The first gray light of dawn bled through the curtains, catching the dust suspended in the still air. Marcus opened his eyes and lay motionless, feeling the warm weight of Natasha curled against his side, her breath slow and even, her cheek pressed to his chest. Her dark hair fanned across his arm, and one of her hands rested on his stomach, fingers loose in sleep.
He watched her for a long time. The way her lips parted slightly with each exhale. The faint flush still lingering on her skin from the night before. The bruise on her neck where his mouth had been.
She was beautiful. Young. Willing. Everything he needed her to be.
Carefully, he shifted onto his side, turning her with him so her back pressed against his chest. She stirred, a soft sound escaping her throat, but didn't wake. Her body molded against his, warm and compliant, the curve of her ass fitting perfectly against his hips.
He was already hard. Had woken that way, the way he always did when a woman was in his bed. But this was different. This was Natasha, still half-asleep, still trusting, still pliant in his arms.
His hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, feeling the warmth of her skin. She sighed, shifting her hips back against him, and he felt himself press against the soft heat between her legs. Still asleep. Still responding to him without knowing it.
Marcus positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock sliding through the slick wetness she'd carried from the night before. He pushed in slowly, watching her face. She didn't wake. Her lips parted further, and a small sound — barely a whimper — escaped her throat.
He fucked her in silence. Slow, deep strokes, his hand gripping her hip, feeling her body accept him without resistance. Her cunt gripped him even in sleep, hot and wet and hungry. He watched the place where they joined, watched his cock slide into her, watched her body take him without her even knowing.
The thought made him harder.
Natasha's eyes fluttered. A soft moan. Her hips moved back against him, responding to the rhythm even before her mind caught up. "Marcus…?" Her voice was thick with sleep, confused, but her body knew what it wanted.
He murmured, his voice low, his hand sliding up her stomach to cup her breast. Her nipple was already hard against his palm. "Just feel it."
She moaned again, her hips rolling back to meet his thrusts, her cunt clenching around him as wakefulness crept in. "Fuck…"
He massaged her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers as he fucked her, the bed creaking beneath them, the rhythm building. Moaning she moved her hands finding his on her breast, guiding them, panting his name as she pushed back against him.
"Roll over," he said, and she moved without hesitation, turning onto him, her legs opening as he positioned himself below her. She was still groggy, her eyes half-lidded, but her hands found his shoulders, her nails dragging down his chest.
"Ride me," he said, she smiled, obeying with her hands bracing on his chest as she rolled them, ending up on top, his cock still buried inside her. She sat up slowly, her hair falling around her face, her breasts full and heavy in the pale morning light.
She looked down at him. Drowsy. Wanton. Beautiful.
Natasha began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, grinding rhythm, her hands braced on his stomach. Marcus watched her. The way her breasts bounced with each movement. The way her face softened as she found the angle that made her gasp.
"Put your hands on your breasts," he said. "I want to watch them bounce."
She did, her palms cupping her own breasts, squeezing them as she rode him, her head falling back. After some time she leaned down, her face hovering above his, her hair brushing his cheeks, and he sucked her nipple into his mouth, biting gently as she thrust herself onto him, her rhythm breaking as she moaned.
Marcus laced his hands behind her neck, pulling her down as he thrust up into her, hard and deep, feeling her cunt grip him, feeling her body tremble. "Come for me," he said against her mouth.
She shook her head, breathless. "I want you to finish in my mouth."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then get off."
She lifted herself off him, the loss of her warmth immediate, and slid down his body, her mouth finding his cock, taking him deep. His hand gripped her hair, holding her there, feeling the back of her throat as she swallowed around him.
Marcus let go. His hips bucked as he came, hot and thick down her throat, and she took it all, her hands gripping his thighs, her eyes watering, her throat working as she swallowed. He held her there through every pulse, every shudder, until he was empty and she lifted her head, her lips swollen, a trail of his cum on her chin.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled, drowsy and sated. He watched her lick it clean.
Marcus lay there for a moment, catching his breath, then swung his legs off the bed. "I need you to buy some outfits for later," he said, already walking to the bathroom. "I'll leave my card on the dresser."
"Where are you going?" she pouted, her voice still thick with the aftermath.
"I have things to handle." He paused at the bathroom door, glancing back at her. She was still on the bed, her hand trailing lazily between her own thighs, her eyes on him. "Rest. I'll be back this evening."
He left her there, drowsy and smiling, her fingers circling her clit as she watched him go.
