The dinner ended with Melinda's smile still fixed in place, a porcelain mask she'd perfected over a year of cold shoulders and empty nights. Marcus helped Natasha from her chair, his hand finding the small of her back with a possessiveness that made his wife's jaw tighten before she caught herself.
“Don’t expect me home tonight." Marcus said pointedly.
Melinda opened her mouth. Closed it.
Natasha let her gaze slide to Melinda—just for a moment, just long enough to see the crack in the composure. Then she let Marcus guide her through the restaurant, past the tables where heads turned, past the maître d' who pretended not to notice the way Marcus's hand pressed against her lower back, the way her dress was still slightly rumpled from whatever had happened beneath that table.
The town car waited at the curb, black and anonymous, its engine humming. The driver opened the rear door without meeting anyone's eyes. Professional. Trained to see nothing.
Natasha slid across the leather seat, and Marcus followed, the door closing behind them with a solid thunk that sealed them into dim silence.
The car pulled away from the curb.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The city slid past the tinted windows—streetlamps, storefronts, the glow of headlights reflecting off wet pavement. The divider still up from their earlier escapades. Natasha's hands were folded in her lap. She could still feel the ghost of his fingers between her thighs, the wetness that had soaked through her underwear and was now cooling against her skin.
"She's beautiful," Natasha said quietly. "Your wife."
Marcus didn't answer immediately. He was looking out the window, his profile sharp against the passing lights, his jaw set in that permanent tension she was beginning to recognize.
"Melinda," Natasha added, testing the name on her tongue. "She seems… nice."
A short laugh, dry and humorless. "Melinda is nice. That's the problem."
Natasha turned toward him, drawing her knees up on the seat, her dress riding higher. "What do you mean?"
He was quiet for another block. Then: "The marriage was arranged. Our families—old money, expectations. She was the right name, the right bloodline, the right kind of wife for a man in my position." His voice flattened. "The bedroom was something a lot less to be desired of."
Natasha's breath caught. She didn't speak. She waited.
"I stayed faithful out of respect for our parents. For a year." He said it like a prison sentence. "And every night was the same. Lights off. Missionary. Seven minutes. She'd finish—moaning happily—and I'd roll over and stare at the ceiling and wonder if this was what the rest of my life was going to feel like."
He finally turned to look at her. Those hazel eyes, cold and assessing, ran over her face like he was reading a balance sheet. "Sex with Melinda was painfully subpar. The kind of subpar that makes you forget why anyone bothers."
Natasha felt a flush creep up her chest. "So when she told you about the club—"
"She was desperate. She'd rather share me than lose me." He said it without cruelty—just fact. "She thought if she gave me an outlet, I'd stay.” A pause, “that I'd be satisfied enough to keep up with appearances.”
The car hummed beneath them. Outside, the city blurred past.
Natasha shifted closer, her thigh pressing against his. "And now?"
His hand found her knee. Squeezed once. "Now I have options. Weekly. Monthly. Indefinite." His thumb traced circles on the inside of her thigh. "Women know their body.”
She swallowed. "I'm glad."
His hand stopped moving. "Are you?”
"Yes." Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "I'm happy to be your first. For however long you want me."
Something flickered in those cold eyes. Interest. Approval. She couldn't tell which, and she didn't care. The blood was already rushing south, heat pooling between her legs as Marcus grabbed her and she swung her leg over his lap, straddling him in the dim leather interior.
His hands gripped her hips tightly. Reflex. Expectation.
She lowered herself, feeling his cock harden beneath his trousers, grinding against it through the layers of fabric between them. Her dress bunched at her waist, the silk riding up her thighs. She reached down, found his zipper, pulled it open with trembling fingers. Freed him. Watched his breath catch as her fingers wrapped around his shaft.
"Good girl." he said. Low. Rough. A command.
She positioned herself, then sank onto him in one slow, deliberate motion. Her head fell back. Her mouth opened on a silent moan as he filled her, stretching her, fitting inside her like he belonged there.
His hands found her breasts through the bodice of her dress, palming them, squeezing. She reached up and pulled the fabric down, freeing them—large, full, her nipples already hard and flushed. The cool air hit her skin and she shivered.
"God," Marcus breathed. His eyes fixed on her chest. Hypnotized. His thumbs found her nipples and rolled them, pinched them, watching her face as she gasped.
She began to move. Slow at first. A rising and falling rhythm that made his cock slide deep, then nearly out, then deep again. The leather creaked beneath them. The car hummed. The partition stayed firmly closed.
"Daddy," she moaned, and his hands tightened on her tits, goaning at the word, Marcus dug his fingers hard into the soft flesh.
She leaned back, bracing her hands behind her on his knees, giving him a better view. Her breasts bounced with each movement, full and heavy, and his gaze tracked them like a starving man watching food. His hands were everywhere—cupping, squeezing, pinching her nipples, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
"Look at you," he said. His voice was rough, almost reverent. "Taking my cock like you were made for it."
"I was," she breathed. "I am."
His hips thrust up to meet her, fucking deeper. She cried out, her nails digging into the fabric of the car.
