Marcus's gaze moved over her — the spent satisfaction in her eyes, the evidence of him still cooling on her skin, the way she knelt at his feet like she'd been doing it her whole life. Something flickered behind his hazel eyes, and his hand moved before she could brace for it, fisting in her hair and pulling her forward by the roots.
"Open," he said.
She did. Her lips parted, her tongue touched her bottom lip, and she let him guide her mouth onto his cock without resistance. Still wet from her. Still hard. He tasted like salt and her and the night they'd already had, and she took him deep, her throat opening, her hands pressed flat against her thighs the way she'd learned he liked.
A low sound escaped his chest. Not quite a groan. Approval, maybe. His hand tightened in her hair, holding her there while she breathed through her nose and let him feel the pulse of her throat around him.
"Don't touch yourself," he said flatly. "Not once."
She kept her hands at her sides. Even the urge to steady herself against his thigh — she killed it. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails pressing half-moons into her skin, and she took him deeper.
He began to move. Not hard at first — a slow, deliberate rhythm that let him watch the way her lips stretched around him, the way her throat worked, the way her eyes stayed on his even as they watered. He held her gaze the whole time, and she didn't look away, didn't blink, didn't give him a single reason to stop.
Minutes. It could have been minutes. The only sound was the wet slide of his cock in her mouth and the ragged edge of his breathing, and she let the rhythm consume her, let her mind go quiet the way it only did when she was being used exactly like this.
He pulled out slowly, his cock slick with her spit, and dragged the head across her lips — across her cheek — before he let it rest against her chin. She stayed still, mouth open, waiting.
"Up," he said. "On your knees."
She rose, and he leaned back on his hands, his cock standing wet and hard between them. "Use these," he said, and his gaze dropped to her breasts.
Natasha's breath caught. She'd done this before, but never for a man who watched her the way Marcus did — like every move she made was data he was storing, cataloguing, judging. She cupped her breasts, pressing them together around his cock, and leaned forward until the heat of him was trapped between them.
He groaned — actually groaned — and it was the most honest sound she'd heard from him all night.
She slid her tits up and down his shaft, the friction slick and tight, and watched his head fall back. His jaw tightened. His hands found her shoulders, not guiding, just holding. Just feeling her move on him.
"Like that," he said, his voice rougher. "Just like that."
She kept the rhythm steady, letting the head of his cock emerge between her breasts with every upward slide, watching the pre-cum bead at the tip and smear across her skin. His hips twitched once, a hint of the man who'd fucked her into the carpet an hour ago, but he held still and let her work.
"Enough," he said finally, and she released her breasts, letting them fall. He stood in one fluid motion, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her onto the carpet. The nap was still rough from earlier, still held the ghost of their first time, and she gasped as her back hit it.
He spread her legs. Didn't position himself. Didn't tease her entrance or test her readiness. He just drove into her in one brutal thrust, and she felt the stretch like a revelation — too fast, too much, exactly what she needed.
Her back arched. A sound tore out of her — not a word, not even a name, just the raw noise of being filled too deep too fast.
He gripped both her wrists and pinned them above her head, settling his weight onto her, grinding his hips in a circle until the base of his cock pressed against her and she could feel every inch of him inside her. "Look at me," he said.
She did. His eyes were dark, his jaw set, and there was something in his face that was almost wonder — almost surprise — as if he hadn't expected her to take him this well.
He leaned down and bit her nipple. Just hard enough to sting. Her hips bucked against him, and he bit harder, then soothed the ache with his tongue while she gasped beneath him.
His mouth found her ear. "You're going to take everything I give you tonight."
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, god yes."
He began to move — hard, punishing, the kind of fucking that left marks. Her tits bounced against his chest with each thrust, and she felt the heat building in her core, felt the familiar ache of being stretched open, felt the wet sound of his cock sliding into her fill the room.