---
The café was tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place that relied on regulars and word of mouth rather than foot traffic. Marcus parked the Aston Martin half a block away, took his time walking to the entrance, and spotted Elena before she saw him.
She was already seated in the private corner booth, a cup of tea in front of her, her hair tucked behind her ear. She wore a pale sundress, simple and light, the kind of thing a girl who didn't own much of a wardrobe would choose for a first meeting. Her fingers tapped the side of her cup, nervous energy barely contained.
Marcus paused at the counter, watching her for a moment longer than necessary. She was different in the daylight. Younger than he'd first thought. The way her hands moved, the way she bit her lip when she thought no one was looking — she had none of Melinda's practiced composure, none of the polished artifice of the women he usually dealt with.
She was real. Unfinished. And he wanted to be the one who finished her.
"Elena." He said her name as he slid into the booth across from her, and she looked up, her eyes widening, a flush spreading across her cheeks.
"Marcus. I thought — I wasn't sure you'd come." She laughed, a short, nervous sound. "That sounds ridiculous. You're here. Of course you came."
"I said I would." He signaled the waiter, ordered black coffee, and turned his attention back to her. "You look beautiful."
She looked down at her dress, a faint smile on her lips. "Thank you. I wasn't sure what to wear. I don't exactly have a lot of experience with—" She stopped, shook her head. "This is strange."
"What is?"
"This. Us. Sitting here like it's normal." She met his eyes, and he saw the conflict in them, the guilt already settling in. "You're married to my sister."
"Half-sister," he said, and watched her flinch at the correction. “and what's wrong with meeting?”
"You're married. To her." She wrapped her hands around her teacup, her knuckles white. "I shouldn't be here. I know I shouldn't. But I told myself this would be the only time, so I might as well—" She stopped, frustrated with herself. "I don't know what I'm doing."
Marcus leaned back, watching her. The way her breasts rose and fell beneath the thin fabric of her dress. The way her lips formed words she didn't quite believe. He had called his assistant in the middle of the night demanding to know everything about Elena. Spent the entire night in his study reading through the papers that was sent to him.
She was eighteen. Just eighteen. Melinda had gotten her the library job even though she wasn't a student yet, getting in through connections of being family.
Eighteen.
He should have felt something at that number. A hesitation. Instead, he felt the shift in his chest — a a thought of a different kind. She was young. Innocent. Unmarked by the world. He didn’t care, wanted to be the one who marked her.
But not yet. Not like this.
He would make her fall in love with him first.
"You're right," he said, and she looked up, surprised. "This is strange. And I won't pretend it isn't." He took a sip of his coffee, held her gaze. "But I asked you here because I wanted to see you again. Because when I bumped into you in that library, I felt something I haven't felt in a long time."
"You don't even know me," she said softly.
"I know you're the kind of woman who rents a room above a garage and works part-time at a library. I know you have a half-sister you barely know and a mother you don't want to be like. I know you went out of your way to find a quiet corner of that library when you could have stayed at the front desk."
She stared at him. "How do you know all that?"
"Because I care." He smiled, and it softened his face, made him look almost approachable. "Talk to me. Please."
She hesitated, then let out a breath. "I just turned eighteen. Last week." She looked down at her tea. "Melinda got me the library job. She said I needed something to do, somewhere to be. She's been trying to take care of me, I think. Trying to make up for all the years we didn't know each other."
"And you let her."
"I don't have a lot of choices." She looked up, and there was something defiant in her eyes, even through the vulnerability. "I'm not a student. I'm not anything. I'm just… me."
"That's enough." Marcus said it simply, and watched the words land. Watched her cheeks flush. Watched her look away, unable to hold his gaze.
“Everything happened so fast. One minute I was getting ready for SATs, next minute my mother beside a man I never met were claiming he was my father. I am just so glad Melinda never judged me the same way she did my mother— not that I blame her.”
Elena looked at Marcus, with such happiness at the mention of Melinda. He contemplated, knew he had to go about the right way or risk losing Elena.
The waiter brought their food — a simple spread of pastries and fruit — and they ate in a silence that felt more intimate than any conversation she ever had before. She stole glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking. He caught every one.
"This place is empty," she said eventually, looking around the café. "You said it was popular."
Marcus glanced around, as if noticing for the first time. "I booked it."
She blinked. "What?"
"I booked the whole café. For the morning." He met her eyes, letting the implication settle. "I wanted you to be comfortable. I didn't want you to worry about who might see us."
