architecture, all glass and clean lines, private and secluded. I use my key to enter. He gave me one months ago, another small claim I didn't fully understand until now.
I find him in his home office, sitting behind his massive desk. He stands as I enter, moving around to face me.
Marcus at forty-seven is devastatingly handsome in ways boys my age could never match.
He's tall and powerfully built at six-foot-five, his presence commanding even in the relaxed setting of his home office.
Black hair with striking silver streaks at his temples catches the afternoon light.
Intense gray eyes pin me in place as I approach.
He's wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing strong muscles and the edge of intricate tattoos at his wrists. I know those tattoos cover his chest and arms in patterns I've only glimpsed. His neatly trimmed beard frames a strong jaw, silver streaks matching his hair.
He looks like power personified. Authority and control in every line of his body. The age difference between us is visually obvious and thrilling.
His gray eyes track every movement as I cross to him. He doesn't speak immediately, just looks at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The silence stretches, charged with everything unspoken between us.
"How are you feeling?"
The question is loaded with multiple meanings. Physical. Emotional. Do I regret what happened.
"Sore." My voice comes out steadier than I expected. "But good."
I see his jaw tighten, his hands flex at his sides. He takes a step closer, bringing him within arm's reach.
"We need to talk about last night."
I interrupt before he can continue down whatever path his mind has taken. "I wanted it. I planned it. You didn't do anything I didn't ask for."
"You were unconscious?—"
"I consented before. That message was explicit permission."
The tension between us charges the air. We're standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact with him. I can see the conflict in his expression—desire warring with responsibility, wanting warring with what he thinks is right.
He forces himself to articulate what we both know. "I'm your stepfather."
My response is immediate. "You're my mother's ex-husband. You divorced five years ago. We're not related by blood."
"I was married to your mother. I helped raise you?—"
"You were never my father." I cut him off firmly. "You were the man who made my house feel safer when I was a kid. But you're not my father, Marcus. You never were."
The use of his first name instead of any paternal term emphasizes my point. I've never called him dad or any variation. Always Marcus, even when he first married my mother.
He seems both relieved and troubled by this distinction. His hand reaches out, cupping my face with surprising gentleness for such a large man. "You're twenty years old. I'm forty-seven. Do you understand what people would think?"
I lean into his touch, covering his hand with mine to keep it against my cheek. "I don't care what anyone thinks. I know what I want."
"Maisie—"
"I've wanted this. Wanted you. For months now." My voice is steady despite my racing heart. "Last night was just me finally acting on it."
The air between us shifts from confrontational to charged with desire. His thumb brushes across my lower lip. My tongue darts out, tasting his skin. He makes a rough sound in his throat, control visibly fraying.
His other hand grips my hip, pulling me against him. I can feel his hardness through his dress pants, proof that he wants me as much as I want him. The physical evidence sends heat flooding through my body.
Marcus leans down, his lips hovering just above mine. "Tell me you understand what we're doing. What this means."
"It means I'm yours." My breath mingles with his. "It means you claimed me last night, and I'm claiming you right back."
He kisses me then, deep and possessive. This is the first time we've kissed and it's overwhelming. His tongue invades my mouth, one hand fisting in my hair. I moan against his lips, pressing closer, trying to eliminate any space between our bodies.
His hands roam with clear intent. One cups my breast through my shirt, thumb finding my nipple and circling until it hardens. The other grips my ass, pulling me harder against his erection. I can feel every inch of him through our clothes.
My hands explore him too, running up his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt. The raised texture of his tattoos is evident even through the fabric. I want to see them fully, trace every line with my tongue.
We break the kiss, both breathing hard. Emboldened by desire, I ask what I've been dying to know. "Tell me what you did last night. I need to know everything."
His voice comes out rough, deep with arousal. "I took your virginity while you were asleep, exactly like you asked me to."
