Chapter 22: Balcony Claiming
The air on the balcony was a physical shock after the cloistered heat of the bedroom. Salt, sun-baked wood, the distant metallic tang of the ocean. Sid carried her through the sliding door, her skin slick against his, her legs hooked weakly around his waist. She was still trembling, her breath hitching in little aftershocks against his neck.
He laid her down on one of the wide, cushioned loungers. The worn canvas was warm from the day’s sun. She winced as her heated skin met the fabric, her eyes fluttering open to a vast ceiling of indigo sky bleeding into evening. Below the wrought-iron railing, the ocean stretched, endless and indifferent.
“Out here?” Her voice was hoarse, a raw scrape.
“Everywhere,” he said, his own voice thick.
He didn’t give her time to think. He climbed over her, his knees bracketing her hips. He was still hard, still wet from her and him. He guided himself back into her with a single, relentless push. She cried out, her back arching, her nails digging into his forearms. It was different here. Exposed. The breeze touched places still burning from their earlier friction.
He set a pace that was less about passion now than possession. A deep, rhythmic claiming. He watched her face, the play of fading light on her features. Watched her breasts shake with each thrust, the hard nipples pointing up at the darkening sky. He gripped one, squeezing, pinching the peak until she gasped. The sound was lost in the wind.
“Look at you,” he grunted, driving into her. “My fucking employee. On my dime. Taking my cock like it’s your job.”
Her eyes snapped to his, wide with a complex shame that only inflamed him more. She didn’t deny it. She met his thrust, lifting her hips, taking him deeper. “It’s all I’m good for right now,” she breathed, the words a challenge and a surrender.
He fucked her harder. The lounger creaked in protest, scraping against the teak deck. He was a machine, piston-driven, chasing a feeling that was already slipping through his fingers even as he grasped for it. Her moans became shouts, torn from her and carried off by the sea air. He could see the moment she began to crest again—the tension in her throat, the way her eyes lost focus, fixing on some point beyond his shoulder.
“Come on,” he snarled, sliding a hand between them, his thumb finding her clit. He rubbed hard, messy circles. “Do it. Come all over your boss’s cock. Let the whole fucking ocean hear you.”
Her orgasm wasn’t a shatter this time, but a slow, deep unraveling. A continuous, low wail as her body clenched around him in slow, rolling waves. It milked him, pulled his own climax from the base of his spine. He came with a harsh groan, spilling into her, his head dropping to her shoulder as the world narrowed to the pulse in his cock and the frantic beat of her heart against his.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of the water and their labored breathing. He softened inside her, a dying connection.
Slowly, he pulled out. The sight of her, splayed on the lounger, glistening with sweat and his release, was obscene. Beautiful. A crime scene.
He stood, his legs unsteady. “Shower.”
She didn’t move. She just stared at the first stars pricking the violet sky.
“Anya. Now.”
She pushed herself up, movements stiff. She didn’t look at him as she walked back inside, a nude ghost against the villa’s warm light.
The shower was a rainhead of steaming water in a slate enclosure. She was already under it when he entered, her head bowed, water sluicing through her dark hair. He stepped in behind her, the heat a second skin. He reached for a bottle of hotel shampoo, poured a slick pool into his palm.
His hands on her scalp were gentler than before. He massaged the lather in, his fingers working in slow circles. She leaned back into the touch, a soft sigh escaping her. It was a shocking tenderness after the violence. He rinsed her hair, then smoothed conditioner through the ends. He took a bar of soap and lathered it between his hands. Starting at her neck, he washed her shoulders, her back, the curve of her ass. He kneeled, soaping her legs, her feet. He turned her around. His soapy hands moved over her collarbones, down her sternum, over her breasts. He took his time, washing every part of her, a meticulous, silent ritual. She stood passively, her eyes closed, her face a mask of confused gratitude.
He rose. He was hard again. The water, the scent of clean skin, the vulnerability in her posture—it was a different kind of fuel.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice quiet. “Hands on the wall.”
She obeyed, placing her palms flat against the cool slate. He positioned himself behind her. The water cascaded over them both. He nudged her legs wider with his knee and entered her in one slow, smooth motion. She was still loose, still slick from before, and he slid in easily, a hot, perfect sheath.
This wasn’t a frantic fuck. It was deep, deliberate. Each stroke was measured, filling her completely. He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. His other hand came around to her front, fingers sliding through the wet hair between her legs, finding her clit. He matched the rhythm of his thrusts with the circles of his fingers.
“This is what you wanted,” he murmured into her ear, his voice barely audible over the water. “This silence. This… after.”
She nodded, a quick, desperate jerk of her head. Her breath fogged the slate. “Yes.”
“You’re ruined for him now. You know that? You’ll feel empty with him. You’ll feel cheap.”
A sob caught in her throat. “I know.”
“You’re mine here.” He thrust deeper, hitting a spot that made her gasp. “My dirty secret. My brilliant, fucked-up little star.”
He felt her tears mix with the shower spray. Her orgasm built slowly, a rising pressure, and when it broke, it was silent, a series of convulsions that racked her frame. He held her through it, never stopping his slow, penetrating rhythm. He followed soon after, his release a warm rush lost instantly in the downpour.
He held her there, pinned between his body and the wall, until the water began to cool. He turned it off. The silence was absolute, broken only by the drip of water from their bodies onto the drain.
He reached for a towel, wrapped her in it, then one for himself. They didn’t speak. He led her to the bed, pulled back the duvet. She climbed in, curling onto her side, facing away from him. He lay behind her, fitting his body around hers. The room was dark now, lit only by the moon reflecting off the water.
Her voice, when it came, was small and shattered. “What happens tomorrow?”
He stared at the pale light on the ceiling. The grandeur of his own ruin settled upon him, cold and heavy. He had crossed every line, broken every vow, and the taste wasn’t of triumph, but of ashes.
“Tomorrow,” he said, his arm tightening around her waist, “we do it again.”