"Look at you," he said, his voice low and rough against her ear. "So fucking wet for me. You love this, don't you?"
"Yes, Daddy." Her voice broke on the word. "I love it. I love—"
"Tell me." He thrust deeper. Slower. Letting her feel every inch of the drag. "Tell me what you love."
"Being yours. Being used. Being exactly what you need." The words tumbled out of her, raw and unguarded. "I love the way you look at me like I'm something no one else gets to have."
He kissed her — open-mouthed, hungry — and she tasted the night they'd already spent, tasted the promise of the week ahead. Then he pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, and pinned her body down with his before she could draw a breath.
One hand cupped her breast from behind, his fingers finding her nipple and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. The other hand settled on her throat — not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder that he could. She wanted him to— desperately.
He pushed into her again, and the angle was different — deeper somehow, pressing against a spot that made her vision blur. She moaned, her fingers clawing at the carpet, and he began to fuck her with the same brutal rhythm, his hips slapping against her ass, his breath hot on her neck.
"You feel that?" He bit the curve of her shoulder, licked the sting. "That's me claiming every inch of this cunt. It's mine this week."
"Yours," she gasped. "All yours."
She pushed back into him, meeting his thrusts, and he groaned against her skin. His hand tightened on her throat — just enough pressure to make her pulse pound in her ears — and he sucked at the curve of her neck, leaving a mark she'd find tomorrow and press with her fingers and remember.
He kissed along her shoulder, her spine, the hollow behind her ear. His hips moved in a steady, grinding rhythm, and her body answered without thought, clenching around him, drawing him deeper.
"You close?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Yes," she panted. "Yes, Daddy, I'm—"
"Come," he said. "Now."
She did. Her body seized around him, her cunt clenching in waves that pulled a groan from his throat. He kept thrusting through it, grinding into her as she shook beneath him, and she felt him stiffen, then felt the heat of him filling her, heard the broken sound he made as he came.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, both of them breathing hard. Then he pulled out, rolled onto his back, and brought her with him.
Natasha settled against his side, her leg hooked over his thigh, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder like she'd been sleeping there for years. His hand found her hair, then her back, tracing idle patterns across her skin while they lay on the carpet in the dark penthouse.
Neither of them spoke. The silence felt like permission—to stay, to breathe, to exist in the space between two people who'd just spent themselves on each other. His fingers moved in slow, patient strokes across her spine, and she let her eyes close, let her body sink into the warmth of him beneath her.
She didn't know how long they lay there. Time had stopped mattering the moment he'd pulled her into the penthouse. The carpet was rough under her thigh, the air was cool against her damp skin, and Marcus's heartbeat was steady and slow beneath her ear.
Then she felt it. A twitch against her thigh. A pulse of heat that told her exhaustion didn't matter — that his body was already thinking about the next time, the next claim, the next proof that she was his for this week.
She moaned — a soft, worn sound — and her hand found his cock before her brain caught up. It was slick with both of them, half-hard, and she wrapped her fingers around it and felt him thicken in her grip.
Her muscles ached. Her thighs trembled. She was so worn down she could barely think, but her hand moved on his cock like it had a mind of its own, and he groaned, shifting beneath her.
"Again?" he asked, and there was a smile in his voice — the first one she'd heard all night that didn't feel like a threat.
"You want to?" she asked, her voice raspy.
"I always want to." He shifted, rolling her onto her back and settling between her legs. His weight came down on her — full body, heavy, intimate — and she felt the head of his cock press against her, felt how easily her body opened for him still.
He pushed in slowly. Not the brutal thrust of before — this was different. Deliberate. He watched her face as he sank into her, watched her lips part, watched her eyes flutter.
"You're so tight," he said. "Still so fucking tight after all that." His hips settled against hers, and he ground into her, a slow, circular motion that made her gasp. "And these tits — fuck — pressed against me like this." He shifted his weight, letting her feel the swell of her own breasts against his chest, the heat where their skin met. "I could stay inside you forever. Just like this."