Elena's mouth opened, then closed. She looked at the empty tables, the quiet staff, the private corner booth he'd chosen. "You did that for me?"
"I told you. I wanted to see you again."
She looked down at her hands, her voice small. "It's not that I'm ashamed of being seen with you. It's just… you're married. If anyone saw us together, they'd think—"
"They'd think I was having breakfast with a beautiful woman." He said it without a trace of apology, and she flushed, her fingers twisting in her lap. "Which I am."
"Marcus." She said his name like a warning, but it came out breathless. "This can't—I can't—"
He reached across the table, his hand brushing hers. She didn't pull away. Her skin was warm, her fingers trembling. "I'm not asking you for anything you're not ready to give," he said, his voice low. "I just want to know you."
She looked up at him through her eyelashes, and the vulnerability in her face was devastating. "I've heard stories about you, Marcus. About the kind of man you are."
"What kind of man is that?"
"The kind who gets what he wants." She swallowed. "And I don't want to be a story someone tells about me."
"You won't be." He said it with a certainty that surprised even him. "You're not like anyone I've met before, Elena. And I don't say that to flatter you. I say it because it's true."
She stared at him, her eyes searching his face for the lie. She didn't find it.
They talked for another hour. About her childhood, about the mother who had never quite been a mother, about the half-sister who had appeared in her life like a miracle she didn't trust. Elena spoke haltingly at first, then more freely, as if she'd forgotten who she was talking to. Marcus listened, asked questions, learned about her.
He learned the way she wrinkled her nose when she laughed. Learned the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. Learned the way she touched her own arm when she was nervous, a small gesture of self-soothing that made him want to take her hand and never let go.
"Oh my god." She looked at her phone, her eyes widening. "It's two. How is it two?"
Marcus smiled, slow and knowing. "Time goes fast when you're in good company."
She flushed, looking away, gathering her things with trembling hands. "I should go. I have a shift at the library at three, and I need to change, and—" She stopped, looked at him. "This was nice, Marcus. Really nice. But I meant what I said. I can't do this again."
"Because it's wrong." He replied flatly.
"Because I don't want to be one of those women." She met his eyes, and there was steel beneath the softness. "I've seen what happens to women who get tangled up with married men. My mother was one of them— it's why I exist. I know how those stories end."
Marcus reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and typed a number. "You have my number now." He held it out to her. "Call me. Text me. Whenever you want."
She stared at the number on his screen. "Marcus…"
"I'm not going to push you." He put the phone away. "I meant what I said. If I had my way, we'd do this every day. But I'm not going to force you into something you're not ready for." He met her eyes. "But I want you to know the door is open. If you ever want to walk through it."
Elena's hand hovered over her phone. For a long moment, he thought she would leave it. Then she picked it up, typed the number into her contacts, and slipped it back into her purse. "I meant what I said too," she said quietly. "This is the only time."
"Of course."
She stood, and he stood with her. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his one last time, and then she smiled — a small, fragile thing that made his chest tighten. "Thank you for breakfast."
"Thank you for still coming."
She walked away, and he watched her go, the pale sundress swaying with each step, her hair catching the afternoon light. At the door, she paused, looked back at him, and then she was gone.
Marcus stood there for a long moment, the taste of her still on his tongue. She was eighteen. Young. Innocent. And he wanted her with a hunger that surprised even him.
But not yet. He'd let her come to him. He'd make her want him first, need him first, love him first. And when she was ready — fully, completely ready — he would have her in every way he could imagine.
He pulled out his phone, scrolled to Madame Isadora's number, and dialed.
"Mr. Blackthorne." Her voice was warm, amused, as if she'd been expecting his call. "How is Natasha?"
"Good," he said. "But I have a specific type of woman in mind for my next request."
"Of course you do." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Tell me what you're looking for."
Marcus leaned against the wall of the café, watching the street where Elena had disappeared. "Young. Innocent. Someone who needs to be shown what she's capable of."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Madame Isadora's voice came back, smooth and knowing. "I have someone in mind. She's new. Untrained. But I think she'll be exactly what you're looking for."
"Send me the details."
"I'll have her profile in your inbox by tonight."
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. The café was quiet around him, the staff cleaning up the remains of their private breakfast. He thought of Elena's face when she'd said his name. The way her lips had formed the syllables. The way her eyes had held his, caught between guilt and desire.
She would call. He was sure of it. It was only a matter of time.