"My turn."
I pull out at the last second, stroke myself twice, and come all over her pussy and inner thighs. Marking her. Claiming her. Making sure she feels it.
"Don't move. Stay exactly like that."
I use tissues from her desk to clean her gently, carefully, taking my time. Then I help her stand on shaky legs.
"You okay? Talk to me, Charlie. How do you feel?"
"Perfect, Sir. Absolutely perfect."
I kiss her then, deep and possessive and claiming. Tasting myself on her tongue, mixing us together.
"Mine," I tell her firmly. "You're mine now. Say it."
"Yours," she agrees breathlessly. "I'm yours, Sir."
We move to the reading nook, those comfortable chairs where this all started. I hold her close, stroke her hair, make absolutely sure she drinks the entire bottle of water I brought with me.
"That was..."
"What you needed?"
"Everything I needed. More than I even knew I wanted."
"Good. Because tomorrow night, we're doing this at my place. In my bed. Where you can scream as loud as you want and no one will hear."
She shivers against me. "Yes, Sir."
"And Charlie? You're moving in with me. Not asking. Telling you. That's how this is going to be."
"That's very presumptuous—"
I cut her off with another kiss. "It's decided. You're mine. You live with me. End of discussion, end of negotiation."
She melts completely against me. "Yes, Sir."
"Good girl. Now, let's get you home. You need food and proper sleep."
"Will you stay with me tonight?"
"Not tonight. Tomorrow. When you officially move in with me. Tonight you sleep in your own bed one last time."
She pouts but nods, accepting my decision. I drive her home, walk her to her door, kiss her until she's breathless all over again.
"Pack your things, baby girl. Tomorrow after work, you come home. To our home."
"Yes, Sir."
six
Charlie
IwakeupinMarshall's bed, deliciously sore and wearing his Army t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh on me. The smell of coffee and bacon draws me out from under the warm covers, and I pad barefoot toward the kitchen, my body protesting every movement in the best way possible.
Marshall's standing at the stove, shirtless, cooking actual breakfast like some kind of domestic fantasy come to life. I take a long moment to appreciate the view - all those muscles I got to explore thoroughly last night, the tattoos I traced with my fingers and tongue, the dog tags hanging around his neck catching the morning light. He looks like every fantasy I've ever had made flesh.
"Morning, baby girl."
