3. Marcus #3
Her second orgasm builds rapidly, her body responding to my dominance. My hand moves from her throat to her clit again, rubbing it roughly while continuing to pound into her.
"I'm going to—Marcus—please?—"
"Come. Come on my cock right now."
The command triggers her release. She comes hard, screaming my name. "Marcus—fuck—yes?—"
Her pussy clamps down on my cock like a vice. The sensation pushes me over the edge. I bury myself as deep as possible, my cock pulsing as I come.
"Fuck—Maisie?—"
My cum floods her pussy, hot and thick. I hold her tight against me, both of us shaking through our climaxes. My hips continue to pulse, making sure every drop is inside her.
We collapse forward onto the bed. I barely manage to take my weight on my arms so I don't crush her. I'm still inside her, both of us breathing hard.
After a moment, I carefully pull out. Watch my cum leak from her well-fucked pussy—a sight that sends another wave of possessive satisfaction through me. Roll us both to our sides, pulling her back against my chest. My arm wraps around her waist, holding her close.
We lie in silence for several minutes, both recovering. Finally, Maisie speaks, her voice soft. "That was..."
"Better than the first time?"
She laughs breathlessly. "I was unconscious the first time. I don't exactly have a comparison."
My hand splays possessively across her stomach. "You have a comparison now. And there's going to be many more times for you to compare to."
She turns in my arms to face me. Her green eyes search mine. "What happens now? With my mother?"
My expression hardens. "You're not going back there."
"She's not going to let this go. She'll cause problems."
"Let her try. You're an adult. She has no legal standing to keep you away from me." My hand cups her face. "I meant what I said. You're mine now. I'm not giving you up because Dorothy doesn't approve."
"You understand what people will think if they find out? Your ex-wife's daughter?"
"I don't give a fuck what people think. Do you?"
The blunt question hangs between us. Maisie considers, then shakes her head. "No. I don't care what anyone thinks. I just want to be with you."
I pull her closer, my voice firm. "Then that's settled. You stay here. With me. Where you belong."
We eventually move to the shower, washing each other with growing familiarity. I note every mark on her body—the faint bruises on her hips where I gripped her, the redness between her thighs. Possessive satisfaction at marking her.
After the shower, we dress in comfortable clothes. I make dinner—revealing a domestic side that seems to surprise her—and we eat together at the kitchen island. The normalcy of the routine contrasts sharply with the intensity of what happened earlier.
"I need to get my stuff from her house," Maisie says between bites. "My clothes, my laptop, textbooks."
"We'll go tomorrow. Together."
"She won't let us in."
"She will. Or I'll have a locksmith change the locks on the house I'm still paying the mortgage on." The reminder that Dorothy lives in property I technically own carries weight.
Maisie blinks. "I didn't know you still owned the house."
"The divorce settlement gave her residence rights, but the deed's still in my name. She seems to forget that detail." I take a drink of water. "What's your class schedule this week?"
"Tuesdays and Thursdays I have morning classes. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays I'm done by noon."
"I'll drive you when I can. Other days you take your car but you come straight back here after. No stopping by Dorothy's. Understood?"
She nods, then smirks slightly. "You're very bossy."
"You're just now noticing?"
The moment of lightness is interrupted by her phone ringing on the counter. Dorothy's name flashes on the screen. Maisie's entire body tenses, looking to me uncertainly.
I nod. "Answer it. But on speaker."
Maisie picks up the phone, hitting the speaker button. "Hello?"
Dorothy's voice comes through sharp as glass. "Where are you? You didn't come home from campus."
Maisie takes a breath. "I'm at Marcus's. And I'm staying here."
The explosion is immediate. "Absolutely not! Maisie, you come home right now!"
My deep voice cuts in. "She's not coming back, Dorothy."
"You have no right—she's my daughter?—"
"She's twenty years old. An adult. She makes her own decisions."
Maisie's voice strengthens. "This is my choice, Mom."
"You don't know what you're saying. He's manipulated you?—"
"Stop it. Just stop." Maisie's frustration breaks through. "You don't get to control my life anymore."
Brief pause, then Dorothy's voice turns cold. "You're making a mistake. And when this all falls apart, don't come crying to me."
The line goes dead. Maisie stares at the phone, emotions warring across her face. I pull her into my arms, her back against my chest.
"You did the right thing."
She leans into me but doesn't respond. The tension of the call lingers, but I feel her gradually relax. My stepdaughter is exactly where she belongs—in my home, in my arms, mine in every way that matters.
Dorothy can rage all she wants. It won't change the fundamental truth.
Maisie is mine now. And I'm never letting her go.