As reality slowly returns, I blinkup at the ceiling. What the hell just happened? I don’t do this—any of this. I don’t fuck near-strangers on their desks. I don’t let men come inside me without protection. I’ve never even enjoyed being choked before.
Yet here I am, pinned beneath Gabe Dawson, his cum leaking out of me, my body covered in bite marks and bruises I’ll feel for days. And God help me, I’ve never felt more alive.
“Stay with me tonight,” he says, and it’s not really a question.
I nod, too exhausted and satiated to form words. Every muscle in my body feels like liquid, my thoughts hazy in the aftermath of what happened between us.
Gabe slides one arm beneath my knees and another around my shoulders, lifting me from the desk as if I weigh nothing. I should feel vulnerable—naked in his arms, marked by his teeth, his release still warm between my thighs—but instead, I feel strangely safe.
He carries me through a door hidden behind a bookshelf I hadn’t noticed before. A narrow staircase leads upward, dimly lit by sconces emitting soft amber light. My head lolls against his shoulder as he climbs, his breathing steady despite carrying me.
“Few people know about this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. “Private entrance to my apartment.”
The stairs open into a spacious loft that surprises me with its warmth. I’d expected something sleek and modern like his office, but this space feels lived in. Exposed brick walls lined with bookshelves, vintage rugs layered over hardwood floors, a massive bed with rumpled dark sheets visible through an archway.
Gabe carries me straight to a bathroom with a claw-foottub large enough for two. He sets me gently on my feet, steadying me when my legs wobble.
“Let me take care of you,” he says, turning on the taps. Steam rises as he adds something that smells like cedar to the water.
I watch him, this man who fucked me with such brutal intensity, carefully testing the water temperature with his wrist. The contradiction fascinates me—the violence in him existing alongside this tenderness.
When he turns back to me, his eyes catalog every mark he’s left on my skin with possessive satisfaction. His finger traces a bite mark on my breast that’s already darkening to purple.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and I should feel objectified, but instead feel strangely seen.
14
GABE
Morning light filters through the half-drawn curtains, painting golden streaks across Amelia’s naked body. She’s sprawled across my sheets, one arm flung overhead, her rose gold hair a chaotic halo against the pillow. My tie still dangles from the headboard—a reminder of how I bound her wrists last night while I devoured her again.
I trace my gaze over the map of marks I’ve left on her skin. Fingerprints on her hips. Teeth impressions on her inner thigh. A constellation of bruises blooming along her throat. She looks thoroughly claimed, thoroughly fucked—exactly as I intended.
Last night, after our bath, I took her in ways I’d only fantasized about. Against the windows first, her perfect tits pressed against the glass while I watched her face in the reflection, forcing her to watch herself come undone as the city lights twinkled below us. Anyone looking up could have seen her—my beautiful, filthy girl on display.
In the shower, I discovered her love for pain when I brought my hand down hard on her ass. Each slap madeher moan louder, push back harder against me. By the time I was finished, her skin was bright red and hot to the touch, and she came so hard her legs nearly gave out.
And finally, in my bed, with her wrists secured above her head, I used my mouth between her thighs until she was babbling nonsense, begging incoherently, her body arching off the mattress as she came against my tongue.
She pushed me further than I expected to go. The way she surrendered—so completely, so trustingly—made me want to break her apart and put her back together. I wanted to show her everything inside me, even the darkest parts. Especially those.
She stirs now, stretching like a cat, wincing slightly as she becomes aware of the pleasant soreness I’ve left her with. Her eyes flutter open, finding mine immediately. No morning-after regret present—just lazy satisfaction and a hint of hunger that tells me she’s not done with me yet.
“Morning, beautiful,” I say, watching her eyes travel over my naked body.
The sheet has fallen away, and I make no move to cover myself. My cock is already hard, has been since I woke up watching her sleep. There’s something beautiful about it—this woman in my bed, marked by me, waking to find me ready for her again.
Amelia’s gaze slides down my chest, past my stomach, until it lands on my erection. A soft moan escapes her lips—not theatrical or performative, but genuine appreciation. Her pupils dilate slightly, and I catch the quickening of her breath.
I tilt my head, enjoying the hunger in her eyes. “See something you like?”
She nods, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. “Mm. Wouldn’t mind having it for breakfast.”
The words send heat pulsing through me. Last night I discovered Amelia’s filthy mouth, how readily she begs when pushed to the edge. This morning, I intend to put that mouth to better use.
“I’ll happily shove it down your throat,” I growl, my voice rough with desire.
The crude promise makes her eyes flash—not with offense, but with excitement. She rises onto her hands and knees and crawls toward me across the rumpled sheets. Her strawberry blonde hair falls forward, partially obscuring her face, but I can still see the challenge in her eyes as she moves toward me with deliberate slowness.