The car slowed.
Marcus's eyes snapped to the window. The hotel portico glowed ahead—marble and gold, a uniformed doorman already approaching. He pulled her closer, still buried inside her, and whispered against her ear: "We're not done."
She felt the loss of him as he lifted her off, a slick emptiness. He tucked himself in, zipped up, watched her pull her dress back over her shoulders with fumbling fingers. She looked a mess—hair wild, lipstick smeared, chest flushed.
He reached into his jacket and pulled it off, draping it over her shoulders. It swallowed her. The sleeves hung past her fingertips. The fabric smelled like him—cologne, leather, something darker.
"Button it," he said.
She obeyed. Her fingers still shook.
The door opened. Cold air rushed in. Marcus stepped out first, then extended a hand to her. She took it, stepping onto the red carpet, her bare legs beneath his jacket, the hotel's glass doors gleaming ahead.
He placed his hand flat against her lower back—proprietary, firm—and guided her through the lobby.
The marble floors echoed with their footsteps. A chandelier hung three stories above, scattering light like diamonds. The front desk clerk glanced up, recognized Marcus, and immediately looked down. Good. They knew how to mind their business here.
Natasha kept her eyes forward. She could feel the wetness between her legs, the evidence of what they'd done in the car. Could feel eyes on her from the lobby—guests, bellhops—but couldn't tell if they knew. If they could see.
The elevator doors slid open. They stepped inside.
Marcus pressed the button for the penthouse. The doors closed. They were alone again.
He turned her to face the mirrored wall. Her reflection stared back—small inside his jacket, her hair a disaster, her eyes bright and hungry. He stepped up behind her, his body heat searing through the fabric, and his mouth found her ear and began sucking it, trailing down her neck.
She groaned. Ground into him. Felt his hands slide around her waist, holding her in place.
"You're going to watch yourself get fucked, Natasha. And you're going to see exactly what you look like when you come."
"Yes," she breathed. "Daddy. Yes."
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open onto the penthouse foyer.
She gasped.
The space opened before them in a sweep of floor-to-ceiling windows, a living room larger than some apartments she'd lived in, furnished in cream and chrome and dark wood. The city glittered beyond the glass, a sea of lights stretching to the horizon. A grand piano stood in one corner. A bar gleamed against the far wall. Hallways branched off on either side, leading she couldn't see where.
"It's…" She couldn't find words. "It's huge."
"It's adequate," Marcus said, and there was a wry edge to his voice that made her laugh, just a little. Then he stepped past her, into the room, and began unbuttoning his shirt. "You're still dressed."
She turned. Watched him. His shirt fell open, revealing his chest—muscular, define. She watched the movement as he shrugged the shirt off. Watched his hands go to his trousers. He didn't look at her as he undressed, but she couldn't look away.
When he was naked, his cock stood hard and thick, curved slightly, the head slick with her arousal. He walked past her, toward the window, and she followed like she was on a string.
"Take the jacket off," he said. "The dress too."
She obeyed, letting his jacket fall to the floor. Reached behind her for the zipper of her dress. Pulled it down. The fabric pooled at her feet, and she stepped out of it, standing naked in the middle of the penthouse, the city glowing around her like a backdrop designed for this exact moment.
Marcus came up behind her. She felt his breath on her neck before she felt his lips. Then his hands on her shoulders, sliding down her arms. His mouth pressed against the curve of her throat, kissing, sucking.
"You're beautiful," he murmured against her skin. "Do you know that?"
Her eyes closed. "Daddy—"
"Look at yourself." His hand caught her chin, turned her face toward the dark glass. Their reflections hovered in the window, ghostly against the city lights. "Look at what I get to have."
She looked. Saw herself, flushed and naked, his body pressed against her back, his hands sliding around to cup her breasts. Saw his hips press forward, felt his cock slide between her thighs, teasing as the head parted her folds.
She pushed back against him involuntarily, her body begging without words.
His hands gripped her hips. He guided her forward, closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows, until her palms pressed flat against the cool glass. Beyond her reflection, the city sprawled—millions of lives, none of them watching, but the thought made her wetter. The thought of being seen. Of someone looking up and catching a glimpse of two bodies silhouetted against the penthouse lights.
"Look out there," Marcus said, his mouth at her ear. "Someone could be watching. Right now. You know that?"
She moaned. "Yes."
He pulled her hips back, positioned himself, and thrust into her in one brutal motion.
The sound that came out of her was animal. Her palms skidded on the glass as he filled her, stretching her, his cock driving deep until his hips were flush against her ass. He didn't pause. He pulled out and thrusted again, faster, harder, setting a punishing pace that made her breasts swing with every impact.
She watched in the glass. Watched her body take him. Watched his hands find her hips, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. Watched his face—cold, focused, completely in control—staring at her reflection as he fucked her.
His hand came around and found her clit, fingers pressing and circling. "You're going to come," he said. Not a question. "You're going to come while I'm inside you and you're going to watch yourself do it."
"Daddy—" Her voice broke.