Natasha wrapped her arms around his neck, too spent to do anything but hold on. His weight pinned her to the carpet, and she felt every inch of him — the flex of his hips, the spread of his thighs, the way his chest hair scraped against her nipples with each slow thrust.
He moved in a rhythm that was almost lazy — not the aggressive fucking of before, but something deeper. Methodical. Grinding into her like he had all night and intended to use every second.
She watched him. The way his brow furrowed. The way his lips parted. The way his eyes stayed fixed on hers, dark and hungry and something else — something she couldn't name. He watched her too. Watched her bite her lip. Watched her gasp when he angled his hips just right.
"God," he said. "You're so fucking responsive. I barely move and you—" He thrust deeper. She gasped. "—you come apart for me."
"You feel good," she breathed. "You feel so good inside me."
"Yeah?" He leaned down and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, then her tongue, kissing her deep and slow while his hips kept grinding into her. "Tell me again."
"Your cock feels perfect in me. I love the way you fill me, I love—" She broke off as he thrust harder, the lazy rhythm sharpening. "I love the feeling."
"Mine," he repeated, and the word was a claim and a vow and a curse all at once. His hips moved faster, harder, and she felt it building again — that electrical ache behind her clit, the slow coil in her belly.
He came with a groan that was almost pained, spilling into her, and he kept moving — kept grinding, kept thrusting through the aftershocks — until her own orgasm crested, pulling a cry from her throat that she couldn't stop, didn't want to stop.
He didn't pull out. He just lay there, his weight still pressed into her, his face buried in her neck, both of them breathing like they'd run a marathon. Then he shifted, lifted himself just enough to slide his arms under her, and stood.
She gasped, wrapping her legs around him instinctively. His hands cupped her ass, holding her against him as he carried her toward the master bedroom.
"Where are we—"
"Bed," he said. "You need sleep."
She wanted to say something — thank you, or stay, or this means something — but her eyes were already closing, her body already surrendering to the weight of the night. The last thing she felt was the cool sheets against her back and the heat of him still inside her as she drifted.
She woke to motion. Slow. Rhythmic. The kind of movement that had been going on long enough to become part of the dream she hadn't quite left. Her eyes opened in the dark, and she felt him — his chest against her back, his arm under her head, his other hand cupping her breast, his cock moving inside her in the same steady, lazy rhythm from the carpet.
Marcus was spooning her, his hips pressed against her ass, his fingers idly rolling her nipple. The clock on the nightstand read 5:23 AM.
"How long?" she asked, her voice rough with sleep.
"Not long." He kissed her shoulder. "Couldn't help it. You were warm. You were wet." He thrust deeper, and she felt him smile against her skin. "You were right there."
She moaned, letting her eyes close again. This pace — unhurried, indulgent — was a different kind of claiming. Not the taking of before, but the keeping. The slow, patient proof that he could have her whenever he wanted, in whatever way he chose.
"I have class today," she murmured.
"I know." His hand slid from her breast to her hip, guiding her into his rhythm. "I'll drive you."
She turned her head, trying to see his face in the dark. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." His fingers found her chin, tilting her face toward him, and he kissed her — soft, sweet, a contradiction of everything else he'd done to her tonight. "I want to."
Her chest ached. She pushed back into him, taking him deeper, and his hand slipped from her chin to her throat — squeezing, a claim she could feel in her pulse.
"I wish I didn't have to go," she said.
"You don't have to. You could skip." He bit her earlobe, tugged. "Stay in bed with me."
"It's my only class." She laughed, a soft, breathless sound. "And it's a final."
"A final," he repeated, and there was amusement in his voice. "Fine. I'll drop you off, pick you up, and bring you straight back here. For the rest of the day." His hand tightened on her throat — just a fraction. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Daddy."
