The water cuts off. Steam curls around her as she stands in the shower, water still beading on her shoulders, running in rivulets down her thighs. She reaches for the towel—the one Derek used this morning, still damp on the hook—and wraps it loosely around herself, tucking the corner between her breasts.

Her phone is on the sink. She picks it up.

Marcus's reply glows on the screen: Door's unlocked. I'm in your living room.

The tile is cold under her bare feet. She reads it twice. Then she sets the phone down, towel still dripping at the edges, and walks out of the bathroom.

The hallway is dim—she left the living room light off, just the kitchen glow spilling through the open doorway. She stops at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, and sees him.

Marcus stands near the couch, still in his campus clothes—dark jeans, a gray Henley that stretches across his chest. His hair is messed, like he ran his hand through it on the walk over. His eyes are dark, hungry, traveling down her wet skin, stopping at the towel's loose edge, the trail of water running between her breasts.

She doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

He crosses the room in three strides. His hands find hers, pinning them to the wall on either side of her head. The towel shifts, gaping open at her chest, and she feels the cold plaster against her shoulder blades, his body heat pressing into her front.

"Why'd you leave the other days?" His voice is low, rough. His face is close enough that she can smell him—laundry detergent and the afternoon air. "You could've just ignored him. Broken up with him."

The word broken up lands like a stone in her chest. She looks at the floor.

"I want—" She stops. Her throat is tight.

"What do you actually want, Elara?" Not letting her look away. His grip on her wrists is firm, not painful, but there's no give in it.

She swallows. "I want Derek's soft love. His caring." The words cost her something to say out loud. "And I want your rough fuck."

A beat. His eyes don't change.

"And your handling," she adds, quieter. "I want you to handle me."

He releases one of her wrists. His hand moves to her hip, fingers pressing into the soft skin just above the towel's edge. "So you want both."

"Yes."

"You want to come home to him. And you want me to fuck you until you can't walk."

"Yes."

His thumb traces the jut of her hip bone. She feels her own pulse in her throat, in her cunt, the towel slipping an inch lower.

"Fine." His voice is flat. Controlled. "If that's what you want, I'm okay with it."

She blinks. "You are?"

"But I'll get back on you, in due time." His thumb stops moving. "And when I do, you're not going to be okay with it. You're going to be mine."

She doesn't answer. Her hand moves on its own, sliding down his chest, past his belt, pressing her palm against the hard line of his cock through his jeans. He doesn't flinch. She presses harder, her own breath catching as she feels him through the denim.

The conversation is still between them. But her body is making its argument now, her ass pressing back against his hip as she shifts her weight, the towel slipping completely open.

Marcus's hand drops from her hip. He grips the towel's edge and pulls it away, letting it fall to the floor. She stands naked against the wall, wet from the shower, her skin still damp and flushed.

He looks at her. Whole seconds pass.

Then he bends, hooks one arm under her thighs, and lifts her. She gasps, grabbing his shoulders as he straightens. He carries her toward the bedroom—her bedroom, the one where Derek held her this morning, where she wrapped her legs around him and stared at the ceiling—and throws her onto the bed.

The mattress catches her. She bounces once, hair splaying across the pillow, and before she can catch her breath, he's on her. His body covers hers, jeans rough against her bare thighs, his mouth finding her throat.

She moans—a raw, broken sound—and arches into him.

His hand fists in the sheets beside her head. "You don't text him tonight."

"I won't."

"You don't check your phone."

"I won't."

He pulls back, just enough to look at her face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Say it."

She is naked under him. Wet. Open. "Tonight I'm yours."

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow I'm still yours."

Something in his jaw loosens. He lowers his mouth to hers, and the kiss is brutal, claiming. His tongue pushes past her lips, and she tastes herself on him—still damp from the shower, still warm.

His hands move down her body. One palm covers her breast, thumb rolling over her nipple until it hardens. The other slides between her legs, fingers spreading her open.

She gasps against his mouth.

"You're wet," he says against her lips.

"I know."

He pushes two fingers inside her. She cries out, hips bucking into his hand. He fucks her slowly with his fingers, watching her face, her mouth falling open as she takes them.

Then he pulls them out. Brings them to her lips. "Taste yourself."

She opens her mouth. Her own slick slides across her tongue, and she moans at the taste—salt and something deeper, something him.

He watches her lips close around his fingers. "Good girl."

He unsnaps his jeans. The sound is loud in the dark room, the only sound besides her breathing. He pulls out his cock, already hard, the tip brushing her thigh, and she feels the heat of him against her skin.

He doesn't ask. He doesn't speak. He lines himself up and pushes into her in one smooth, brutal stroke, and she screams—a raw, animal sound that she doesn't recognize—her hands clawing at his back as he fills her.

He pauses, buried deep, his forehead against hers. "This bed," he says, his voice tight. "This is where he made love to you."

She can't answer. She can only nod.

His eyes find hers. "And this is where I fuck you."

He pulls out slow. Every inch. Then slams back in, and she sobs with it, her hands finding his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt.

He fucks her hard. No rhythm, no mercy—each thrust a punctuation, a claim, a sentence he's writing into her bones. Her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him deeper, and she hears herself begging—please, yes, please—words that have no meaning except the sound of her own surrender.

His hand finds her throat. Not squeezing—just resting there, his thumb against her pulse. She feels her heartbeat against his grip, frantic, alive.

"You're still wearing his scent," Marcus says, his voice rough. "I can smell him on your sheets. On your pillow." A hard thrust. "I'm going to fuck it out of you."

She comes. The orgasm rips through her without warning, a convulsion that starts in her cunt and spreads through her whole body, her mouth open, her eyes squeezed shut, her nails raking down his back as she shudders under him.

He doesn't stop. He fucks her through it, her own wetness slicking his cock, the sound of their bodies loud in the room. She feels him swelling inside her, his rhythm faltering, and she opens her eyes to see his face—jaw tight, eyes closed, mouth a hard line.

He pulls out. His cum spills across her stomach, hot and thick, painting her skin in streaks.

She lies there, chest heaving, his cum cooling on her belly. He drops beside her on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, his breathing ragged.

Minutes pass. The room settles. The only sound is their breathing, the hum of the city outside.

She turns her head to look at him. His chest rises and falls. His shirt is still on, pulled halfway up, revealing the hard muscle of his stomach. She reaches out, slowly, and places her palm over his heart.

He doesn't move.

"Marcus."

"Yeah."

"I meant what I said."

He lowers his arm. His eyes meet hers. "Which part?"

"All of it."

He watches her for a long moment. Then his hand comes up, slow, and brushes a strand of wet hair from her face.

"I know you did."

He rolls toward her, and his mouth finds hers again—softer this time, almost tender. She feels the shift in her chest, the thing that has been cracking open since the library, and she kisses him back without thinking.

His cum is drying on her stomach. Derek's sheets are bunched under her. And she is not thinking about either of them.