His pace increased. His hand on her clit moved faster. The glass was fogging beneath her palms. The city was a blur of light and shadow. She was nothing but sensation—his cock filling her, his fingers on her clit, his breath ragged in her ear—
The orgasm hit her like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. Her mouth opened on a silent cry. Her body convulsed around him, her cunt clenching, milking him, and he kept fucking her through it, driving deeper, chasing his own pleasure even as she shook apart.
"That's it," he growled. "Keep going. Don't stop coming."
She couldn't have stopped if she'd tried. The orgasm rolled through her, wave after wave, as he kept thrusting, relentless. She gyrating back against him, meeting each thrust, her body beyond her control now.
He kissed her.
Hard and deep, his tongue in her mouth, his hands in her hair, gripping and pulling until her head tilted back and her body arched into him.
He pulled out after some time, spun her around, and lifted her onto the windowsill. The cold glass against her back made her gasp. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him toward her. He thrust into her again, and she moaned—deep, ragged, helpless.
"Beg," he said. His voice was harsh, his face tight with control. "Tell me what you need."
"Please," she gasped. "Please, Daddy, please fuck me—"
"That's not begging." He slowed, barely moving, just the tip of his cock inside her. "Try again."
"Please," she said, and she could hear the tears in her own voice. "Please, I need you, I need your cock, I need you to fuck me until I can't walk—”
The he claimed her lips once more.
He kissed her like he was branding her from the inside. And he thrust, hard and deep and fast, his hips slapping against hers, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room.
He broke the kiss, panted against her neck, bit down on the curve of her shoulder. Sucked a bruise into her skin. She didn't care. She wanted more.
"You're mine," he said against her throat. "For this week. For as long as I want. You understand?"
"Yes. Yes, Daddy. I'm yours."
"And if I decide I want Melinda to watch?"
She hesitated. A heartbeat. Then: "Then she watches."
He laughed—a dark, satisfied sound—and thrust deeper. "Good girl."
He fucked her against the window, the city below, the sky above, the glass cold on her back and his body hot against her front. He fucked her until she lost track of time, until she was nothing but a body receiving pleasure, taking everything he gave her and begging for more.
His pace became vicious. He was watching her tits bounce, hypnotized, his eyes fixed on her breasts as they jiggled with each thrust. He wrapped his hands around them, gripping them like handles, squeezing and pinching, watching his fingers sink into her flesh, watching it turn red from his grip.
"Look at yourself," he said. His voice was a growl. "Look at what a slut you are for me."
"I am," she gasped. "I'm your slut, Daddy. I'm your whore. Use me."
His eyes rolled back. His rhythm faltered. He pulled her closer, buried his face in her neck, and drove deep, holding himself inside her as he came. She felt his cock pulse, felt the heat of him filling her, felt his body shudder against hers.
Then he stilled.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. His forehead rested against her shoulder. Her hands—she didn't remember raising them—were tangled in his hair. Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent to what had just happened in this glass-walled room.
He pulled out slowly. She slid off the windowsill, her legs barely holding her, and sank to the floor. The carpet was thick and soft beneath her knees. She looked up at him, breathing hard, her body flushed and slick with sweat.
Marcus walked away, toward the bar in the corner of the room. She watched him pour amber liquid into a crystal glass. Watched him drink it in one swallow. Watched him pour another.
The silence stretched.
She didn't know what to say. Didn't know if she was supposed to speak, supposed to leave, supposed to stay on her knees. So she stayed, watching him, feeling his cum drip down her inner thigh.
He turned to look at her. His eyes traveled over her body—the flush on her chest, her large, perky tits rising and falling with each breath, the sheen of sweat on her skin. His gaze stopped on her thighs. On the evidence of what he'd done. She saw his jaw tighten. Saw his cock stir. Watched it harden again, rising as he stared at her.
Her eyes widened. She couldn't help it. He'd just come inside her—how was he already—
Marcus saw her expression. A corner of his mouth lifted. "Come here," he said. "Crawl."
She dropped to her hands and knees. The carpet was soft beneath her palms. She crawled across the penthouse floor, her tits swaying with each movement, her hips swinging, her eyes on his. She felt his gaze on her like a physical weight, and it made her wet all over again.
She reached his feet. Looked up.
He looked down at her with that cold, assessing gaze, and for the first time, she saw something like approval in it. Like she was passing a test she hadn't known she was taking. She decided then—silently, privately—that this week wouldn't be the only one. She would be whatever he needed. The good girl. The obedient one. The one he kept coming back to.
And maybe, she thought, she should get to know Melinda. Learn what made his wife tick. See if she could keep Melinda from ruining his mood—from giving him a reason to send them both away.
Or maybe, she thought, a dark smile curling her lips, maybe Natasha wanted him mad. Maybe the anger made him fuck harder.
"Something funny?" Marcus asked.
She looked up at him, her eyes bright. "No, Daddy."
This week was going to change everything. She could feel it in her bones, in the ache between her thighs, in the way he looked at her like she was something he'd just discovered and planned to learn everything about.
She would be his first. But she didn't intend to be his last.