He chuckled, low and warm against her neck, and picked up the pace. His hand moved from her throat to her jaw, tilting her face back so he could watch her while he fucked her — slow, deep, deliberate thrusts that made her forget everything except the feel of him inside her, the weight of his body against hers, the certainty that she didn't want this week to end.
"Daddy," she whispered, the word falling from her lips like a prayer. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—"
He came with a groan, his hips pressing flush against her, and she felt the heat of him fill her again. Marcus was drunk at her calling him that name. Natasha was too worn to come again — her body simply accepted him, held him, let him have what he craved.
They lay there in the dark for a long time, tangled together, his cock still half-hard inside her, neither of them willing to move first.
Eventually, he pulled out, and she felt the loss like a small death. But he didn't leave her — he pulled her closer, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pressed his lips to her hair.
"Sleep," he said. "I'll wake you before your class."
She woke to gray morning light and the smell of coffee. Marcus was already dressed — charcoal slacks, a white dress shirt open at the collar, his hair still damp from a shower. He stood by the bed with a cup in his hand, watching her with an expression she couldn't read.
"You have an hour," he said. "I ordered breakfast. And a clothing rack."
"A clothing rack?" She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist.
"You need something to wear. Unless you want to show up in the dress from last night." His eyes moved over her, slow and deliberate. "Which I wouldn't mind, actually."
She laughed, grabbing the coffee from his hand and taking a long sip. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm thorough." He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her drink. "Pick whatever you want. It'll be here in ten minutes."
True to his word, a bellman arrived with a rolling rack of clothes — dresses, blouses, skirts, all in her size, all designer. Natasha chose a simple cashmere sweater and tailored trousers, the kind of outfit that showed her figure without trying too hard.
Getting dressed took three times as long as it should have. Marcus kept finding reasons to touch her — to kiss her neck, to slide his hands under her sweater, to press her against the wall and kiss her until she forgot what she was wearing. By the time they made it to the elevator, her cheeks were flushed and her lipstick was smeared.
He drove a black Aston Martin — low, sleek, the kind of car that made people look twice — and she settled into the leather passenger seat with her coffee in one hand and massaging his leg with the other. The morning sun caught the city skyline, and she watched the buildings blur, reminding herself it had been just yesterday that met Marcus.
The campus was old and ivy-covered, the kind of place that whispered money and legacy. Natasha's scholarship was a point of pride — she'd earned her place here — and as Marcus pulled up to the curb, she felt a strange tension between the two worlds colliding: the scholarship student and the billionaire's temporary mistress.
"It's only one class," she said, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Maybe two hours."
"I'll be waiting." He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Don't be late."
She laughed smiling shyly, she slipped out of the car and walked away.
After parking, Marcus walked aimlessly, contemplating the worlwind of yesterday. Chuckling at the turn of events in his life since getting married. This was how he thought life was going to be before his father pulled him an obligation marriage. He walked inside the library, finding a quiet corner near the windows, scanning the aisles with the idle patience of a man who could afford to waste time. The campus was quiet — too early for most students.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a woman.
"Sorry," he said automatically, his hand reaching out to steady her elbow.
She looked up — and the apology died on his tongue.
Blonde. Not the careful, highlighted blonde of the women who circled his world — this was natural, the color of wheat in late summer, falling in heavy waves past her shoulders. She moved her head to push it back, and the motion caught the light, and Marcus felt something lock in his chest.
She was petite. Curvacious. Her eyes were the color of a winter sky — pale blue, almost gray — and they widened as she registered who'd caught her. Her lips parted, and she said something — he saw her mouth move — but he couldn't hear it over the blood rushing in his ears.
His cock hardened. Not the slow, familiar stir of interest — this was immediate, visceral, a physical response that bypassed his brain entirely and settled hot and insistent in his groin. He felt himself thicken against his trousers, and he didn't look away from her face, didn't blink, didn't do anything but stand there with his hand still on her elbow like he'd forgotten how to let go.