The explicit confirmation sends heat flooding between my legs despite the soreness. His hand slides down, pressing against me through my jeans. The pressure makes me gasp.
"I watched you sleep." His gray eyes bore into mine. "Undressed you. Touched every inch of you. Then I fucked you, and you moaned my name even unconscious."
"I did?"
He nods, his expression dark with possession. "You moaned 'Marcus' while I was inside you. Your body knew who was claiming it, even asleep."
"Oh God?—"
The doorbell rings.
Marcus freezes, his jaw clenching in visible frustration. The doorbell rings again, more insistently. Then pounding on the door, hard enough that I hear it clearly from the office.
A woman's voice, shrill and furious, cuts through the villa. "Marcus! I know you're in there! Open this fucking door!"
My eyes widen in shock. "That's my mother."
Marcus's expression hardens immediately, all the heat replaced with cold control. His hands drop from my body though his eyes promise this isn't over.
"Marcus! Where's Maisie? Her car is here! I need to talk to her!"
More pounding, violent enough that I worry she'll damage the door.
Marcus straightens his shirt, runs a hand through his hair to compose himself. "Stay here."
But I follow him toward the front door anyway. I'm not hiding.
He opens the door to reveal Dorothy Fletcher in all her fury.
She's in her late forties, attractive but harsh in her features.
Blonde hair styled too perfectly, makeup immaculate despite the obvious anger.
Expensive clothes that scream trying too hard.
Her green eyes—the same shade as mine—are sharp with suspicion and rage.
Her gaze immediately goes to me standing behind Marcus. "What are you doing here? You told me you were staying at campus this week."
Accusation clear in every syllable.
I lift my chin, meeting her anger with defiance. "I changed my mind. I'm allowed to visit my stepfather."
Dorothy's eyes narrow, looking between us. I can practically see her mind working, trying to find something wrong in the picture we present. "This is inappropriate. You're spending too much time here."
Marcus's voice is cold, controlled. "She's twenty years old, Dorothy. She can visit whoever she wants."
"Don't tell me what my daughter can do."
"She's an adult. You don't control her anymore."
Dorothy's laugh is bitter, brittle. "Is that what you think? That she's some independent woman now?" She focuses on me. "You're coming home with me. Right now."
My rebellion surfaces immediately. "I'm an adult. I can do whatever I want. I can see whoever I want."
"You think you're so grown up?" Dorothy's voice drips with condescension. "You're a child playing with fire. He's manipulating you, can't you see that?"
Anger flares hot in my chest. "I'm not a child! You can't control me anymore!"
"Maisie—" Marcus's voice cuts through my rising fury.
I turn to look at him, expecting support. But his expression is firm, authoritative in a way that makes my stomach drop.
"Go with your mother."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "What? No?—"
"Maisie." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Go."
It's the same voice he probably used when I was younger, commanding and absolute. Something in me responds automatically despite my desire to refuse. I want to argue, want to tell Dorothy to go to hell and stay here with him.
But something in Marcus's gray eyes gives me pause. This isn't the time for this fight.
Dorothy looks vindicated, grabbing my arm. "Let's go."
I pull free from her grip but move toward the door. Every step feels wrong. I look back at Marcus, confusion and hurt clear in my expression.
He gives me an almost imperceptible nod—trust me.
The silent communication offers small comfort but doesn't erase the sting of being sent away. Dorothy practically drags me out of the villa. I get into my own car, her following in hers. As I drive away, I look in the rearview mirror.
Marcus stands in his doorway, watching us leave. His expression is unreadable but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides.
Confusion wars with hurt in my chest. Why did he send me away? Why didn't he fight for me? But underneath those questions runs an undercurrent of trust. He has a reason. He must have a reason.
The soreness between my legs is a constant reminder of what we shared. Whatever game he's playing, whatever strategy he's employing by sending me with Dorothy, it doesn't change the fundamental truth.
I belong to Marcus now. And one way or another, I'm coming back to him.