Chapter 4
POV: Marina
He sucked on my clit, slow and deliberate, and fireworks exploded behind my eyelids. My back arched, my fingers gripping the sheets as pleasure flooded me.
“Not God,” he said, voice dark and lazy. “Say my name.”
He licked and sucked again, and whatever self-control I thought I had dissolved into nothing. All my plans to escape evaporated. I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“Brennan,” I moaned.
He held my hips up, his hands firm and controlling, and slid a finger inside me, curling perfectly. My body seized, pleasure crashing over me, my vision going white as I came hard, shaking.
He didn’t stop.
He held me down, his mouth still on me, dragging the pleasure out, licking me through the tremors until I was trembling and gasping.
Then he kissed his way up my body slowly, like he had all the time in the world.
When his eyes met mine, I managed, breathless, “Good morn—”
I didn’t finish.
He thrust into me in one slow, deep motion, stealing the rest of the word and replacing it with a gasp.
“Hope your day will be as good as you feel,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
He moved inside me with deep, deliberate thrusts, like he was imprinting himself into my body, into my memory, into my soul.
“You are perfect,” he whispered, brushing his nose against mine. “You know that, right?”
I couldn’t answer.
My nails dug into his back and into his neck, leaving marks, but I didn’t care. The pleasure was bigger than shame, bigger than logic, bigger than consequences.
“Brennan, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said, his hand sliding down to my throat, thumb brushing my jaw, not choking—just controlling. “Take me. Feel me. Stay with me.”
My body shattered again. I cried his name, loud and unfiltered, as another orgasm tore through me. He followed, groaning into my mouth, kissing me like he needed me to breathe.
We collapsed together, tangled and sweaty.
He pulled me into his chest, tracing lazy circles along my arm, his touch soft and possessive. The intimacy of it made my chest ache, like something fragile inside me was breaking open.
My body still warm, my mind still spinning.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” I murmured.
I regretted it.
I didn’t regret it at all.
He was still tracing lazy circles on my arm, his touch possessive and soft in a way that terrified me.
“Yes, we should have,” Brennan said immediately.
I looked up at him.
There was no doubt in his voice. No hesitation. Just certainty.
He leaned down, brushed his lips over mine once—slow, deliberate—and then pulled away.
“Come on,” he said, already rolling out of bed. “I’m making you breakfast.”
He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the floor, pulled them on without even looking back, and walked toward the kitchen like this was the most natural thing in the world.
I stayed there, heart pounding.
What was I supposed to do?
Leave?
Stay?
Pretend this was nothing?
In the end, I did what my body wanted.
I slipped into my underwear, grabbed his shirt from the floor, and pulled it over my head. It hung on me, smelling like him, the sleeves too long, the hem brushing my thighs. I put my skirt on to don’t feel to bare.
Then I padded into the kitchen.
He was standing at the counter, bare-chested, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, sunlight pouring over him like he belonged in it. My stomach flipped.
I could still see the marks.
My marks.
Faint scratches over his shoulders, across his back, even along his neck.
God.
He turned when he heard me. His eyes softened, but there was still something commanding in the way he looked at me.
“Come on,” he said lightly. “I’m making pancakes.”
I walked to the sink, pretending I wasn’t falling apart inside.
I grabbed a glass, then just… stopped. Pressed my hand to my forehead.
“This was a mistake,” I said quietly. “You’re Brennan Stokes. You’re our neighbor. You’re so young. We shouldn’t have done this.”
He came up behind me.
His hands settled on my hips, firm and grounding, his mouth brushing my neck, then my jaw. My body melted instantly.
“Stop thinking,” he murmured against my skin. “You came—what—four times? Five? I lost count.”
I turned to glare at him, but he was smiling, teasing, dangerous.
“You weren’t complaining,” he added.
My cheeks burned.
I grabbed a dish towel just to have something to do. “You’re impossible.”
He just laughed and went back to the stove like he hadn’t just unraveled me with a single sentence.
When the pancakes were ready, we sat at the small table. It felt surreal. Domestic. Intimate in a way that scared me more than the night before.
“Your back,” I said quietly. “I scratched you. A lot.”
He just shrugged, completely unfazed.
“Marks of a warrior.”
I snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ll wear them proudly,” he said, taking a bite of his pancake like this was nothing.
My gaze drifted to a deeper red mark on his neck, angrier than the others. My stomach twisted.
I stood. “And you call this nothing?”
He chuckled, lifting his brow. “Contemplating your work of art?”
“Shut up. I took blood from you.”
“Wild girl,” he teased, eyes bright with satisfaction.
“You should have antiseptic somewhere here, right?”
“Left cabinet,” he said easily. “But really, you don’t need to—”
I ignored him and opened the cabinet. Sure enough, a first-aid kit sat exactly where he’d said.
“You know human nails can cause infections if you don’t treat this,” I muttered, pulling out an antiseptic wipe. “This could get bad.”
“I’m a doctor too, you know.”
I froze, then exhaled a laugh. “Okay, I forgot about that. But even doctors need treatment. Stay still.”
He did.
He went very still.
I stepped behind him, my fingers brushing his warm skin as I cleaned the scratches. His muscles tightened under my touch, breath shifting, attention sharpening.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I kind of like that you marked me.”
“Brennan—”
He tilted his head, exposing his neck for me, voice low and unguarded.
“It means you were here,” he said. “Means you didn’t hold back.”
I swallowed, my hand hovering in midair.
He turned slightly, caught my wrist, and pulled me closer—gentle but inescapable.
“And I don’t want you holding back with me.”
I stopped breathing.
My hand stilled as my eyes met his. He looked at me like I was sacred and dangerous at the same time.
In one smooth movement, he twisted me into his lap. His hand slid to my neck, his lips following, warm and deliberate. For a second, I melted back into him, into the certainty of his body, his presence.
His tongue claimed mine, and my mind went blank—only sensation remained. I moaned against his mouth, my hands finding his neck again, nails pressing into skin I had already claimed.
For a heartbeat, I let myself love the feeling.
Then reality crashed back in.
I pulled away, resting my forehead against his, my breath shaky.
“I… I—”
There were so many things I needed to say. That I couldn’t give him more than this. That I had just come back. That this was supposed to be one night. That I was terrified of what he was already becoming to me.
But I chose silence.
“I should go,” I whispered.
I slid off his lap, grabbed my heels and my purse, moving toward the door before I could change my mind.
“Marina, wait.”
I heard his voice behind me, but I couldn’t.
If I turned back, I wouldn’t leave.
So I didn’t look.
I walked out and closed the door behind me.
It was just a night.
But a hell of a night.